Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  Emmaline’s expression turned thoughtful. “May I show you something?”

  “What is it?”

  The child stood and reached for Mercy’s hand. “Will you come with me?”

  They left the nursery and went to the attic door. Emmaline opened it and started up the same staircase Mercy had climbed—much to her detriment—the previous night.

  “Emmy . . . I don’t think we ought—”

  “No, please. There’s something . . .” she said quietly.

  Mercy followed Emmaline up the stairs and into the large attic room. The little girl went right to one of the trunks and opened it, pushing the heavy top over the side.

  She looked up at Mercy. “See? You can go to the ball with my uncle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My aunt’s dresses. They’re here.”

  It took a moment for Mercy to understand. “Emmy . . .”

  In the shadowy light of the attic, Mercy could see a froth of silks and satins neatly folded in the trunk.

  “There will be dancing,” Emmy said. “My papa used to dance with me.”

  Mercy slid an arm around Emmaline’s shoulders and tried to think of a way to explain her true reason for declining to go to the Keswick ball. She could not. At least, not to a child.

  “I like this one,” Emmy said. She peeled back a few gowns on top and revealed a gown made of deep scarlet satin and trimmed in gold thread. “Will you take it out?”

  “Emmy.” There was no point in it, because she was not going to any ball.

  “Please?” Emmaline asked, sounding more timid than Mercy liked. The little girl had come a long way today, and Mercy did not want her to lose any ground.

  “All right, but just to look. I’m not going to the ball, Emmy.”

  She carefully slipped the gown out from under the ones on top and held it up for Emmaline to see. Mercy knew little of current fashion, but this was a beautiful dress. Its sleeves were short, and gathered at the shoulder. The waist was high like Mercy’s gowns, but the neckline was lower than any she had ever seen. Even so, it was a tasteful dress, and had a matching pelisse lying just below it in the trunk.

  Holding the gown up in front of her, she tried to imagine how she would feel wearing such a beautiful thing.

  “No,” she said abruptly, taking it down from her shoulders. “I—”

  “It will fit you, miss,” Emmy said. “I know it will.”

  Before Mercy could say anything more, they heard Henry Blue calling to them from the doorway. She used the distraction to lay the dress carefully on top of the others in the trunk, and hoped Emmy would forget her silly notion. “Come. We must see what Henry wants.”

  They found him standing at the bottom of the stairs with Ruthie Baxter beside him, the nursemaid who had been sent from Metcalf Farm. Her hair was as red as Henry’s, and she appeared to be only about fifteen or sixteen years old. Emmy had been charmed by her friendly manner and vividly colored hair, and Mercy felt Ruthie would be yet another positive influence on the child.

  They returned to the nursery, and Mercy encouraged Emmaline to show Ruthie around herself, and she noted that it was a far different tour from the one she’d given Mercy. Emmaline was still a reserved little girl, but far more talkative and . . . engaged with Ruthie.

  Mercy remembered having to pry every word from Emmaline’s lips on her own arrival at Ashby Hall. Now, she was speaking more freely, and, most important, her fear of her uncle had faded significantly.

  Emmy and her new nursemaid were getting along well, so Mercy left them alone, saying they would visit the laundry and kitchen on the morrow and discuss Ruthie’s duties.

  Mercy retreated to her bedchamber. She closed the door and stood with her back against it. She had not anticipated becoming quite so attached to her young charge.

  Or to her uncle.

  He might have denied his betrothal to Miss Carew, but Mercy had seen with her own eyes the terrible condition of his house and estate. And Mr. Lowell had confided that the earl did not even have funds for proper servants. Mercy did not doubt that Miss Carew would bring a generous dowry to her marriage. How could Lord Ashby turn it down?

  How could he have taken such liberties with her when he knew he would have to wed soon?

  Torn between anger and hurt, Mercy went to the small writing desk and began her letter to Mr. Vale. This time, she was determined to finish it and find someone to post it for her.

