Gift-Wrapped Governess

by Sophia James

  ‘Good day, Reverend,’ he said, striding past the red-faced vicar.

  She buried her face in his neck, both to hide her blushes and to savour the moment. She’d never thought of him as masterful before, but he was shouldering open the door and marching down the hallway with her as though he was a conquering warrior and she the prize he’d snatched from the battlefield.

  Only the bitter cold that assailed her when he opened the front door brought her back to some degree of rationality.

  ‘My lord, you have left your coat and hat behind.’

  He smiled fondly at her. ‘Taking care of me already, just like a proper, loving wife.’ He dropped a brief kiss on her mouth. ‘But I shan’t get cold with you in my arms. And do you think you could possibly start calling me Martin?’

  ‘M-Martin.’ She sighed as he mounted Brown Bess and hauled her up on to his lap. ‘Martin, this is madness. It might come on to rain again…’

  He frowned. ‘Should have thought of that. Do you need to go back and fetch a bonnet or something?’

  How could she have been so idiotic as to shatter the romance of the moment by mentioning something as prosaic as the weather? She flung her arms round his neck and clung tightly.

  ‘I have all I need, right here.’

  ‘I feel exactly the same,’ he replied with an approving smile. ‘But for once I should like to consider the practicalities, just to demonstrate to you that I can. I know you had to leave all your possessions at Budworth Hall. If you like, we can ride up there and demand they restore what is rightfully yours.’

  ‘The last thing I wish to do is ruin this lovely moment by starting an unpleasant scene with Lord and Lady Budworth. Besides, I do not own anything of any great value.’

  ‘Yes. Much better to pop over to Paris and get you an entirely new wardrobe,’ he said with approval, and nudged Brown Bess into motion. ‘Then you’ll be all the crack when we go back to Town. If we do go back to Town. Do you want to go to London, or do you prefer the country?’

  ‘I really don’t care where we go, so long as we go together.’

  He rewarded her confession with a kiss so heated it might have started snowing and she would not have noticed.

  ‘And you said you were not adventurous,’ he said when he broke off to let her breathe. ‘I don’t know another woman that would run off in the middle of the night without a coat or bonnet and not be insisting I buy her bride clothes before the wedding. Or saying she didn’t care about where she lived, either. Do you know, I think you were born to be my wife.’

  ‘When you hold me in your arms,’ she admitted shyly, ‘I feel as though…as though I’ve come home.’ For the first time in her life, or at least since she’d been a very little girl, she finally felt as though she belonged.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said decisively. ‘To Paris we shall go. Only, first, we shall have to make for the nearest town and procure a more fitting means of conveyance for my viscountess-to-be. Although…might be a tad awkward to get anything now. People have absurd ideas about travelling over Christmas. We might just have to—what is it?’

  ‘Oh, n-nothing, really. It was just you mentioning Christmas. I dare say you would think I am just being silly…’

  ‘Not you. If there is something bothering you, I am sure it is very far from silly. Tell me what it is and I will make it right.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘it is the children. On Christmas Day, I had planned—’

  ‘A party! I went looking for you in the schoolroom and the children told me about it.’

  He looked down at the troubled expression on her face and smiled ruefully.

  ‘I want to give you the best Christmas you’ve ever known. My plan was to take you to bed, and keep you there all day, but…’ he sighed and adopted a mournful expression ‘…if you would really prefer to attend a children’s party, then…’

  ‘A-actually, your plan sounds rather…interesting,’ she said, biting her lower lip and shooting him a look from under her eyelashes that sent his pulse rate soaring.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested with a twinkle in his eye, ‘we could reach a compromise. I could let you out of bed, just for an hour or two, so that you can enjoy Christmas your way, providing you spend the rest of Christmas Day letting me enjoy it my way.’

  ‘I think,’ she said, sitting up to kiss his icy-cold cheek, ‘recalling how much fun you had pretending to be a pirate, that you will enjoy my version of Christmas with the children very much.’

