Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  “You’ll never get it that way. Turn around,” he said.

  “How am I to—”

  “You’ll have to take my foot under your arm and—”

  She dropped said foot and he grimaced in pain. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “You’ll barely have to touch me, I promise you.” Mercy detected a hint of amusement in his tone. He was actually enjoying this. “I’ve done this many times before. Go ahead. Turn around.”

  She huffed out a harsh breath and did as she was told, gingerly taking his foot in hand once again.

  She jerked the boot away while he leaned back and pulled in the opposite direction.

  “You have a very fetching backside,” he said, just as the boot came off. Mercy lost her balance and took a few quick steps forward, landing in a deep puddle in her path, destroying her shoe.

  Chapter 3

  Every shred of Mercy’s dignity disappeared. In place of it came an odd little coil of sensation wound tight in her stomach. It was a fierce pang of attraction that she knew she should not feel—not for such a brazen rascal. Still, it was not altogether unpleasant, and as her skin heated, her breasts tightened almost painfully. Somehow, she refrained from pressing her hands against them to make them stop.

  No one had ever said such a thing to her, and she knew she should be outraged. She was outraged. So much so that she yanked her foot out of the mud and went for her luggage.

  And tried to ignore the altogether unacceptable notion that he was watching her backside even now.

  “Now if you’ll just collect my horse for me . . .”

  Mercy could not believe the man’s audacity. She turned just as he put his foot down carefully and examined his ankle.

  “Collect your . . . ?” She shuddered involuntarily. Whether it was from the cold and wet or the prospect of approaching the enormous animal, she was not quite sure. “I know naught of horses, sir. Surely you can manage.” Although she did not see how.

  “ ’Tis a gelding, lass. He will not hurt you. Just approach him where he can see you. And move with some purpose. He needs to know you’re in charge.”

  Mercy had never felt less in charge, unshoeing men and speaking aloud of gelded animals, but she saw no choice but to try to collect the massive creature.

  The drizzle might have stopped for the moment, but she was a chilled, sodden mess. It was beyond annoying that this stranger made her feel self-conscious about her appearance, with her bonnet sagging around her ears and the dampness making inroads through the wool of her coat. It hugged her figure far too personally, and Mercy could not help but think the man was enjoying the sight she presented.

  “Aye. That’s it,” he said, keeping a measuring gaze upon her, his lips quirked into a vaguely mocking smile.

  “Take hold of his reins and start walking this way.”

  Mercy did so, as far from its mouth as possible. She spoke quietly to it. “Come now, be a cooperative horse.”

  Luckily, it turned to follow her.

  “Now,” said the man, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ll need your assistance to stand . . .”

  Mercy closed her eyes to gather her patience, then reached out one hand. He took it, and she braced herself as he rose from the ground, balancing upon one foot.

  He clucked his tongue and the horse went right to him.

  “Why didn’t you do that before?” she asked, so annoyed with this brash stranger.

  “Do what?”

  “Make that sound. The horse clearly understood what it meant.”

  “He was too far away.”

  She released his hand and started to walk away, disbelieving him. He’d enjoyed her discomfiture a bit too much.

  “One more thing.”

  She halted. “I really must be on my way, sir.”

  He gestured toward the horse. “I’ll need your assistance in mounting.”

  “I cannot imagine how,” she said disagreeably. “I’m reasonably certain I won’t be able to lift you up.”

  His mouth quirked at her sarcasm, and Mercy felt her stomach drop to her toes. She’d had previous occasions to appreciate a handsome face—Andrew Vale’s, in fact—but this man’s rugged beauty struck some deep chord within her.

  No doubt he was quite the roué, and it was entirely improper for Mercy to linger here with him.

  He handed her his boot. “All I need is your shoulder for support until I can— Ah, that’s it.”

  With surprising agility, he managed to swing his leg over the horse’s rump and seat himself in the saddle. Then he reached over to take his boot from her, and Mercy hastened away from the big man and the perplexing warmth that had unfurled inside her as he braced his hand upon her shoulder.

