The Master of Calverley Hall

by Lucy Ashford

  Elvie’s eyes widened. ‘What’s an abon...abom...?’

  ‘It means he thought I was very naughty, because, you see, I didn’t attend his Sunday afternoon Bible classes when I was a girl. Instead I used to run away and wander around the countryside.’

  Elvie was chuckling. ‘Abomination. I like that word. Will you write it down for me? There’s my little book and a pencil, just there—see?’

  Isobel hesitated. Oh, no. But Elvie was waiting, expectantly. How could she lie to her?

  ‘Elvie,’ she said, ‘can I tell you something very private?’ Elvie’s eyes widened. ‘In the Vicar’s classes,’ went on Isobel, ‘we were expected to write answers to lots of questions about the Bible. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to spell most of the words—so I just didn’t turn up.’

  ‘You couldn’t spell?’ Elvie looked awed.

  Isobel tried to laugh. ‘Yes. And, Elvie, I still can’t. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You see, I’m naturally left-handed, but my governesses and my mother made me use my right, so by the time I was your age my hands and my brain were all mixed up. I’ve never had a problem with reading or with arithmetic—just spelling. But this is our secret, Elvie. I’ve told you this to explain why I don’t take much notice of what certain grown-ups say. People like the Vicar, for example.’

  Elvie was still round-eyed. ‘Did you get punished for missing the Bible classes?’

  Isobel hesitated. ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘Were your mama and papa unkind?’

  ‘In some ways, I suppose they were’

  ‘I don’t remember my mama.’ A lone tear was trickling silently down Elvie’s cheek again. ‘But my papa was very, very kind—and I miss him so much!’

  ‘Of course you do. Of course.’

  Isobel held her, stroking her hair until Elvie swallowed hard and said, ‘I’m lucky to have Grandmother and Connor. But what about you, Miss Blake?’ She pulled away a little. ‘Do you have any family?’

  ‘No, Elvie, I don’t. But I’m used to that.’

  ‘Used to being on your own? But you shouldn’t be!’

  ‘Well, I’m not on my own entirely. I have some lovely friends called Joseph and Agnes—and now I’ve got the Plass Valley children to think about.’ She smiled. ‘Which reminds me that I really must be starting to get my things ready for tomorrow morning’s lesson. Are you all right if I leave you, Elvie? You don’t want Connor or your grandmother to come up to you?’

  ‘No, I’m really sleepy now.’ Already Elvie was snuggling down under the covers, yawning. ‘Thank you, Miss Blake. I saw that Miss Staithe was here, with her brother—she wants Connor to marry her, I think, but I hope he doesn’t. He should marry you instead.’

  Isobel felt her breath catch tightly in her throat. ‘Elvie. Elvie, that’s nonsense...’

  But the little girl’s eyelids had closed and within moments she was fast asleep. Isobel rose from her bedside, suddenly weary.

  And at that very minute, she realised Connor himself was standing very still, in the half-open doorway. Oh, no.

  What, precisely, had he heard?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Connor had moved back out into the corridor, so Isobel was able to leave Elvie’s bedroom and quietly close the door.

  ‘How is she?’ Connor asked in a low voice.

  ‘She was over-tired, I think,’ she replied. ‘But she’s sleeping now—I asked her if she wished to see you or her grandmother, but she said she would be all right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must retire to my own room. Goodness me, these may not be town hours, but to me, it’s still late!’

  He nodded, unsmiling. ‘I wanted to say that I had no idea, when I asked you earlier to dine with us, that Roderick Staithe and his sister would be arriving at such short notice. But I did send a message to forewarn you.’

  ‘And I never got it. Foolish of me, I know.’ The smile she’d put on faded, though she still kept her voice steady. ‘It was an awkward situation for you, I fear. Did Mr Staithe eventually realise I was Sir George Blake’s daughter? Or—did you feel obliged to tell him?’

  ‘The answer to both your questions is no.’

