Gift-Wrapped Governess

by Sophia James

  ‘I gathered, from the mêlée, that you had arrived,’ she said to Regan by way of greeting. ‘I assume my son has informed you of your role. I do not concur with his methods, but it is the outcome that matters. If bringing a coterie of children to the Hall will aid that purpose, then I must resign myself to the upset,’ she said, looking very far from resigned. ‘You will, however, oblige me by restraining them more effectively than you have thus far, Miss Stuart. I do not know what possessed you to leave them unattended in the long gallery. It dates back to the sixteenth century, you know, but they seem to be under the impression that it is some sort of playground.’

  Casting a despairing glance at Gabriel, Regan dropped a deep curtsy. ‘My apologies, your Grace. They had been cooped up in the stagecoach for so long, I’m afraid, that…’

  The quizzing glass dropped. ‘You travelled here on the public stagecoach?’

  The Duchess looked utterly appalled. As if, Regan thought, she had transported the children to the Hall by means of a chamberpot on wheels. ‘Indeed we did, your Grace,’ she replied with acid politeness, ‘for we travel so rarely that it makes little sense for us to keep a carriage and six.’

  ‘Four horses are more than sufficient,’ her Grace said, eyeing Regan suspiciously. ‘Unless one is royalty, six are undoubtedly vulgar.’

  Choking back a hysterical little laugh, for the Duchess was every bit as terrifyingly ridiculous as she remembered, Regan looked to Gabriel for assistance.

  He was frowning. She thought at first that her irreverence had offended him, until he spoke. ‘That was remiss of me,’ he said, addressing himself directly to her. ‘I should have sent my own coach to collect you.’

  ‘All the way to Yorkshire!’ his mother exclaimed. ‘Nonsense. Miss Stuart would not have liked to be obliged to us for such an additional and unnecessary outlay.’

  ‘You forget yourself, your Grace. It is we who are obliged to Miss Stuart for her kind assistance in this matter,’ Gabriel said curtly, doubly embarrassed by this evidence of his own thoughtlessness and his mother’s blatant condescension. ‘Please accept my apologies, Regan, you should not have been put to the inconvenience of making your own travel arrangements. Rest assured that I will facilitate your return journey.’

  The Duchess once more employed her quizzing glass, surveying Regan from head to toe. ‘You were a slip of a child when last we met, and forever leading my son into some scrape or other, as I recall. You have the look of your father about you now you’ve grown. He was a good man, so my husband informed me. It is a shame you take your colouring from your mother, though, that red hair is not at all the thing,’ she said, looking at Regan’s simply dressed auburn tresses as if they had committed some sort of social solecism.

  ‘Regan’s hair is not red, it is Titian,’ Gabriel said, surprising himself as much as his audience. ‘Though it may not be in vogue just now, I have to say that I much prefer it to any brunette or blonde,’ he added, surprising himself again with the realisation that what he said happened to be true, despite the inescapable fact that his potential brides consisted of two dusky brunettes and one golden blonde. As a consequence, he quite failed to notice that this mildest of compliments was making its recipient blush. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, your Grace,’ he said, holding open the door for the Duchess, ‘I wish to be introduced to Regan’s brothers and sister. After all, I have just adopted them as my own.’

  The Duchess fixed her son with a baleful stare. ‘That, Gabriel, is not even faintly amusing.’

  Gabriel bowed. ‘I am relieved to hear it, ma’am. One would hate your Grace’s hard-earned reputation as a bastion of gravity and sobriety to be tarnished by over-exposure to humour.’

  The click of the door closing behind the formidable black-clad woman who had interrupted their breathless game of chase released Portia, Land and Jack from their unusually subdued state.

  ‘Regan, that scary woman looked at us through a glass that made her eye look this big,’ Jack said, stretching his little arms as wide as he could manage.

  ‘Regan, I’m hungry.’

  ‘Regan, when can we go to the maze?’

  ‘Regan, I’m hungry, too.’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘You shall have your dinner shortly,’ Regan said, ruffling Jack’s hair, ‘but you are forgetting your manners. Introduce yourselves to the Duke.’