  She retrieved her luggage and started back on the path toward the turnstile.

  “You have been extremely helpful.”

  “If that was your thanks, then you are welcome, sir,” she said without looking back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must make haste before the rain starts again.”

  “Of course.”

  He said something else, but Mercy could not hear him. In any event, she wanted no further unsuitable conversation with him. The sooner she put some distance between herself and the handsome stranger, the better.

  She trudged on to the turnstile, where Ashby Hall came into view. Mercy’s heart sank as she gazed at the massive, bleak stone and timber structure ahead. It was nestled in a wide dale, with tall, craggy fells all around it, and though the rain had stopped, the Hall and all its outbuildings were now enshrouded in a thick mist.

  Ashby Hall was a cold and unwelcoming structure—certainly not a home, especially for a young child.

  Shuddering nervously, Mercy went through the turnstile. The place seemed to have started out as a crenellated medieval castle, and been transformed over the years into a stately mansion with peaks and turrets and all manner of rooftops. But as grand as it might once have been, now it seemed to be sagging under the weight of disdain and neglect.

  Huge trees towered over the edifice, their skeletal limbs rising over the Hall like gigantic monsters with gnarled, black limbs. She looked toward the gardens and saw that they, too, needed attention.

  Mercy never thought she would miss the vicarage where she’d spent her childhood, or even the small cottage she’d shared with her mother during those few months after Reverend Franklin’s passing. But now that she saw Ashby Hall, she wondered if there hadn’t been some other course to take.

  She straightened her shoulders and slogged on. Ashby Hall—as dilapidated as it might be—was Mercy’s immediate future, along with the little girl who lived within, in need of a governess.

  It was not the future Mercy had anticipated, for she’d hoped to marry Andrew Vale and start a family of her own, in a home where she could be mistress of her own life, without the kind of strict governance practiced by her father. She’d felt stirrings of affection for Reverend Vale and knew she would have made him a good wife. But her father had refused his offer, and Mercy feared she knew why.

  Though Reverend Vale was a clergyman like her father, he had not been rigid enough. Reverend Franklin had viewed him as lax, and Mercy could not deny that it was his tolerant attitude that had made him so very attractive to her.

  Unfortunately, she had not concealed her enthusiasm for the match, and her father had deemed her eagerness unseemly. Besides, anything Mercy might desire of her own volition was likely wrong for her.

  No doubt her father would approve of her present path.

  It took another quarter hour to reach the gates of the Ashby estate, passing low-lying, flooded fields and an overgrown orchard on her way. One of the huge, wrought-iron gates in the stone wall that surrounded the house had come loose from its upper hinge, and its base rested upon the cobbled drive. Mercy swallowed hard, wondering if she could actually live there. She did not need a palace, but Ashby Hall was a disaster.

  She would go inside and warm herself, then decide what to do.

&
nbsp; But what could she do? The small bequest from her father had been pitiful, and she’d used it to pay for food, medicines, and doctors during Susanna’s illness. Mercy had considered writing to Mr. Vale to inform him of her parents’ demise and to inquire whether he had any interest in resuming his courtship.

  It was a humiliating proposition, since Mr. Vale had not contested her father’s refusal of his proposal the previous summer. Clearly, Andrew had borne a great deal of respect for the older clergyman, and had not wished to challenge him.

  But it would have done Mercy’s heart good to know someone cared enough to fight for her.

  Hesitant to write, Mercy had exhausted every possibility for employment at home, but there were few opportunities for a young lady in her position. There was no need for another school in Underdale, and no one wanted to hire the late vicar’s daughter as a servant. When she’d failed to find employment, there’d been no option but to advertise for a position in a great household, doing something about which she knew very little—being a governess in such a household.

  Mercy had never anticipated such a wreck of a house when Mr. Lowell had written her of Ashby Hall and the child who was in need of a governess.

