by Jenn LeBlanc
The butler opened the door and she jumped off the settee and curtseyed deeply. “Your Grace, my lord, I am Miss Emily Faversham. You requested me?” she asked, her voice faltering slightly at the end.
“Miss Faversham, thank you for agreeing to come on such short notice. Please.” Roxleigh motioned to the settee. She sat back down as the brothers moved to the chairs across from her. She was quite stunned by their presence and demeanor. In point of fact, she would have been stunned if it had been only one of them, but the force of them twofold had her perfectly speechless. They exuded power, grace, and propriety. There was a long silence as they made no effort to hide the fact that they were looking her over quite thoroughly. She blushed at the inspection, then her wits quite abruptly returned and she spoke.
“Would you like me to stand and turn so you can have a better look?” she asked a bit indignantly.
Roxleigh and Trumbull exchanged a swift glance and Roxleigh nodded to him.
“I see,” she said. “So have I passed your test, then?”
Trumbull smiled. “Well, Miss Faversham, we are not interested in employing someone who is weak of mind.” He looked directly in her eyes and added, “Or spirit. Generally people of lower station are unable to stand their ground with us, particularly when we both are involved. I refuse to hire a governess who would cower to either of us. Because of my—somewhat legendary pursuits. a less than stalwart governess might call my new wards’ respectability into question. It is something I wish to avoid entirely.”
She looked from one brother to the other. “There is not a chance anyone in the ton would believe I would allow for any such impropriety. So am I to be your employee then, my lord? I wasn’t aware you had a ward.”
Trumbull shook his head. “Not yet, and there are three.”
“Oh!” Emily realized she was still clutching the green pillow from the settee and set it aside.
“Certainly you can handle three young ladies, can you not?” Roxleigh asked.
“Of course I can, Your Grace. I was just surprised by the…suddenness of it. And the quantity. I mean no offense, of course, my lord, but—”
“But I see you understand now the importance of a respectable and strong governess for my wards.”
“Why, yes, my lord. Quite.”
“And you won’t allow my brother to ruin a single girl, will you, Miss Faversham?” Roxleigh asked.
She looked at him, affronted. “Your Grace, I say!”
“Or my brother?” Trumbull asked sardonically.
“My lord! This is quite an unpleasant line of questioning. I assumed you would want to know of my skills as an instructor, my manners and ability to teach deportment and morals, not that I will be able to control the behavior of a rake and a recluse such as the likes of you both!” She sharply raised her chin.
Trumbull and Roxleigh looked at her, then Trumbull smiled at Roxleigh, quite obviously satisfied with the set-down. “Miss Faversham. We are very interested in your ability to teach. However, if you were unable to undertake this situation with the amount of respectability I require, then your intelligence is of no import. It is of the greatest consequence that you behave beyond reproach when it comes to the question of the young ladies’ reputations under my guardianship. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord. Very well understood.” She straightened her skirts. “As I believe we have thoroughly covered that particular subject, I must insist upon informing you why I believe I was sent from the Tanvers household.” She twisted her fingers nervously.
“Sent away?” Roxleigh asked, leaning forward. “Mrs. Weston said they had come of an age that you were no longer required. This is not true?” There was a clear edge of disappointment in his voice.
“Not exactly, Your Grace.” She cleared her throat and looked directly at him. “I chose, without the permission of Lord Tanvers—” She cleared her throat again and willed herself to continue. “—to instruct the young ladies in the same fashion as the young men.” The duke gazed at her as if he was still waiting for her explanation. She glanced at Trumbull, who looked quite the same and, once again, cleared her throat. “They—they did not tell me that this is why I was sent home. However, there could be no other explanation. I was expecting to attend the youngest of the ladies through her first Season.”
The room was silent.
“What exactly does it mean, that you instructed them the same as the young men?” Roxleigh asked, his brows pursed in concern.
“I gave them lessons in history and government, Your Grace, as well as the required lessons in deportment, languages, literature, and the like.”
Roxleigh looked at Trumbull. “Women are not taught these things?”
Trumbull laughed. “No, Your Grace, most women are not.”
“That explains much,” Roxleigh said, more to himself than anyone else. “I thought the Society chits were merely playing at being ridiculous. I had no idea they actually are.”
Trumbull chuckled. “I wouldn’t exactly put it that way. How could you not know that women were not taught the same as men?”
Emily cleared her throat, rousing the brothers from their discussion. “May I assume then that my teachings will be accepted under your supervision, my lord?” she asked, hopeful.
Trumbull appeared to think for a moment, exchanging glances with Roxleigh before holding her gaze. “I find your lessons to be acceptable,” he said, then looked back at Roxleigh. “We will simply explain that, since the young ladies are from France, we felt they needed lessons that would give them knowledge of their new country.” He shrugged.
“Or we educate them and Society be damned. I answer to no one.”
Trumbull smiled at his brother’s statement and Emily felt her eyes widen.
She shook her head quickly. “They are French?”
“Yes, Miss Faversham, they are. The eldest is here now. You will meet her shortly. In the morning you will accompany her parents to France to retrieve the other girls, after which you will meet us in London. Of course, the eldest, Lady Francine—” The duke smiled as he said her name. “—will not need lessons, as she seems quite intelligent, so you may merely be required to chaperone for her.”
“I’m to France? In the morning? Was that an official offer, then?”
Roxleigh looked at Trumbull, who nodded.
