Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  As Mercy worked to engage the little girl, she noticed a few minor successes. Emmaline spoke more often, offering more than just a one- or two-word response.

  They walked around to the front of the house, just as two horsemen rode up. Lord Ashby and Mr. Lowell.

  The earl wore the dark green coat he seemed to favor, and it hugged his broad shoulders like a caress. He had not shaved, so there was a shadow of whiskers on his chin. Mercy felt her breath catch when he made a masterful leap from his horse and came toward them, greeting them with a slight bow. “Miss Franklin . . . Emmaline . . .”

  “Good morning, my lord,” Mercy said, sounding ridiculously breathless to her own ears. “We were . . . we’re just taking a short walk.”

  “Have you been to the summerhouse yet?” he asked.

  “Summerhouse?”

  “Aye. An ancient marble pavilion”—he touched her shoulder and turned her to face a tree-lined path—“down there.”

  A shudder went through Mercy at his touch, centering deep, inside places she hardly knew existed.

  “Shall I show you, Miss Franklin?” Mr. Lowell asked, coming forward.

  Lord Ashby handed the steward his reins. “Perhaps I shall escort you myself. Lowell, take the horses to the stable.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Mr. Lowell went in one direction, and the earl led them in another. Emmaline tightened her grasp on Mercy’s hand, and Mercy collected herself for their impromptu outing together. Whatever Lord Ashby said to her, she would not respond with any of the impertinence she’d shown him before. Not in front of his niece.

  “You are not comfortable around horses, Miss Franklin.” His statement had to have been based on their first interchange when he’d asked her to bring his horse to him.

  “No. My father did not find it necessary to keep horses in Underdale. So I am not so very accustomed to them.”

  “Underdale is a small town on the coast, is it not?”

  “Yes. I could see the sea from my window.”

  “Ah. Is there a beach?”

  She nodded, pleased that the conversation was moving along in quite the conventional manner. “Yes, there is a lovely long, white, sandy beach.”

  The earl looked down at his niece. “What do you think, Emmaline? Do you suppose your governess would ever pull up her skirts and walk barefoot in the sand by the sea?”

  Emmy smiled shyly and nodded while Mercy felt her toes curl inside her shoes. Lord Ashby’s tone had turned low and seductive, calling to mind the embarrassing moments when she’d stood barefoot with him, more than half undressed outside her bedroom. Her heart fluttered within her breast.

  It seemed her respite was over. He was resolved to making her uncomfortable.

  “Perhaps she even dipped her feet into the sea.”

  Mindful of Emmaline’s presence, Mercy bit back a sharp set-down. She was perfectly capable of maintaining her poise in order to give the child a creditable example. Even though she felt she might explode.

  “Did you . . . swim, Miss Franklin?”

  Mercy felt sure he was making an oblique reference to the practice of disrobing down to one’s chemise to swim. “Of course not, my lord. The sea is far too cold at Underdale.”

  A change of subject was needed. She pointed toward a long, low hedge. “Emmaline, do you see all those shoots that are just coming up just this side of that hedge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those are daffodils, and they will flower, I think, next week.”

  “I like daffodils,” Emmaline said, and it seemed to Mercy that their little walk and Lord Ashby’s casual tone did much to ease Emmaline’s stiffness in her uncle’s presence. “May we cut some of them when they flower?” Emmaline asked.

  Mercy glanced at Lord Ashby. “If your uncle allows.”

  “Of course you may.”

  The pavilion came into sight, a circular building with a domed roof. There was a covered colonnade to provide some shelter, but the interior was closed up, and ivy and other vines had grown into its walls.

  “It does not appear to have been used in quite some time.”

  Lord Ashby stood still, gazing at the building before them. “No. Not in a very long time.”

  There were nights when Nash knew it was better to avoid his bed than go up to it, only to wake in the night, feeling his flesh and the room around him burning. Not that anything was actually burning, but the sensations of that day at Hougoumont would not let him be.