  “Dear Mr. Vale,” she penned, and followed with the usual pleasantries. Then to the meat of the letter. “With the deaths of my parents, I find myself in the employ of the Earl of Ashby near Keswick, as governess to his niece. It is not ideal, but alas . . .”

  Mercy stopped and crossed out the last line, realizing it might take a few attempts before she achieved just the correct tone. Once she had the wording exactly right, she would write the missive on a clean sheet of paper, and send it off.

  When she finished final draft, she opened the drawer of the table beside her bed and took out Susanna’s journal. She supposed now would be a good time to delve into the diary, but the day had already been long and distressing. She could not yet face it.

  Besides, she felt angry enough already.

  She slipped her letter to Mr. Vale into the pages of the journal, then put it away. Straightening her collar and cuffs, she went to check her appearance in the mirror, and grimaced at the state of her hair. Her coif was as disordered as her emotions.

  She removed the pins that held it in place and brushed it, reminding herself that it was best for her to leave Ashby Hall. Emmaline would soon forget about the governess who’d helped her to overcome the worst of her shyness, and Lord Ashby would soon have the funds he needed to pay Ruthie and the houseful of other servants that were needed here.

  Mercy smoothed her skirts, then took her lamp and went down to the servants’ hall, where she located the housekeeper’s bedroom. There was not much to be done to prepare for Mrs. Jones’s arrival, just a quick dusting and the application of fresh linens to her bed. A low rumble of thunder gave Mercy pause, and she knew a storm was coming. She quickly made up the bed, then left the room.

  All was so quiet, there didn’t seem to be anyone in the house, not even the old butler. She ventured into the kitchen and saw pots simmering on the stove, but none of the earl’s men were in evidence. They must have had some errand away from the Hall, or perhaps they were out on the property doing chores. Even the earl.

  Which was perfectly fine with Mercy. Her anger had not abated in the least, and she did not wish to see Lord Ashby now, anyway.

  Once again, Lowell was nowhere to be found. The rest of the men were playing at swords, but Lowell had likely gone to visit his female acquaintance in Lake Road.

  Nash did not think the steward would appreciate the arrival of Grainger’s brother. It would be one thing to hire a shepherd to manage the flock, but Sir William indicated that George Grainger was much more than that.

  He would take Lowell’s place.

  And Nash needed someone like him to do just that. Lowell had helped him plow through Ashby’s account books, but it had become clear he knew nothing about raising sheep. It was a complicated business, one that Lowell did not really understand. And he was far too impatient with the pace at which Ashby would become profitable.

  Perhaps Nash ought to dismiss him, but on second thought he realized it might be more practical to keep him close. That way, he would know what the man was up to . . . and why. Nash could not fathom what Lowell could have gained by the deaths of the Ashby earls, though something he’d seen that afternoon in Arthur’s last ledger had made him curious.

  He took Roarke from the fencing match, and together they rode the Ridge path to Ashby’s southern acres that bordered Carew’s land. It was rough and craggy, and the lower ground was marshy.

  “In town, they say there’s some kind of nasty fairy that goes about causing trouble near here.”

  “Boggarts.”

 
“What’s that, my lord?”

  “It’s what they call them here. The nasty fairies. They’re just a superstition.”

  Roarke gave a nod, but did not seem to be entirely convinced. He swallowed and glanced around. “Are we looking for something here, my lord?”

  Nash did not remember any talk of boggarts on Ashby land when he was a lad. Surely that was something he would have loved to explore with his brothers and Jacob Metcalf. Which meant that the boggart story was a fairly recent one. He supposed that if a superstitious man’s mule had gone lame near there, he would blame it on some spritely force.

  “I found a notation in one of my brother’s ledgers . . .” Nash said. “Someone offered to buy this land. I want to know why.”

  It had been Horace Carew, and he’d indicated that he wanted more grazing land for his sheep. This section of Nash’s land was unentailed—he knew it from studying the maps—so Arthur could have sold it off. He should have sold it, if only for the income.