  ‘But he will realise soon. He’s bound to...’ She made a big effort to steady herself and say lightly, ‘You know, Connor, you really should have listened to me when I told you that hiring me was not a good idea. But you’re accustomed to getting your own way, I suppose—no wonder you’ve fared so well in business. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’

  She was attempting to push her way past him, but he gripped her wrist. ‘Once more, Isobel, I apologise. You coped well with Staithe’s questions. Whatever you say to the contrary, any enquiries about your past must be painful for you.’

  She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm, and he let her go. ‘I’m used to it,’ she said. ‘The stories about my father’s ruin. And you’ll have heard, no doubt, that during my time in London I managed to bring about my own kind of downfall.’

  He was regarding her steadily. ‘And are the stories true?’

  ‘Why not? Everyone whispers them, so they must be, must they not?’

  She saw a muscle tighten in his jaw. ‘For God’s sake, Isobel. I’m trying to give you a chance to explain!’

  He’d clenched his hands and was stepping closer. She was thinking that if he drew only inches nearer, he could kiss her. Her heart was thudding with hard, almost painful beats as she imagined the feel of his lips on hers—would they be hard or soft, cool or warm? His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, and his whole body radiated tension, as if beneath that cool exterior he was perhaps as agitated as she.

  ‘Explanations,’ she said, ‘often do more harm than good, I’ve found.’

  She heard him draw in a harsh breath, saw his mouth harden, and something knotted so tightly inside of her that it hurt. You were my childhood hero, she wanted to tell him. And you don’t realise it. You’ll never realise it...

  ‘Isobel.’ He uttered her name almost like an oath. ‘Isobel, for God’s sake, why do you put this wall up around yourself when all I’m doing is trying to understand? Is it because all this is too much of a come-down for you?’

  She flinched; somehow she pulled herself together as he went on, ‘When I heard those stories about you, I could not believe them.’

  ‘It would be much easier for you,’ she said calmly, ‘if you did.’

  She saw him struggling for words. ‘I suppose,’ he said at last, ‘I thought that I might be offering you a fresh start with this job. A chance to prove yourself. I perhaps underestimated how difficult it would be for you, returning like this to the house where you grew up. But I trust the servants are treating you with respect?’

  She thought of the footmen’s tricks. Of the hurtful jibes she was meant to overhear. She threw him a bright smile. ‘Oh, of course! You know, I already feel part of one big, happy family here!’

  He was silent a moment. Then he said, ‘I am most grateful to you for taking on this post. And I hope very much, for the sake of the children, that you’ll be able to see through this project till the end.’

  Never, ever would she let him guess how painfully hard her heart was beating. Never would she admit what a struggle it was, to prepare her work for the children; how she’d floundered badly this morning when he arrived in the chapel, in an effort to cover up her mistakes. She would rather die than let him realise just how useless she was.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said almost lightly, ‘you would not be able to find anyone else at this stage?’

  ‘No one quite like you,’ he replied.

  No one as stupid as me, she thought. The teacher who couldn’t spell. She arched her eyebrows. ‘Well then, I suppose I’ll have to carry on. How long did you say? Six weeks? I think I can just about manage that.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ He spoke very quietly. ‘And, Isobel, after that...’ />
  ‘Oh, no.’ She spoke quickly. ‘Oh, no. You’re not trapping me into anything else. As I told you before, I get bored easily. But I’m so glad you’re satisfied, Mr Hamilton!’

  ‘Isobel...’

  But she’d already brushed past him to head for the servants’ stairs leading up to the next floor and her bedroom. ‘Isobel,’ she heard him calling after her. ‘Miss Blake. You must not go that way—’

  She assumed he meant she was to use the main stairs, but that would mean going past him again and right now she just wanted to get away, so he wouldn’t see what was in her eyes. Wouldn’t realise the agony he’d just put her through. She reached the stairs, which were almost in darkness, and had climbed only a few when she stumbled against something bulky and solid. Losing her footing, she tried to save herself by grabbing the banister rail, but failed and found herself toppling backwards.

  Then she was aware of warm, strong arms around her. Holding her.

  ‘Isobel?’ Connor was turning her to face him, his voice sharp with concern. ‘Isobel, didn’t you see the laundry bag there on the step?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘So foolish of me...’