  He could wish for dreams of Mercy Franklin, but that was a different kind of torment. He’d tried to avoid her, but it was a halfhearted effort at best. He could not resist stealing a glimpse of her fine eyes, her beguiling mouth and tempting curves. No matter how plain her gown or severe her coiffure, the punch of desire hit him every time he caught sight of her.

  Nash feared he could not allow her to remain at Ashby Hall, not if he was going to establish a successful marriage. He might have no experience at being a husband, but he had the notion that his wife would not appreciate seeing him lusting after his niece’s governess.

  A particularly virulent nightmare woke Nash and he sat up suddenly, in a trembling sweat. He brushed a hand across his face and stood in a desperate attempt to dispel the images of John Trent’s death and the horrible sensations of his skin burning off his face.

  He’d had other injuries, too, but they’d have been far worse if Bassett had not dragged him from the fallen timber. As abrasive as the sergeant could be, Nash owed him his life.

  He pulled on a pair of trousers, then lit a lamp and left his bedroom for a quick trip to the library for something to read—something to take his mind off his dream and put him to sleep.

  He went down the corridor toward the staircase, but stopped at Mercy Franklin’s bedroom door. What he wouldn’t give for another rendezvous like the one they’d shared on the night of her arrival at Ashby Hall. This time, he would slip the narrow little sleeve of her chemise from her shoulder, and see how much of her tender flesh he could bare. He wanted to touch her, wanted to assuage his desire with a taste of her lily-scented skin. He would warm her delicate feet in his hands, then slide them up her legs and . . .

  Nash’s heart gave a little jolt when he found her bedroom door open. An invitation, perhaps.

  He stepped into the door frame and looked into the room, but found it empty. The fire had burned low in the grate, and her bed had not yet been touched.

  Guessing she must have heard Emmaline call out, he went across to the nursery and quietly opened the door.

  There, he found his niece sound asleep in her bed, her governess curled up in a chair beside her. She wore a simple dark banyan over her chemise, but her feet were bare again. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply.

  A lamp on the table beside her had burned low, and a book lay open in her lap. She’d been reading to Emmaline.

  Nash stood quietly, taking in the scene before him, then turned abruptly and went to the fireplace. He needed a distraction to drive away the sudden ache of loss that pinned him with an unexpected stab of grief.

  Emmaline was warming to her governess, and had not seemed quite as shy with him during their walk to the pavilion. Even so, Nash did not need his niece’s—or anyone else’s—affections. It was enough that she was being taken care of adequately, that he was there to see to her needs. He swallowed back the lump of anguish that always came upon him when he thought of Hoyt, and knelt to build up the fire.

  Then he returned to Miss Franklin and slipped the book from her hands, placing it on the table. He bent down and lifted her, cradling her against his body as she nestled her head against his chest, without waking her.

  He’d wanted to feel her body against his, but not quite like this. In spite of the absurd erection he now sported, he carried the governess to her own bedchamber and lowered her to her bed. He thought about removing her banyan, but just pulled the blanket over her and left the room.

  Hard and aching for something he woul
d never have.

  Chapter 13

  “Shall we take a walk outside?” Mercy asked Emmaline. Really, they ought to be practicing penmanship or working out sums, but the sun had come out, and Mercy was sure that children ought to spend time outdoors whenever the weather was decent.

  Emmaline’s pretty eyes sparkled for a moment, and Mercy took heart in that brief flash of interest. She was making progress with her pupil, and she knew that was as important as making sure the child could read and write and do sums. She hoped Emmaline would soon feel as comfortable with her as she’d have felt with her mother.

  Mercy corrected herself. That was not what she wanted at all. She wanted Emmy to feel comfortable and confident in her own skin, able to stand up for herself and not be afraid, whatever situation arose. She wanted her to establish some kind of bond with her uncle so that when Mercy left Ashby Hall, the child would not feel abandoned as she must have done when her father and then her other uncle had died.