  And it had been surveyed recently. Nash wondered if Wardlow had been entirely honest in his explanation of the survey. Had the crown really commissioned it, or had someone local ordered it? It occurred to him that someone who hoped to buy the land might want a new survey.

  “It looks useless to me, Lord Ashby. Rocky. Good for nothing. You can see the slate in the water, there.”

  “Aye.” Nash wondered if Carew was still interested in the land, and whether he’d be interested in negotiating a good price for it. Nash had no problem with the notion of parting with it—for the right price. “Let’s head back.”

  With the house empty, Mercy returned to the servants’ hall and closed up the linen cupboards. She started back to the nursery, but stopped at the doors of the large conservatory adjacent to the servants’ hall. She’d only had time to take a quick peek into the room while the main areas of the house were being scoured. It had intrigued her then, but she’d had no chance to explore it. She had time now, with Ruthie in charge in the nursery. Mercy did not think she would be missed until morning.

  She unlatched the conservatory door and stepped inside, onto a light green tile floor that was interrupted at regular spaces by iron grates. Her heart beat a little faster when she took in the walls and ceiling that seemed to be all glass, the panes filmy with age and dirt.

  It should have worried her with the storm coming, but she had never seen such a room and was filled with awe at the possibilities.

  Mercy’s astonishment increased at the sight of row upon row of narrow tables that held discarded clay pots with the dried-up skeletons of plants in them. Several huge pots stood on the floor near the windows, bearing the corpses of long-dead trees.

  She glanced at the floor once again and realized the metal grates allowed heat to rise from below. During more prosperous times, the earl would have had stoves burning during the cold months of the year.

  Mercy sighed. The room was heaven on earth, and would be a wonderland of green with new plants in all the pots. The estate could have fresh fruit and vegetables all year round. If Mercy were staying—

  A loud clang outside startled her, and she went to a window. Using her fingers to rub away the foggy coating, she saw Lord Ashby’s men fencing, only they did not seem to be using harmless fencing foils. They were sparring with their war sabers.

  They’d all abandoned their coats and were in shirtsleeves, their hair and skin moist with their exertions.

  Lord Ashby was among them.

  Mercy’s throat constricted at the sight of him, his shirt buttons open and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he battled Mr. Bassett. She held her breath as the sergeant lunged and Lord Ashby dodged the blow.

  She felt as though a vicious fist had taken hold of her stomach and twisted. “Lord above, what can he be thinking?” she murmured. If Mr. Bassett killed him . . .

  Her earlier anger toward Lord Ashby paled at this newest madness. What would happen to Emmaline if yet another Farris man were killed? Hadn’t Emmaline suffered enough losses in her young life?

  “I cannot believe they’re jabbing away at one another this way.”

  She stormed out of the conservatory in search of a door that would lead to the courtyard where they performed their dangerous antics, fully intent upon ordering the thoughtless, irresponsible man to cease.

  When she found the door, she flung it open in a blaze of white-hot fury.

  All movement in the yard stopped. Ashby’s men turned and stood gaping at her as though she were a lunatic, escaped from the attic. Her gaze came to rest upon Lord Ashby, who lowered his sword as he looked at her.

  Mercy could not form the words that had balled into a lead weight at the back of her throat. She clenched her teeth, still furious, but vastly discomfited by the sudden attention she’d garnered.

  Ashby started toward her. His white shirt hugged his shoulders and torso like a second skin. A sheen of perspiration lit his face, but his expression was dark and forbidding.

  Her anger became a liquid ripple in her blood, only slightly tempered from the way it had been when she’d pulled open the door.

  “Was there something you wanted, Miss Franklin?” the earl said ominously. He towered over her, a warrior in battle. Untamed. Savage.

  Mercy stepped back, and the door slammed shut behind him. The little light from outside disappeared as Lord Ashby continued to stalk her until he’d backed her into a far corner of the room.