  He was still holding her. ‘Are you hurt? You’re shaking.’

  And suddenly, she was overwhelmed. He despised her, she knew he did. She tried to speak, to warn him that he would loathe himself if he let this go any further, but she couldn’t because he was reaching to smooth back her hair, which had tumbled from its pins almost completely now, and he was hungrily drinking in her face, her lips, and she knew.

  She knew he wanted to kiss her.

  Slowly he lifted his hand to her cheek, brushing it across her skin. His fingers were astonishingly gentle, yet fierce darts of pleasure teased her wherever he touched. She felt dazed, struggling for control as he drew her close. With one strong arm around her waist, he brought her to him so that her small, high breasts were pressed against the wall of his chest.

  All she had to do was push him away. But then she saw his blue eyes darkening with desire and she could feel the hard promise of his body against her, could see his tempting lips hovering...

  His mouth touched hers. And her senses reeled.

  How could this meeting of lips mean so much? She felt his warm, strong mouth caressing—teasing, almost—before claiming possession. Somehow his maleness enveloped her, enfolding her with desire—she knew she was in acute danger, but at that moment she wanted him to kiss her more than anything in the world.

  He wanted her. Despite his scorn for her, she knew he wanted her and she exulted in it. She felt her hands stealing unbidden up to the hard muscle of his shoulders, felt her mouth open instinctively as his tongue explored the soft seam of her lips, then probed deep. Honey melted her insides and she was intoxicated. She was lost. His hand was caressing her breast now; the nipple peaked beneath his touch in delicious torment.

  ‘Isobel,’ he was saying huskily. ‘Isobel, I...’

  But what he was about to say next, she would never know, because she heard footsteps approaching and he must have heard them, too. He pushed her away from him so abruptly that she stumbled and caught her arm on the newel post of the staircase and the sudden pain made her cry out; a moment later Mrs Lett, the housekeeper, came bustling along the corridor, followed by a curious maid.

  Isobel felt sick with shame. What had they seen? She could already hear the whispers. ‘That hussy, luring Mr Hamilton into dark corners—and she’s hardly been here any time at all!’

  She nursed her bruised arm. Yes, it was dark in this corner—thank goodness. They couldn’t have seen what was going on.

  ‘We heard a noise, Mr Hamilton, sir.’ Mrs Lett glanced at Isobel sharply. ‘And we came to see if everything was all right. If anything, or anybody, was bothering you.’ Her eyes flickered over Isobel again.

  ‘Miss Blake stumbled over some laundry that had been left on the stairs.’ Connor spoke curtly. ‘There’s no harm done, fortunately.’

  He was clearly expecting the housekeeper to leave—and then no doubt he would tackle her, Isobel, again. Shame surged through her. No doubt he couldn’t wait to dig again at the open wound of her time in London.

  She was used to being punished for her past. But what she really couldn’t cope with was the knowledge that if they hadn’t been interrupted she would have melted into that kiss and would have let him do anything.

  She couldn’t forget how his face had looked dark and even dangerous as he drew her close. How her surroundings had seemed to spin around as he crushed her against his chest, moulding his hips to hers, the hardest part of him rigid against her. And then that kiss! It had caused an explosion of her senses, making her breathing tight and desperate; making her want to get even closer to him as she clung to his broad shoulders. She’d felt such an ache of need, down there, that she’d thought she might die if he stopped whatever he was about to do...

  That cry she’d let out could well have been the sound of her throwing away the last shreds of her ruined reputation. And so, with yet another piece of her world crumbling into dust, Isobel hurried away.

  ‘Miss Blake,’ Connor called. ‘Isobel!’ But she was already out of sight.

  * * *

  It was past eleven that night, and Staithe and his sister had retired to their bedrooms, but Connor sat on alone in his firelit study.

  He had wanted to make Calverley Hall the talk of the county, the talk of London even. He wanted to silence those who whispered about men who’d made their fortunes in industry—men like him, whose money was referred to as low money, dirty money.

