Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

He smoothed his battle-roughened hands to the soft mounds of her bottom and pulled her against his erection, her nakedness against his trews. “Mercy . . .”

  He felt her hands on his bare chest, tentatively sliding through the hair, testing the taut plane of muscle she found, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she touched his nipples. “God, yes.” His voice was an unholy rasp, his need a fierce torment.

  He caught her gaze, but she pulled his head back to hers, then kissed him with a passion that whirled them into a world of their own.

  He unfastened his trews, but before he could divest himself of them, could not resist touching her. He slid his fingers into the triangle between her legs, finding her already so hot, so moist. He heard a whimper, but she offered no resistance as he parted her swollen folds and stroked her.

  “You’re so beautiful, Mercy.”

  He shoved his trews off and lifted her into his arms. He walked to the bed and laid her on it gently, anxious to be inside her. But it was too soon. He wanted so much more.

  A look of panic crossed her delicate features, and Nash knew that what he intended was irrevocable. “No, sweet, don’t cover yourself.”

  “But you . . . your fiancée . . .”

  He slid one hand down her thigh, and when he reached her knee, eased it away from its mate. “I have no fiancée.”

  “My lord . . .”

  “Nash.” He moved down her body, skimming his lips over her satiny skin while he probed the hot slick confines of the feminine flesh between her legs. “I am Nash.”

  “Ooh . . .” she said on a sigh.

  The rain pelted the window, but they were cocooned together in the snug little bedroom. The only light was faint, but Nash could see her beautiful eyes and lovely feminine curves. He could not remember wanting anything more than he wanted Mercy Franklin. Now.

  She inhaled sharply when he swirled his tongue around her navel and then moved lower. “Oh! I . . . I . . .”

  He descended further, and Mercy arched into his mouth. She was made for this—made to share her body with him. With only him.

  Nash heard her moan and felt her hands tangle in his hair when he licked between the folds of her sex. He blew his hot breath on her and she shivered, making a small, intensely erotic cry. He found the sensitive bud at her apex and swirled his tongue gently around it.

  He ravished her gently, patiently pleasuring her as her limbs went taut with desire. She was too close and he wanted more from her. He withdrew suddenly. Changing his angle, he reached down and took hold of her ankle, then pressed hot kisses to the sensitive skin behind her knee.

  She gave a pleading sob. “Please!”

  Nash knew he was tormenting her. And he knew that next time, she would be the one doing the tormenting. For there would be a next time, and the plain-speaking governess was nothing less than a tigress.

  She arched against him in a plea for release, and Nash could not resist her demand.

  He returned to her damp nest of black curls and hovered over her for a moment before flicking his tongue across the acutely sensitive bud. He felt her gasp of breath immediately as she tightened and cried out. But Nash continued his erotic torture, feathering his tongue over her as he used one finger to enter her vulnerable feminine vault. Her damp flesh pulsed over him, and he wanted nothing more than to possess her fully in the most intimate way a man could have a woman.

  He prowled over her, his hands moving up beside her until they reached her head. Resting on his elbows, he cradled her face in his hand and positioned himself between her legs, his shaft poised at her entrance. “I cannot remember a time before wanting you. You are mine, Mercy Franklin.”

  He moved slowly, teasing and nudging until he was barely inside her.

  “Nash . . .”

  He wasn’t sure if it was supplication or worry, but he kissed her mouth again and pushed inside all at once, then held perfectly still for one long moment. She was so tight, so hot. Virgin until this moment.

  The sensation of being inside her was almost too exquisite to bear. He feared he might lose control and come before she had time to adjust to his invasion, and he moved again. “Sweet heaven . . .” he rasped.

  He felt her swallow.

  And when she wrapped her legs around his hips, he knew that everything he could ever want was here.

  He moved inside her, setting a rhythm that created a sweet tension between them. He felt her fingers dig into his shoulders, and when he looked into her eyes, he saw an expression of wonder, of astonishment. Of raw greed.