  “You . . . Can you not use wooden swords, my lord?” she asked, or rather, she demanded, balling her fists at her sides. She felt the wall at her back and knew there was nowhere to go. A fleeting memory of being backed up against the garret and kissed with a ruthless tenderness crossed her mind.

  “Hardly,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What would be the point?”

  He lowered his head, his face only inches from hers. Mercy could smell the scent of sunshine and horses and sweat on him. She swallowed.

  “Your niece,” she said, her voice a mere croak, coming from deep in her throat. “She relies upon you, my lord. To stay alive!”

  He moved in closer, and Mercy felt his breath upon her face. He tipped his head slightly, angling as though determining the right placement to fit his lips to hers.

  Mercy swallowed dryly. Wanting it, wanting to feel his lips upon hers. And yet so furious . . .

  Her limbs seemed to soften like warm honey, but her body drifted toward him like iron to lodestone. Her breasts felt heavy. Her heart thudded in her chest.

  “I have no intention of dying, Miss Franklin.” His voice was satin-rough in her ears. “At least, not any time soon.”

  “B-but your swordplay . . .”

  He lifted his hand to frame the edge of her jaw, brushing back a few wisps of her hair. “You have such little trust in my swordsmanship, then?”

  Her thoughts blurred. She could not think when he touched her, when his mouth inched so close to hers. She could barely recall why she was so angry.

  “I am going to kiss you, Miss Franklin.”

  Her eyes drifted closed. His chest touched her breasts, the contact drawing them into tight, exquisitely sensitive peaks. His scent filled her. He dropped his hand to her waist and drew her even closer. She felt his mouth only a hairsbreadth from hers.

  “Lord Ashby,” called a harsh voice from outside, “as soon as you’re finished playing nursemaid to the nursemaid, might we get back to it?”

  Mercy recognized Mr. Bassett’s voice, and was surprised Lord Ashby did not react to the man’s insolence. He ignored Bassett and covered her with his body, taking her lips beneath his own.

  He speared her mouth with his tongue, teasing her with exquisite intimacy, inflaming her blood with his hard body pressed against hers. His desire was unmistakable and Mercy felt her own, puddling deep inside her.

  Some vague whisper at the back of her mind insisted she should not want him, should not crave more of his breath, his touch; more of his soul. But his kisses were merciless, making her respond a
s ferociously to his seductive onslaught as he demanded.

  He suddenly broke away and grabbed her hand. He pulled her alongside him to the first open room—the housekeeper’s bedchamber—kicking the door closed behind him, drawing her into his arms once again.

  “I’ve waited forever for this,” he whispered, and in her haze of desire, Mercy believed she must have, too.

  Chapter 22

  Nash cupped Mercy’s face and kissed her lips while caressing her shoulders and back. With purpose he pulled her tight against him, letting her feel the heat of his arousal, the depth of his desire.

  He kissed her as though that intimate contact was the only thing keeping him alive, and he groaned when she dragged her fingers through his hair in an insistent demand for more. He complied, sucking her tongue into his mouth, then stabbing his own into hers. Her kisses consumed him.

  She pressed her breasts into his chest, and Nash could hold off no longer. He ripped at her buttons. And as the rain suddenly began drumming violently at the window, Nash managed to pull open her bodice. He shoved her sleeves down her arms and broke the kiss, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder, then the sweet mounds of her breasts that rose above her chemise.

  “I want you.”

  His words were punctuated by a crash of thunder. The storm was upon them.

  Nash managed to dispense with her dress, then ripped his own shirt off. His naked torso pleased her, and she slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, drawing him in, seducing him with her own desire.

  Her stays presented little challenge to him, and once Nash had the garment loosened, it fell to her feet. Still kissing her, he lowered her chemise off her shoulders and it slid down, though it caught on the peaks of her breasts.

  “Mercy . . .”

  Lowering his head, he bared her breasts and caught one pink-tipped nipple in his mouth. Her head fell back as he circled it with his tongue, and her deep sigh rippled through him like molten honey. He laved the other breast, the familiar scent of lilies filling him as his hands slid in eager paths down her body.