  Because Mercy fully intended to compose her letter to Andrew Vale as soon as she put Emmaline to bed that night. She was not going to get caught up in the book she’d chosen from the library as she’d done the night before, or fall asleep while she read. Somehow, she’d made her way into her own bed, though she could not remember doing so.

  In any event, there was much she could do for Emmaline in the fortnight or so before she would receive a response from Mr. Vale in Whitehaven. Emmaline was not the fragile doll her uncle seemed to think she was, and she hoped he’d seen that during their outing to the pavilion the day before.

  “Let’s find your coat, Emmy. And we’ll take a ball, too. It’ll be fun to toss it to each other.”

  It took only a few moments to dress appropriately and locate a door that led to one of the gardens. Soon they were outside in the bright sunshine. The trees were in bud and there was an abundance of tender, green shoots spearing up from the black soil.

  “Doesn’t the sun feel wonderful?” Mercy smiled and tipped her head back to soak up some of its warmth. She saw that Emmaline followed her example and did the same.

  Mercy felt sure the child only needed some kind attention and she would blossom, just like the gardens she had so painstakingly cultivated at home.

  “The garden seems to be overgrown,” she said, not expecting any response from the young girl who stood by her side, mimicking her movements. “See the rhododendron bushes? I wonder what color their flowers will be.”

  “Pink,” said Emmaline.

  “You noticed,” Mercy said happily. It meant the child had not been oblivious. “I see the bushes need pruning. I wonder if your uncle intends to . . . No, likely not.” She’d seen no signs of upkeep anywhere on the property, inside or out. There were only Lord Ashby’s army cohorts, who were unlikely to have been trained to maintain a garden, especially one of this size and complexity.

  “This was once quite a garden,” she said.

  Emmaline nodded. “My papa . . .”

  “Yes? Did your papa keep a nice garden?”

  She nodded. “Inside.”

  “In the house? He kept plants?”

  Perhaps he kept a green room and grew his favorite plants there. Mercy would have to take a look for it when she had time.

  “Papa used to take me on his shoulders . . .”

  Mercy put a comforting arm around the little girl’s shoulders. Her own father had never done anything so frivolous, but she had seen other parents playfully engaged as Emmy described, carrying their children that way. She was glad to know Emmaline had such pleasing memories of her father.

  “Do you like to play games, Emmy?”

  The girl shrugged in response.

  “Come now. There must be something you enjoy doing. Perhaps a hiding game?”

  Emmaline shook her head and Mercy tried to recall some of the games played by the children back in Underdale. “Have you ever played hoops and sticks?”

  “No.”

  “What about jacks?”

  Emmaline shook her head.

  Feeling quite at a loss, she took Emmaline’s hand and moved her several paces away from where Mercy would stand. “We’ll play a bit of catch, then.”

  She turned to glance at the house and saw the dingy windows of her own bedchamber. Not far from it would be Lord Ashby’s room. Her face warmed at a fleeting memory of something entirely improper . . .

  Had she pressed her face against Lord Ashby’s chest during the night? No, she decided it must have been a dream.

  Quickly, she looked away from the house and started walking down one of the garden paths with Emmaline. She had no business gazing up at the windows of the most maddening man she’d ever met.

  Nash rode into Keswick alone since Philip Lowell was nowhere to be found. He assumed Lowell must be out with the men, taking stock of the herd.

  He wanted to talk to Magistrate Wardlow again, and did not need Lowell to do so. Riding directly to the Moot Hall, Nash dismounted and tied his horse, then went inside.

  It surprised him that it no longer felt quite so strange to be recognized and greeted as “my lord” by everyone he encountered. He was treated with far more deference than he’d ever enjoyed as a captain in Wellington’s army, and was quickly shown to the same office where he and Lowell had met with Wardlow before.

  But not before he heard whispers of the cursed Ashby lords.

  He shrugged them off as superstitious pap and entered the magistrate’s office. Wardlow stood when Nash came in, but quickly rolled up some documents that were on his desk and shoved them aside, even as he bowed and greeted him.