  She wanted more.

  Nash could do naught but comply.

  He slid one hand beneath her bottom and tilted her to enhance the friction between them. They moved together, their bodies as one, their pleasure escalating with every stroke. Her breathing became rapid puffs of air, and she suddenly dug her nails into his skin, shuddering and crying out as she tightened around him.

  A fount of some deeply buried emotion sprang up in Nash’s chest, and his own orgasm poured forth, a ripping, primal cataclysm that convulsed him with pleasure while it tore every vestige of restraint from him.

  He squeezed his eyes tight and shuddered violently, gathering Mercy close as he collapsed beside her.

  The room was silent but for the savage beating of their hearts and the rasp of their rapid breaths.

  “You are so incredibly perfect,” he finally said.

  Mercy lay against him, her eyes drifting closed as Nash skimmed the fingers of one calloused hand across her back. His touch aroused her even now, when she should be gathering up her clothes and leaving. She ought to regret what had just happened, for there would be repercussions.

  Her body was sated, but her mind whirled with questions. He had denied having a fiancée, but Miss Carew’s name had not been idly spoken by William Metcalf. Nash might have denied a betrothal, but he must be seriously considering marrying her—or he would not have mentioned the woman to his old friend.

  “I don’t want her, Mercy,” he whispered, his words intruding on the thoughts she had not yet voiced. “It’s been you, from the moment I fell off my horse and you told me to go hang.”

  “I never said that.”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You wanted to.”

  “Perhaps I should have. And then gotten back on the mail coach and returned to Underdale.” A nervous, shivery breath escaped her as her world quietly split apart.

  She thought of the letter that lay pressed between the pages of her mother’s journal, and the little ripple of panic became a tidal wave. She could not send it now, not after this. She could no longer even imagine a life as Mr. Vale’s wife.

  Nash lifted her chin and looked into her eyes, his expression one of pure desire, and Mercy forgot all about Andrew Vale. He lowered his head and kissed her, his fervor unabated. He pulled her hips against him, his shaft hard and ready, her own body soft and wet and willing.

  He ended the kiss but held her so close she could feel the beating of his heart.

  “I had to consider marrying Miss Carew because of her dowry. Because Ashby is destitute.”

  And the estate would remain destitute if he did not wed her. Tears welled in Mercy’s eyes. She did not want to speak of Miss Carew now, but she understood the reality of the situation.

  And it hurt desperately.

  She would have been satisfied with Reverend Vale. If her father had given his permission, Mercy would have wed the young vicar and gone to live with him in Whitehaven, offering him but a bland imitation of passion. With Andrew, she would never have known the depth of emotion that Nash Farris could rouse in her with just a glance. She would never have understood what it was to love someone with every beat of her heart and every fiber of her being.

  She swallowed back her tears, but the back of her throat burned, nonetheless. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room momentarily. “I ought to get back to the nursery. Ruthie has only just arrived, and Emmy—”

  “You’re crying, Mercy.” Nas
h cupped her face with his big hand.

  It was unbearable. “No. I just—”

  He kissed her again. “Stay with me.”

  She shook her head. “Your men will wonder where you’ve gone. Or what you’ve done with me.”

  “No one will wonder. They have their duties. They won’t have any idea where I am.”

  “Nash . . .”

  He slid his thigh between her knees, and Mercy’s nerves skittered wildly.

  “I would make love to you again, but it’s too soon for you, sweet.” He continued to caress her, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and cheeks. Her tears subsided. Her fears, along with the tense reality she faced, finally eased from her body, and she drifted to sleep under his gentle touch, leaving her worries for a later time.

  Banbury, Oxfordshire

  Gavin Briggs wasted no time in getting out of Oxford. He knew Hank’s body would be found sooner rather than later, and a stranger with bruised ribs and a purpling jaw would be the first man the magistrate would want to question. Gavin had no interest in staying in Oxford for an inquest.