  ‘Well, I can guarantee that you will enjoy my idea of how best to celebrate Christmas.’ He kissed her. ‘Very much.’ He kissed her again. ‘Indeed.’ He let go of the reins so that he could hold her tight whilst kissing her again. Brown Bess shook her head, snorted, then carried on plodding steadily along the road.

  ‘So, you are saying that we can both learn from each other, then?’

  ‘Am I?’ He looked at her dazedly for a while, before saying in a firmer tone, ‘Absolutely. Do you know, I can hardly wait to have our own nursery full of children.’

  Then, without warning, he retrieved the reins and pulled Brown Bess to a halt, looking troubled.

  ‘Perhaps we should forgo the staying-in-bed part of Christmas. Who knows what might happen between now and the day that should be our wedding? I don’t want to run the risk of leaving you pregnant and alone and…shamed.’

  ‘I could never feel ashamed of bearing your child,’ she protested, ‘for it would have been conceived in love. The only thing I would regret, bitterly, is if we did not seize the opportunity we have, right now, to experience the fullness of love.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be attempting to reform me,’ he said. ‘Instead, I seem to have corrupted you…’

  ‘I told you, I have no intention of reforming you. I love you just as you are. And you are not corrupting me at all. Just encouraging me to…make the most of life.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  She laid her finger across his lips, silencing him.

  ‘I have spent years worrying and being careful. It is time for me to start living my life. With you. So stop arguing, my lord, else I shall have to be very, very strict with you.’

  He sat up straighter, looking intrigued. ‘What had you in mind? Have you packed your hairbrush?’

  ‘What?’ She looked perplexed. ‘No. I left it behind at the vicararge, but never mind that. On second thoughts, it might be impossible for us to attend the children’s party, anyway. Not without having some kind of a confrontation with Lord and Lady Budworth, which would completely ruin the day.’

  ‘You forget you have now cast in your lot with an accomplished rake, my love. I have never had any trouble locating secretive ways into any property I have ever chosen to enter.’

  She cuffed him lightly on the shoulder.

  He dropped a kiss on her nose.

  ‘Joking aside, I don’t think it will be as difficult as all that. You know all the staff corridors and the back stairs from the time you worked there. And I don’t believe any of the staff would betray our presence in the house, if you asked them not to. You have some loyal allies there, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I found that out when I was dismissed. You wouldn’t believe how kind they all were.’

  ‘Yes, I would. You are so loving that you inspire kindness in others. But, Honeysuckle, you do know it will have to be farewell, tomorrow, to those children, no matter how fond of them you’ve grown?’

  ‘Y-yes.’ She looked sad for a moment or two, but then plucked herself up, and said, ‘And as you said, it won’t be long before I am looking after my own children.’ She lay her hand upon his chest. ‘Our children.’

  He gave her a long look, then said, ‘Knowing you, I don’t think that will be enough. You will be sitting in the parlour drinking tea and wondering how many orphans there are out there, at the mercy of fate, and then you will start pestering me to sponsor a school for indigent young ladies…’

  ‘Oh, what a wonderful id
ea!’ Her face lit up. ‘If we could pay teachers a decent wage and make them happy with their terms of service, then they wouldn’t be tempted to take out their frustrations on the children over whom they have authority. And we could make sure only to hire women who actually like children, who want to help them reach their full potential…’

  ‘And you thought I might grow bored with you,’ he said. ‘I will never know what scheme for improving the lot of the poor you will be hatching next.’

  ‘I beg pardon,’ she said, abashed. ‘It is just that it is so exciting to think that at last I might be able to do something to make a difference.’

  ‘You don’t need to beg pardon. I am glad you are excited about our future together. I am pretty excited about it myself.’ He nuzzled her neck. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  Since she was sitting on his lap and could feel his erection pressing into her hip, she knew exactly what he meant.