  Three pairs of very blue eyes peered up at Gabriel from varying heights. Two ungainly bows and one wobbly curtsy were made. The faces looked at him with awed expectation. He felt like a prize exhibit in Bullock’s museum or a show horse at Astley’s Amphitheatre. He had no idea what sort of performance he was expected to put on. ‘How do you do?’ he said finally.

  Portia giggled. Land and Jack nudged each other. Gabriel looked helplessly at Regan. Ignobly pleased to observe his discomfort, she made no move to assist him. The irony of the situation made her smile inwardly. Intent as he was on establishing the presence of maternal qualities, he appeared quite oblivious to the fact that he was distinctly lacking in the paternal equivalent.

  ‘Your sister tells me you travelled here on the stagecoach,’ Gabriel said stiffly, speaking down from his great height to the children as though he were preaching to a congregation.

  ‘Jack was sick,’ Portia volunteered.

  ‘Sick as a dog,’ Jack confirmed proudly. ‘Three times.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Gabriel said, quite nonplussed by this information. ‘Capital.’

  ‘Sir.’ Land tugged on Gabriel’s sleeve, ‘I mean, your High-ness…’

  ‘Your Grace,’ Regan corrected, stifling a giggle.

  ‘Gabriel will be quite acceptable.’

  ‘May we please see the maze, Gabriel?’

  She would dearly have loved to hear Gabriel’s reply, for his face was a picture, but she would not take the risk of him giving any of the children a set-down. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ Regan said hastily. ‘You must not bother his Grace at the moment. No doubt he has much more important business to attend to.’

  ‘Indeed, tomorrow will be much more convenient,’ Gabriel said, clutching gratefully at this grudgingly offered straw, for the last hour had left him unaccountably drained. ‘I will leave you to settle in. Mrs McGlone will show you to your quarters. I will send her to you directly.’

  Regan watched the door close behind him with a sinking feeling. She had come here with such high hopes and expectations, excited at the prospect of rediscovering an old friendship, but Gabriel was evidently only interested in her as a means to an end. So now, for the sake of the children, she was going to have to spend the next three weeks pretending to be someone she was not in front of a triumvirate of social butterflies, each of whom was desperate to get her talons into a Duke. Not that butterflies had talons. In fact, she was being extremely unfair; they were probably very nice. And beautiful. Blonde, no doubt, for it was the fashion, even if Gabriel had said he preferred Titian hair. Not that she cared what colour of hair he preferred. Or what type of female.

  Regan made a face. Whatever type of female they were, they would not be interested in a mere governess. It was not for a moment that she resented the title; governess was a perfectly respectable position and a vocation she might even have pursued herself had circumstances been different. No, it was not that, nor did she grudge the children their treat, but it was just difficult, sometimes, to be the one always having to make the sacrifices. She sighed. At least they would all still have Christmas at the Hall to look forward to. She must not be selfish. Tomorrow, she told herself stoically, when she had had time to readjust her expectations, she would hopefully not feel quite so cheated.

  Mrs McGlone, Gabriel’s eminently practical housekeeper, had set aside an entire suite of rooms located far from the main guest chambers for Regan and the children’s exclusive use. ‘Where they’ll be able to make as much noise as they like without you worrying that they’ll be disturbing anyone,’ she explained with a kindly smile. ‘A lovely lady, your mother was, Miss Stuart.
As you know, I used to write to her now and then, just to keep in touch. It was myself who gave his Grace your whereabouts—I hope you don’t mind? Such a tragedy, her dying as she did, though it must be some comfort to have the little ones looking so like her. You must miss her dreadfully.’

  Regan sniffed back a rare tear. ‘I do. She always spoke most kindly of you, too. You used to let me stir the puddings for the Yule party in the old days, do you remember?’

  ‘What I remember is you doing more eating than stirring,’ Mrs McGlone said, her ample bosom quivering as she chuckled wheezily.

  A cosy hour of reminiscing had restored Regan’s spirits somewhat. Next morning, waking from a restful sleep, she was, she told herself, reconciled to the situation, if still a little disappointed. Walking with the children in the extensive gardens after breakfast, her spirits lifted further. Things were not as she had hoped, but they were certainly a lot better than the alternative—spending a frugal Christmas at home, alone with the children.