  Nor did he want to encounter Bertie again, the blackguard who’d gotten away from him in that treacherous little street. Gavin hoped Bertie had fled for good and hadn’t found Miss Thornberry or somehow discovered the information she’d given him. But he could not be sure.

  He hastened out of town as quickly as possible and went to ground in Banbury so that no one would find him.

  The ride was painful, but he managed to cover the fifteen miles to his destination, then take a room in a dingy little inn as far out of the way as possible. There was no time to waste recovering from the beating at Hank’s and Bertie’s hands before heading up to Lancaster, to the rectory where Miss Thornberry said she had escorted a three-year-old Lily Hayes twenty years before.

  He would have to leave before dawn to keep ahead of Bertie, in case the bastard found the Thornberry woman and got the same information out of her.

  Gavin learned that Windermere’s grandchildren had not been kept together. A second nanny had been hired to take one of the sisters to Edinburgh, escorted by an associate of Newcomb. Miss Thornberry did not ever hear his name, but she’d somehow gleaned the name of the Edinburgh family who was to take Christina.

  More surprising was the information that the two girls were twins. Miss Thornberry remembered them as being identical and inseparable.

  He cursed the duke once again for the heavy-handed cruelty he’d demonstrated, not only for abandoning the two sisters after their parents’ deaths, but in separating the children when their world had been essentially destroyed. Gavin could not imagine a more contemptuous worm of a man than Windermere—but then he thought of his own father. Hargrove was no better.

  As Gavin crawled into a relatively clean bed, he had a firm plan in mind. He would go first to Lancaster and see if Lily still lived there with her adoptive family. But he was not hopeful. By age twenty-three, she was likely married, though someone was bound to know her.

  Gavin figured an inheritance from her long-lost grandfather would be a welcome thing, in spite of what she might feel for the old man. Once he found her and delivered her to her grandfather, he would begin his search for Christina in Scotland.

  But for now, sleep was all Gavin wanted.

  Nash lay in the dark listening to Mercy’s breathing, absorbing the sweet sound into his soul. He inhaled her scent and felt the brush of her eyelashes against his chest. He was dangerously close to making an even greater mistake than taking her to bed. He felt far more vulnerable now than he had in the past year, ever since his injury. Since his brothers’ deaths.

  He didn’t like it.

  His plan had been so perfect. Miss Carew would never have inveigled her way into his heart, which suited him well. With Helene, there would have been no danger of Nash losing everything he cared about. Whatever happened with Carew’s daughter, as long as her money was made available to him and she gave him a son, he would not have cared. He could have gone about his own business, and she hers, only to meet when necessary.

  But now there was his fiery Mercy, who noticed none of his flaws but all of his foolishness.

  It had grown late, and the storm was subsiding, the rain only a gentle patter now on the ground outside. Mercy’s sleep was restless, but Nash gathered her close and stroked her back to help calm her agitation. He’d known better than to seduce his niece’s governess.

  But now that he had, he wanted to stay there with her all night, lying together on that narrow bed in the servants’ quarters until dawn when he woke her and sent her back to her own bedchamber and he went to his.

  Chapter 23

  Ruthie had not even seemed to notice Mercy’s absence for most of the night. And Emmy was content, sitting on her bed and watching while her new nursemaid unfolded all her old clothes to make assessments of which dresses were salvageable and which ought to be given away.

  Mercy felt like an extra thumb, in every way. She was barely an adequate teacher, and she was surely not the kind of wife Nash needed.

  “I can use these old dresses to make you a brand-new frock, Lady Emmaline.” Ruthie held up two gowns that were made of complementary cloths. “Until your uncle . . .” She turned to Mercy. “Have we any funds for new cloth?”

  Mercy gave a quick shake of her head. “We’ll have to ask Lord Ashby.” But she knew the answer. There would be no funds unless Nash married Miss Carew.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she walked to the window to wipe them away without calling attention to her distress.

  She had given herself to a man who could not marry her. In spite of his denials, Mercy knew that Nash had commitments and responsibilities, none of which could include her.