  ‘Let’s not talk any more,’ he said. ‘No more planning. Let’s just get started on this adventure and see what happens as it unfolds, shall we?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do,’ he said firmly. ‘Trust me?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Then hold on tight. Because I need to get you to the nearest inn, as quickly as possible, so we can start celebrating the best Christmas either of us has ever had.’

  He dug his heels into Brown Bess’s flanks and they shot off into the night.

  Honeysuckle couldn’t help giving a little squeal, but when Martin’s strong arms tightened round her, her momentary flutter of nerves subsided. He wouldn’t let her fall. Nor was she the kind of ninny who wouldn’t do her level best to rise to any challenge this unpredictable, and utterly exciting, man might set her, now or in the future they would share.

  She wrapped her arms round his waist and clung to him, relishing everything about the sensations of galloping through the night with the man she loved. The play of his muscles as he kept them both in the saddle, the breathtaking speed of their mount, even the cold wind stinging the cheek that wasn’t pressed to his chest—all were equally wonderful.

  She laughed out loud. Oh, but life with Martin would always be something of a wild ride.

  When she had been growing up, catching glimpses of his life from time to time, she had seen his spontaneity as a selfish, dangerous way to live.

  But now she knew better. When a man’s heart was in the right place, how could he ever choose to do anything really wicked? He wouldn’t. So all she had to do was hang on tight and enjoy the ride.

  She flung back her head and laughed with sheer delight.

  Oh, how good life was.

  Now that she had let love into it.

  DUCHESS BY CHRISTMAS

  Marguerite Kaye

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and MARGUERITE KAYE

  Delectably Undone #990

  “The Captain’s Wicked Wager”

  *Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem #1049

  *The Governess and the Sheikh #1053

  And in Harlequin Historical Undone! ebooks

  The Captain’s Wicked Wager

  The Highlander and the Sea Siren

  Bitten by Desire

  Temptation is the Night

  **Claimed by the Wolf Prince

  **Bound to the Wolf Prince

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  *The Sheikh’s Impetuous Love-Slave

  Look for Marguerite Kaye’s

  THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

  Coming soon from Harlequin Historical

  Chapter One

  Derbyshire—December 1818

  The hired gig that had conveyed them on the final leg of their long and arduous journey from Yorkshire trundled noisily over the stone hump-backed bridge which spanned the Blairmore River. Pushing back the hood of her red-wool cloak, pulling its comforting folds more tightly around her, for the cold was bitter, Regan Stuart peered anxiously ahead, eager for her first sight of Blairmore Hall in more than a dozen years.

  ‘We used to climb these trees, Gabriel and I,’ she informed the three children sharing the carriage with her, as they passed through a wooded copse, the bare branches silhouetted starkly against the watery winter sky.

  Her two young half-brothers looked sceptical, but Regan’s nine-year-old half-sister, Portia, gazed up at the mighty oaks in awe. ‘They’re huge,’ she said. ‘Weren’t you scared?’

  Regan laughed. ‘A little, but I knew Gabriel wouldn’t let me come to any harm.’ Though the real reason she habitually rose to whatever challenge he dared her into taking on, she acknowledged to herself, was because she feared losing his respect more than she feared any potential danger. How she had idolised him in those distant childhood days.

  ‘Can we climb the trees, Regan, can we?’ Jack, her youngest sibling, piped up.

  ‘We must ask his Grace’s permission first,’ she replied, wondering for the hundredth time why, quite out of the blue, the Duke of Blairmore had invited them to stay here at the hall over Christmas. Not that it wasn’t a most welcome and generous offer, she thought, smiling at the three shining, excited young faces craning their necks to get a view of the huge manor house she had told them so much about.

  The curved drive along which they were travelling was longer than she recalled. The ornamental pond with its extravagant Poseidon fountain, although drained for the winter, seemed much larger, too. As the gig turned the final sharp corner in the long drive and the Hall came into view, all three children gasped. ‘Well, what do you think of it?’ she asked. ‘Is it as I described?’