  Roderick Staithe had inherited an ancient name, together with a large house that had been in his family for generations. Everyone knew he lacked ready cash, but that didn’t trouble Staithe—he was one of the landed gentry. Nevertheless Staithe’s eyes had widened as he took in the Hall and its grand rooms. The man was clearly impressed.

  But Staithe’s eyes had also widened at the sight of Isobel. And once again Connor thought, I was crazy to hire her to teach those children. Crazy and selfish. What would happen when Staithe finally realised who she was—as he inevitably would, sooner or later—and took the news back to London?

  ‘Connor Hamilton has Sir George Blake’s daughter under his roof—and you’ll remember the scandal about her!’

  Connor recalled Isobel’s expression when he’d taunted her outside Elvie’s room. He’d said, ‘Is it because all this is too much of a come-down for you? Is that the problem, Isobel?’

  She’d looked, then, as if he’d struck her. And for God’s sake, he’d made everything far, far worse by kissing her! He’d always been proud of his self-control, but it had vanished the moment she fell into his arms. He wanted her. If he was honest, he’d wanted her from the day he saw her at the midsummer fair—and she knew it. He’d seen it in her eyes, in her flushed cheeks, in her parted, luscious lips...

  My God, she’s trouble. You’ve got to keep your hands off her.

  And she, no doubt, felt exactly the same about him.

  If he’d harboured any lingering memories of their earlier friendship and of what he’d believed her to be—valiant, honourable, honest—they’d been destroyed when he’d heard what they said about her in London. When he realised she was perhaps her father’s daughter after all.

  Yet he’d felt so damned guilty on realising he’d misjudged her relationship with Joseph Molina that he’d determined to hire her for his school. How could he have been so stupid? Stupid and stubborn, because once the idea had become embedded in his foolish mind, he’d not been able to let go of it. Just as he’d not been able to fight off the way her image was ever present in his memory, his brain...

  And his body. Don’t forget that, he told himself with ferocious self-contempt. From first seeing her at the fair, he’d been imaging how she would taste, to kiss. What it would be like to explore her slim waist and f
irm breasts; he guessed she would be responsive, ardent even, and he’d been right.

  That kiss had been a revelation. She’d been uncertain at first, doubtless still shaken from her fall; but then she’d made a small, dazed sound in the back of her throat and the kiss had got hotter, wilder. And he’d quickly realised a mere kiss wasn’t enough; dear God, he’d thought he might lose control entirely when he felt her hands clutching his shoulders and her sweet tongue melding with his, making him long to remove every single scrap of clothing she wore.

  Then he remembered Viscount Loxley. He’d met him once. He was an ageing fop, raddled by years of drink and dissolution. What did he do to please Isobel in bed? And what did she do in return, for him? The thought made Connor wild with rage. It was crazy to desire her as he did—but he was physically aching for her even now, aching with a man’s desire throbbing at his loins.

  And there was something else that troubled him even more. She did not act like an experienced woman. Her kiss had been delicious, yes, but naïve. Shy, almost. And whenever he was with her, he still sensed that beneath her bravado, her shrugs and careless laughs, she was still the brave but vulnerable girl who used to ride almost daily to the forge. Who’d trusted him implicitly. And in return, he’d wanted to protect her, with his last breath...

  Crazy of him. She knew very well she’d ruined herself with Loxley. He’d noted her expression when Staithe mentioned London—he’d seen that flare of outright panic in her eyes, before her emotion was swiftly disguised as usual by some flippant retort.

  She’d looked equally guilty when he’d found her in the chapel this afternoon. ‘What are you still doing here?’ he’d asked, genuinely astonished.

  And she’d stammered out some lame excuse. But something was very wrong.

  Well, he’d hired her for the summer and somehow he had to make the best of all this and try not to let her stir up any more trouble—because he certainly had plenty of other matters to occupy him. Only today, fresh paperwork had arrived to confirm that the London investors he’d approached to back his new docks scheme had agreed to a meeting in a week’s time, to discuss the finer details before concluding whether or not to put their money in his hands.