  It was a bright December morning, though the distant clouds looked to be laden with snow. She was in the act of thinking that Mother Nature looked as if she was going to keep Gabriel’s promise for him, when the man himself came striding across the lawn to meet them. He was dressed less formally today, in a frockcoat and tight buckskin breeches with top boots. He was hatless as well as gloveless, his hair slightly rumpled, and Regan’s heart gave a funny little skip. A funny, foolish little skip. It was so unfair of him to be so very attractive. Gabriel, she reminded herself sternly, was not in the least bit interested in her.

  ‘Are you on your way to the maze?’ he said by way of greeting. ‘You won’t mind if I accompany you? I thought it would be prudent to give the children a chance to get acquainted with me before my guests arrive.’

  ‘Prudent? And here was I, thinking you had a desire for my company, your Grace.’

  ‘How serendipitous it is, then, to be able to combine the two.’

  She ignored that. ‘I have not explained the situation to them, deeming it best that it should come from you.’

  He cast her a harassed look but, gathering the children around him at the entrance to the maze, he embarked on a rather complicated explanation of the situation. Jack, Land and Portia craned their necks up at the imposing giant, too awed and confused to comment. ‘So, what do you think?’ Gabriel finished, nonplussed by their lack of reaction.

  ‘I think you’re too tall,’ Jack said. ‘My neck hurts.’

  ‘That’s why he’s called your High-ness,’ Land whispered, earning himself a reproving look from Regan and making his brother and sister giggle.

  Remembering, of a sudden, how much he had hated having his father loom over him in just such an intimidating manner, Gabriel cursed his own insensitivity and dropped to his knees beside them. ‘There, I’m now your Low-ness. Is that better?’ To his relief, all three children nodded shyly.

  ‘Yes, but please, your Grace…’

  ‘Gabriel. Please, call me Gabriel.’

  ‘Please, Gabriel, we don’t understand the point of this game, do we?’ Portia said, seeking confirmation from her siblings, who nodded vigorously.

  ‘Oh. Well, it’s a game where you all pretend to be different people, even Regan.’

  ‘Like when she used to pretend to be a Duchess?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Did she now?’ Gabriel looked at Regan quizzically.

  ‘Yes, in the big tower where there are boxes and boxes of clothes. She said—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Regan said, blushing. ‘It’s not that kind of dressing-up game, more of a secret game.’

  ‘We like secrets,’ Jack declared.

  Gabriel cast Regan a grateful look. ‘I used to like secrets, too, when I was your age,’ he said, remembering as he furrowed his brow and tried to place himself in Jack’s shoes, that he had also been fond of very tall tales. Beginning his explanation anew, suitably simplified, embroidered and exaggerated, he was rewarded with three children extremely eager to take on their new roles.

  ‘And now,’ he said with immense satisfaction as he got to his feet, ‘I think the three of you should see who can get to the centre of the maze first. I will award a prize to the winner. Your sister and I will watch from the top terrace up there. Which,’ he continued sotto voce to Regan, tucking her hand in his arm, ‘is also far enough away to offer some respite from the excited screaming that will inevitably follow.’

  ‘You really are—’

  ‘Ruthless, selfish, manipulative,’ Gabriel said with a grin. ‘I prefer persuasive myself. You’re not going to tell me that you’d rather spend the next hour pretending to be lost in a yew hedge that you know like the back of your hand?’

  ‘No, your Grace, not when I can spend the time in your exalted company.’

  Her smile was teasing, but Gabriel frowned. ‘Is that how I seem to you, high-handed, imperious?’

  ‘No, but you have a sort of certainty—I expect it comes with the position you hold—that your way of looking at things is the only correct way.’

  ‘You seem to possess a similar brand of certainty,’ Gabriel replied. ‘Perhaps it, too, is a result of having unwelcome responsibility thrust upon you.’

  ‘I don’t think of the children in that way.’

  Gabriel looked sceptical. The gravel crunched under their feet as they walked. Their breath made clouds in the crisp air. Below them, Portia, Land and Jack’s laughter echoed as their own had once done. ‘I can’t pretend it’s been easy, nor that it is what I would have chosen for myself,’ Regan said. ‘Our circumstances, since Mama and the children’s papa died, have been—well, let us just say that it is a good thing that none of us has a taste for luxury.’