  She braced herself for as cold and bleak a welcome as the house seemed to offer, and went around to the back where she assumed there would be a servants’ entrance. Finding no convenient well for water with which to wash her face, Mercy took out her damp handkerchief, and used it to wipe the mud from her exposed skin. Then she glanced at her reflection in one of the windows.

  She looked like some pathetic drowned creature.

  Sighing with resignation, she rapped upon the door.

  The heavy door swung open and a tall, lanky, young red-haired man peered out at Mercy. His hands were the size of platters and his feet like small boats. But his face was friendly. “Aye, miss?”

  “I’m Miss Franklin, here to see Mr. Lowell.”

  He looked at her blankly for a moment, and then stepped aside and said, “Come in, miss.”

  Whatever the young man’s reticence, Mercy only hoped to get warm and dry. She entered a back corridor near a kitchen and set down her traveling case.

  “You’re drenched through, aren’t you, miss?” the lad said, leading her into a large kitchen where two other men were occupied preparing food at a long worktable. Mercy’s stomach growled at the wonderful aromas that bubbled up from the stove. “Come this way. You can get warm in here.”

  The heat from the kitchen felt wonderful, but Mercy felt ill at ease. She believed she recognized the cooks as two of the riders who’d splashed mud on her. The one with the heavy mustache, definitely.

  She gritted her teeth with frustration, aware that she had to make a good impression here, in spite of the kind of men Lord Ashby employed. Mr. Lowell’s letter was the only response to her advertisement, which had come just in time, before the last of her money was spent.

  Her stomach fell when it occurred to her that it might have been Mr. Lowell whose horse had startled and thrown him in the road. Who else would have been dressed as a gentleman and riding behind the ruffians in the kitchen? Mercy did not know how she would face him now, after his outrageous remarks and their biting interchange.

  And yet there was naught she could do now besides pray that she would not have to meet him again. Thankfully, it was far more likely that the Ashby housekeeper, or even the child’s nurse, would outline her duties. Even so, she looked down at her stained coat and nearly despaired. She could not face the woman like this. “I’d like to . . . er, is there a place where I might change into dry clothes before I meet with . . . Mrs. . . . er . . . ?”

  Her question seemed to perplex the young man, who scratched the side of his head while the other two turned around to look at her. The one without the mustache tipped his head toward a closed door.

  “The pantry, Corporal Childers?” the young man asked. “Oh, aye. The pantry will do, eh, miss?”

  He picked up a lamp and ushered Mercy into a small room lined with shelves stacked with food staples. He handed her the lamp and then stepped away to the door. “Well, I’ll just leave you then, miss. Oh, and I’m Henry Blue. Just sing out if you need anything.”

  Chapter 4

  Nash Farris, Lord Ashby, rubbed his left eye in a vain attempt to clear his vision, even though he knew it was useless. The tissues had been damaged in and around his eye, a small forfeit, considering he should have lost his life.

  And what a life it was. He almost laughed. But for the haughty little piece he’d met on the road a bit earlier, his life was naught but a cruel jest.

  His best friend, Lieutenant John Trent, had died in Nash’s place on a battlefield in Belgium on the eighteenth of June last year. And Nash’s elder brother, Arthur, had met his own end here in the Lake District alongside his wife, on the very same day, in a weird and horrific coincidence, making Nash the Earl of Ashby. It was made all the worse since their eldest brother, Hoyt, had been killed in a shooting accident less than a year before that.

  No wonder the people around Keswick were saying the Ashby earls were cursed. They were waiting to see what tragedy would befall the third Ashby son. He supposed he should thank the fates he hadn’t broken his neck in his fall from his horse that afternoon.

  Nash stood abruptly, and then sat right back down. There was significant pain in his ankle, and he knew he should have his valet, Sergeant Parker, bind it and put it up to keep it from swelling any more. He could not pace, as he’d been wont to do since returning to Ashby Hall with a few of the men who’d served with him at various times over the past thirteen years.