  She was dismayed by her lapse in the morals she’d been taught, in the principles governing decent behavior, and in her own good sense. She hardly recognized herself.

  And yet it wouldn’t have happened with any other man. Only with Nash Farris, Earl of Ashby. She loved him.

  Mercy’s thoughts were as bleak as the sullen sky. Her throat felt thick and raw, and she could not think what to do. Resign as she’d planned?

  She thought of Andrew Vale. In all good conscience, could she send him the letter she’d written? Marry him if he still wanted her, despite loving another? Despite having had intimate relations with the man she loved?

  A sudden chill came over her, and she rubbed her arms against it. If she did not go to Whitehaven, what then? Find another governess post somewhere?

  She turned suddenly, feeling as close to despair as she’d ever done. “It’s going to rain again, Emmy. Why don’t we go outside for some air before it does?”

  Nash shoved his fingers through his hair and tried to set aside his thoughts of Mercy and his hunger for her. But memories of her sensual sighs and the scent of her silken skin consumed him, even as he turned his attention to his brothers’ ledgers.

  He let out a rasping sigh. There was work to do. He could not allow himself to be so thoroughly sidetracked by a woman, as utterly bewitching as she was. He’d been a disciplined officer with far better control than that. Becoming earl had not changed him so very much.

  But he realized meeting Mercy Franklin had.

  He’d stopped at the nursery door to catch a glimpse of her, but she and Emmaline’s new nursemaid were completely immersed in a discussion of his niece’s wardrobe. They hadn’t noticed him and he had not wished to intrude, though he had a nearly crippling urge to take Mercy away and find a private little space where he could peel away every layer of her clothing. He wanted to kiss the few patches of skin he might have missed the night before, and feel the smoothness of her naked skin against his.

  He squeezed his eyes shut at his memory of the exquisite pleasure of sliding into her, of feeling her wet heat surrounding him, flexing around his shaft.

  Mercy had been quiet, allowing the red-haired nurse to take the lead in their discussion of fabrics and colors. He hoped she was reliving
their stolen moments in the servants’ quarters, remembering the intimacies they’d shared.

  How could she not? It was all he’d been able to think of since they’d parted in the darkest hours before dawn. He’d suffered no nightmares, and felt no twinges of a headache when he lay with her. She was his balm, far more healing than any massage Parker could devise.

  Nash took his leave of the group of females, promising himself he would come back later and collect Mercy for a few moments alone. He went downstairs with every intention of accomplishing some work, and found the butler in the dining room.

  “Grainger, Sir William Metcalf told me that your brother is a sheep man down near Windermere.”

  “Aye. George is the best in the Lake District. Lives with his son now. Though he doesn’t like it much.”

  “Do you think he’d like it any better here? At Ashby Hall?”

  Grainger looked at him quizzically. “You want him, my lord? For the herd?”

  “Aye. I have need of an experienced sheep man. Someone who can help me rebuild what we once had. I’d like to hire him to advise me and . . . eventually share in the wealth when we’re back in the black.”

  Grainger smiled and gave a quick nod of his head, obviously pleased. “George is not far—his son’s farm is at the north end of Lake Windermere. Hardly a day’s ride, my lord. If you were to send one of your men for him now, he could be here tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, if he has any business to close.”

  “Very good, Grainger. Will you have Mr. Bassett send Harper and Roarke to me in the library?” Harper knew the Lake District well and could find his way to Ambleside today, collect George Grainger, and have him back at Ashby Hall on the morrow. Once he gave his appraisal of the situation at Ashby, Nash would know how to proceed.

  “Yes, very good, my lord.”

  Nash went into the library and saw that the steward had placed the morning’s post on his desk. There were two letters, both unsealed, as usual.

  Nash unfolded them and read quickly, massaging his forehead as he did so. The letters were from army officers he’d contacted—neither of whom had ready funds to lend. Of course they regretted not being able to help, etc., etc.