  Nash took a seat, casting a quick glance toward the documents. Maps, if he was not mistaken, and he wondered why Wardlow was so averse to letting Nash see them. What could possibly be so bloody confidential that the highest-ranking nobleman in the district should not be allowed to see it?

  “How can I be of service to you this morning, my lord?” Wardlow asked. He was a short man with wide side whiskers and nondescript features. Nash remembered him vaguely from years before—he was the son of a local squire, and close to Hoyt’s age. “I thought we’d gone over all your questions when you were here—”

  “Something was missing from your reports of my brothers’ deaths,” Nash said. “If you recall, you did not have the list of men who attended my eldest brother’s stalking party. Have you found it?”

  “I-I don’t believe I, er . . . actually made one at the time, my lord.”

  “That seems rather remiss, wouldn’t you say? Makes for an incomplete record, doesn’t it? Perhaps you could write down the names now . . . You were present at Ashby Hall that day, were you not?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “You were one of the shooting party, correct?”

  He had not seemed nervous when Nash and Lowell had visited before, but the man seemed quite out of sorts now. He rubbed his face and tugged at his waistcoat more than once as they talked, causing Nash to wonder if his groundless suspicions had some merit.

  He tamped down the grief and the sick feeling that rose in his chest. Wardlow could be edgy for any number of reasons that had naught to do with either Hoyt or Arthur. But he glanced toward the maps and saw that one of them was not entirely hidden.

  “Yes,” Wardlow said, “but I was late getting out to the fields that day. Your brother was . . . was shot before I even—”

  “Who else was there, Wardlow?”

  “The usual, my lord. Men of good standing in the neighborhood.”

  “How many?”

  “Ten or twelve,” he said. “My lord, if I may be so bold—you, er . . . seem to think there was something nefarious about the incident.”

  Nash didn’t know what he thought. Accidents happened every day. But not to the two elder Farris brothers, in quick succession.

  He tapped the desk. “Nefarious or not, I’d like that list. And I’d also like to know who attended Baron Landry’s house party at Braithwaite. The one to which my brother Arthur never arrive
d.”

  Wardlow picked up his quill and dipped it in ink, but hesitated before he began.

  Nash prompted him. “Perhaps you could start with Viscount Allerdale? I assume he was there.”

  Wardlow nodded and wrote the old man’s name, then added several more without further encouragement from Nash. He stopped when he’d put down half a dozen names, and looked up at Nash, frowning. “It was some time ago, my lord.”

  That might be true, but if Nash had been present at a shooting party when the host had been killed, he was bloody sure he’d remember the name of every man present. “What about Horace Carew?”

  “Right.” Wardlow added the name. “Mr. Carew was there.”

  “Carew mentioned that he and his daughter did not attend Hoyt’s funeral.”

  “No, that’s correct. They left for Edinburgh the following day. If I remember right, there was some family matter he had to attend to.”

  Interesting that he would remember that small detail, but not the men who’d been present when Hoyt died. But, as Lowell had pointed out, Nash had no good reason to suspect any foul play in the deaths of his brothers. But it seemed far too coincidental for comfort. He did not believe in curses any more than he believed in boggarts.

  When Wardlow finished making his lists, Nash folded them and slipped them into his waistcoat, then stood to take his leave.

  First, he tipped his head toward the maps Wardlow had shoved aside. “New surveys are being done here, Wardlow?”

  Wardlow sucked in his cheeks. “Aye, my lord. All over the county.”

  “On whose authority?”

  “Well, uh . . . the crown’s, of course.”

  Nash narrowed his eyes and wished he knew more about an earl’s prerogative. He tried to remember what kind of authority his father had wielded, but failed. “Every acre?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I’d like to see the ordnance maps.”

  “They are incomplete, my lord. They’ve only just begun—”

  Nash reached out his hand. “Nevertheless . . .”

  Wardlow retrieved them and handed them to Nash, who spread them out on the desk.