  ‘You may not have been able to provide your siblings with much in the way of material wealth, Regan, but they have other, more valuable riches in abundance. You love them and it is clear they adore you in return. I envy you all, more than I can say. All the estates in England cannot buy such a precious commodity.’ Gabriel distractedly kicked a small pebble on the path. ‘My apologies,’ he said gruffly. ‘I did not intend the conversation to stray into such deep waters.’

  He guided them towards a wooden bench, wiping it with his kerchief before motioning Regan to sit down beside him. ‘I never did offer you my condolences when your father died,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘It was remiss of me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Regan said simply, ‘it was.’

  ‘I hoped you might still be here when I came home for the holidays.’

  ‘So did I, but as your father pointed out at the time, Blairmore Hall requires a steward, and the new steward had a right to the steward’s house. The house I was born in. The house Mama came to as a bride. So we were forced to leave somewhat—somewhat precipitately.’

  ‘I should have written.’ Her clear-sighted gaze was making him uncomfortable. The Regan of those days would never have looked at him so. He was finding it almost impossible to believe that the Regan he once knew had metamorphosed into this poised, assured and unsettlingly desirable woman. ‘I was—it wasn’t the same here without you,’ Gabriel admitted reluctantly.

  For a moment, just a moment, he allowed her a glimpse of the lonely child he had been—the loneliness he’d kept so well disguised that her younger self hadn’t even noticed. The loneliness that must be at the root of his burning desire to raise his children in a loving family environment. Regan’s heart wrenched, but she could not bring herself to comment on such a very private subject. A triumphant shriek heralded Land’s arrival at the centre of the maze. She smiled. ‘Do you remember the time you forced me to climb the statue of Poseidon in the fountain?’

  ‘Forced? You make me sound as if I was some sort of youthful despot.’

  ‘Deity rather than dictator, if you must know,’ she admitted, twisting her hands together in her lap. ‘I missed you, too, when we went, and Blairmore Hall. Terribly.’ She flushed. Her skirts were brushing again
st his coat-tails. His buckskins were as tightly fitting as his pantaloons had been last night, showing his excellent legs. She dragged her eyes away, realising a fraction too late that they had been lingering where they should not ever have been looking. Her gaze snagged on his, and it happened just like yesterday. A change in the air. A tension. The expectation of something. Her breathing became erratic.

  Gabriel touched her cheek with his gloved hand. ‘Are you happy, Regan?’

  ‘Why should I not be?’ she said, trying desperately to ignore whatever it was that was happening. ‘Are you?’ she countered, annoyed at the way her voice sounded: breathless and tremulous.

  ‘I hope to be.’ Did he? He knew well enough what it was to be unhappy. Did he truly believe that this companionate marriage he planned, the family he hoped it would produce, would invoke the opposite emotion? He had assumed it would, but now Regan had posed the actual question, he found he had no satisfactory answer. He was not inclined to dwell on that. Anyway, there were other, far more pressing things to think about. Like the fact that Regan smelled of fresh air and some light, flowery scent. Her skin was creamy white, save for a faint smattering of freckles on her nose. Her lashes were long and thick, the same dark auburn as her hair. A lock of it had escaped its pins. He brushed it back. Such a vulnerable spot, this softest of skin behind the ear. Such a delightful one. The shock of contact sent a frisson of awareness down his spine.

  Regan couldn’t seem to move, though Gabriel was improperly close. She felt as if she were rooted to the spot, as if held by some magnetic force. His touch was heating her skin, making it burn from the contrast with the cold winter air. She intended to push him away, but instead found her hands resting on his chest. She could feel his heart beating. ‘What would you have done,’ she said, her voice no more than a whisper, ‘if I had refused to go along with your proposition?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted frankly, ‘I hadn’t considered it.’ Her mouth, Gabriel decided—it was her mouth that gave her that air of sensuality. The plump curve of her full bottom lip, like an invitation, such a contrast to the rest of her. ‘I’m glad you did, though,’ he said, touching the wool of her cloak, running his hands up her arms. Desire clutched at him, hot and sharp and insistent, shocking in its strength, more shocking in its source, for this was Regan, Regan Stuart, he reminded himself. It made no difference.