  Nash was not meant for the life of a country gentleman, especially on an estate that was in such dire need of competent stewardship. What did he know of sheep and wool and grazing lands?

  More, what did he care?

  He was the dashing Captain Farris, favorite of the ladies and menace on the battlefield, a man whose life had seemed charmed.

  But it had all been abruptly and forever altered at Waterloo during the first French onslaught through the gates at Hougoumont Farm. John Trent had shoved Nash away from a French saber, taking the fatal jab himself. Nash had recovered to fight fiercely, bringing Trent’s killer down while the Guards managed to close the gates against the enemy, trapping a number of them inside.

  They’d made the farmhouse a fortress, but the French were undeterred. As was Nash. He became a man possessed to ensure that Trent had not died in vain. French troops would not take the Hougoumont.

  The French continued their assaults throughout that fateful afternoon, attempting to breach the walls via the woods and orchards, but failing. Their howitzers fired incendiary shells inside, setting the house and barn afire. Smoke and artillery fire filled the house and the walled yard, and a sudden explosion threw Nash into a stone wall, cracking his ribs. His vision was impaired by a trail of blood dripping from his scalp, and when a burning beam fell upon him, he was trapped.

  By all accounts, everything happened quickly after that, but Nash could not remember the rest of that day or the next several. His men had saved his life, pulling him from the burning rubble, but he did not feel quite thankful. He had his life, such as it was. But everything that had ever mattered was gone.

  Nash had not been groomed to be earl the way Hoyt had been, and had not spent more than a few weeks every year at Ashby since leaving for school. Even his stubborn but well-educated brother Arthur had failed at running the estate. And if Arthur could not make a go of Ashby, then Nash doubted he’d have much more success.

  He’d been lacking in successes lately, including the reaction of the comely young woman he’d encountered in the lane. Not that he’d been attempting to garner her favor. On the contrary, as his reputation bore out, he had no use for innocent young things, and his mishap had been highly inconvenient. He was lucky he hadn’t reinjured his mended ribs.

  A knock at the library door interrupted his restless mood and pointless ruminations. Ashby’
s steward, Philip Lowell, entered the room. Lowell was several years older than Nash’s thirty-one years, a powerfully built man with light hair and eyes. His unfailing favor with the ladies reminded Nash of his own prowess before his injury, but that was a lifetime ago. Of late, Nash had encountered very few women who were unaffected by his scars.

  Lowell entered the library but stopped short when he saw Nash sitting with his foot elevated on an ottoman. “What happened to you, my lord?”

  Nash put his foot on the floor. He was no invalid, to be coddled or indulged. Especially by his handsome steward, an unscarred dandy with ambitions that seemed to exceed Ashby’s immediate potential.

  “Naught of interest.” Besides becoming earl and the sole guardian of Hoyt’s daughter, the only remarkable thing that had happened to Nash lately was the silly accident in the road today. The attractive young woman had captured his interest as nothing else had done in recent months. He’d almost laughed at her brusque dealings with him.

  And then he’d felt the undeniable stirrings of arousal at her spirit. No timid miss was she.

  There hadn’t seemed to be any point in asking her name. It seemed quite clear that she wasn’t staying in the area. She’d had traveling cases, and it seemed logical that she’d been waiting to catch the mail coach when his men had driven her off the road.

  He put thoughts of her aside, for he was quite aware of the effect his scarred countenance had upon women these days. Nary a one could look upon him without revulsion. Or worse, pity.

  And yet it seemed the woman in the road had not even noticed his marred face. He wondered now if she—or any other woman—could ever . . .

  He gave a slight shake of his head to banish the long-dead stirrings of lust she’d managed to arouse. There were far more serious matters that faced him. Besides the fact that he was now a peer of the realm, the kind of injuries he’d sustained at Waterloo had made him unsuitable for active duty. He couldn’t shoot worth a damn anymore, and his impaired vision and frequent headaches would make him a liability to his company. So would his waking nightmares—the flashes of memory that came to him so sudden and startling he could barely stay on his feet when they hit him.