  ‘It’s a castle,’ Jack said.

  ‘A fairy-tale palace,’ Portia exclaimed.

  ‘It’s absolutely enormous,’ Land declared.

  They were all in the right of it. Blairmore Hall was built around two central courtyards with a turret at each corner linked by battlements. A huge portico complete with portcullis led to the banqueting hall, which formed the central nave. Though its origins were, like the gardens, Elizabethan, each successive duke had demolished, rebuilt, altered and enhanced, so that the resultant stately pile contained not only a warren of rooms, but a hotchpotch of styles. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, it possessed a unique charm, framed as it was by the rolling hills and cragged tors of the nearby Derbyshire Peaks.

  ‘Will you show me the beautiful old clothes, like you promised?’ Portia asked eagerly.

  Regan smiled at the memory of the little shuttered room in the east tower where she had spent many happy hours dressing up in the finery of bygone days, the ornate gowns and wide-brimmed hats trimmed with ostrich feathers which were stored there in stout wooden trunks. She ruffled Portia’s hair affectionately. ‘Perhaps, if they are still there. It was a long time ago.’ Though surely no one would throw out such exquisite antique garments.

  As they bowled under the gatehouse into the lower courtyard, butterflies began to flutter in Regan’s stomach. Before his death, her father had served as steward here for twenty years. Though she knew the Hall and its environs intimately, she had never before been accorded the status of guest. Circumstances had ensured she was a very different person from the gauche child who, with her recently widowed mother, had left Blairmore Hall to face an uncertain future. She wondered what else had changed in the intervening years.

  A footman in the familiar claret-coloured livery held open the heavily studded door to the Hall while another helped them from the gig, and another supervised the removal of their meagre luggage. Entering the Hall through the flagstoned reception area in the wake of yet another servant, who relieved them of their outerwear, even the normally voluble boys were stunned into silence by the sheer magnificence of the long gallery, which was, true to its name, over a hundred feet in length.

  ‘His Grace asks that the young people remain here while he receives you alone,’ the footman informed Regan.

  Quickly reminding Land, Jack and Portia that they were to be on their very best behaviour, Regan, n
ow so nervous that she had to clasp her hands together to stop them shaking, followed the servant along a wide, portrait-lined corridor, to the rear of the Hall and the most modern of the apartments. The running, skipping footsteps of the ghost of her childhood self rang out along the labyrinth of corridors. The dark oak-panelled walls echoed with her and Gabriel’s laughter. The whole place was redolent with bittersweet memories. How carefree she had been. How very young. Twelve years! It was a lifetime ago.

  The footman opened the door to the so-called small salon, and Regan stepped over the threshold. With its gold damask hangings, soft cream walls and straw-coloured sofas, it had been refurbished since last she saw it, though it still had space enough for ten couples to perform a set dance.

  ‘Miss Stuart, your Grace.’

  The door closed softly behind her, and the Duke of Blairmore, who had been staring out of the mullioned windows at the view of the Peaks, turned around. ‘Regan.’

  ‘Hello, Gabriel.’ Regan swallowed hard. The man facing her across the room was the epitome of elegance in a tightly fitting cutaway coat of dark blue superfine with a high collar over a buff-coloured waistcoat. His equally tightly fitting knitted pantaloons showed off a pair of long, shapely legs. His Hessian boots shone with a mirror-like polish. His snowy-white neckcloth was tied into a most intricate-looking knot. He was much taller than she remembered. And broader. And infinitely more attractive.

  The fluttering in Regan’s stomach spread to her pulses as he covered the distance between them. Blue-black hair swept back from a high forehead. A strong nose, a cleft chin and a mouth that was frankly sensual. She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t just a struggle to equate this devastating man with the youth she had known, it was impossible. She sank into a belated curtsy, horribly conscious of her grey-wool travelling gown, which no amount of new trimming could make anything less than careworn.

  Gabriel helped her to her feet. ‘Little Regan, is it really you?’