“Then I accept. However, I must warn you: if my rules with regards to the ladies are not followed resolutely, I will leave your employ rather than be found lacking in my own respect for propriety. Is that understood?” She looked first to Trumbull then to Roxleigh, who nodded. “Well, then. Perhaps I could see my room so I may freshen up from the trip, and I could meet your young lady,” she said to Roxleigh.
He looked at her questioningly. “I beg your pardon?” She noted that he seemed slightly annoyed.
She stood. “May I speak freely?”
Roxleigh lifted his chin cautiously and she cleared her throat again.
“I believe I understand your situation at this point, Your Grace, and mean no disrespect to you. As long as you bring no disrespect to my name, I have no qualms with serving as Lady Francine’s chaperone, as needed. I can see in your eyes your most honorable intentions to this young lady and wish you the best. Simply keep in mind my duty to you extends to Society.”
Roxleigh stood as well, looking down on her. “You have my word, as Duke of Roxleigh, that your reputation is in no danger here, Miss Faversham.”
She smiled, then turned to Trumbull. “My room?”
“Of course.” Trumbull jumped from the chair, but Roxleigh waved him off as he walked to the pull to call for Stapleton.
“Tell me about them?” she asked, looking at Trumbull with a smile.
“Oh, well, Lady Francine is nineteen. Then there are Amélie—something—and Maryse, who are sixteen and fourteen, I believe.” He added apologetically, “We haven’t yet met.”
She frowned. “You haven’t met?”
“Yes, well, this is all quite su
dden, within days. One day, actually,” he said, chuckling as he held her gaze. “And I am not at all used to this situation and having not yet met them, I— I find it difficult to relate to them as actual, um, as people yet. So, I beg your pardon.”
She stared at him, suddenly realizing that the situation she had agreed to was much more complex than she’d first thought. She wondered if perhaps the rakish brother would make an advance and she’d be allowed to leave her position. I can only hope, she thought as the butler entered the parlor to show her to her room.
Roxleigh spoke as he followed her out. “Miss Faversham, it has been my pleasure. I do hope we haven’t terrified you too greatly, and would ask that you join us for supper tonight, if you are able.”
She looked at the duke and nodded, then followed Stapleton up the stairs.
Perry walked out of the parlor. “You had better be on your best behavior around that one, Rox. I have no doubt she will find you wanting at some point, at which time she won’t hesitate to cut you down to your knees.”
“Yes, Perry,” he said with a grin, “she will do fine.”
Francine was in the private parlor with Carole, reading The Divine Comedy and trying to relax before supper. It wasn’t working very well. Her mind kept returning to that room. How beautiful it must have been when it was fresh and new. She would have loved a room just like that—warm, inviting, safe.
Francine now understood why Mrs. Weston had been so upset with her when she found her in the window that day. What Gideon must have felt, to know his mother was out there and he was helpless to do anything. She couldn’t imagine losing her mother like he had—watching the struggle, yet powerless. She had long since closed herself off from the types of relationships required for those feelings, because the pain was more than she wanted to deal with. Her mother and father had been gone for more than a decade, and she was far too removed to even try to imagine such a closeness. She thought about losing Gideon and her heart wrenched. She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to feel that kind of pain again.
She needed to get him alone. She wished the ceremony surrounding propriety wasn’t so strict and awkward. She felt compelled to try to understand the feelings he held for his mother and his father. He had a way of making her feel, like she never had. Before, a sunrise was only light, but when he was near it was more. It was the miraculous exchange of darkness for illumination. If he spoke of his parents, maybe she would begin to understand that depth of emotion—maybe she would be able to experience it for herself.
Gideon and Perry waited patiently in the great entrance as Shaw emerged from the library. Gideon nodded to him. “Good evening, Shaw.”
“Your Grace, I have been in the library researching the manor. I found the old plans in the drafting table. I realize you have probably seen them before, but we should have known of this room long before now. I understand the plumbing works?” Shaw asked with a cutting glance toward Perry.
“It wasn’t me.” Perry raised his hands and pointed at Gideon.
Shaw chuckled and nodded. “My belief is that the water comes from an underground cistern fed by a deep well, most likely the same cistern that feeds the fountain in the maze.” He looked at Gideon. “I believe running water throughout the manor is a distinct possibility if you are interested in considering that. Perhaps just for the family suites, kitchen, and main guest suites. Not sure. We should discuss that more. They did have a system set up for heating the water to that room, though it is in disrepair. I am quite surprised they ran water to a first floor room but not the kitchens. The kitchen would need a pump to bring the water out of the well, but the cistern would feed the water throughout the manor faster. We could also heat the water in the tubs. Not to mention, standing showers.” He paused and finally noticed Gideon and Perry gawking. “What?”
Perry smiled at him.
“You are entirely too efficient,” Gideon said. “I had no idea there was anything in that drafting table. I would be very interested in the plans you found. As far as your ideas for water, I like them. Continue with what you are working on. For the present, supper and some mindless conversation would be well-ordered, so come up with something to discuss that has nothing to do with business, the missing room, guardianship, or anything else of great import.”
“I see. I will, um, consider my options.”
Gideon smiled as they all turned toward the stairs to find Francine and Miss Faversham descending, arm in arm.
Perry leaned over to Gideon. “Lots of trouble,” he said quietly.
Gideon sighed. His tension had eased at the sight of Francine, but his brother’s ribbing caused him to tense. He reached for Francine’s hand as she stopped at the bottom stair and he kissed her wrist. He heard Miss Faversham clear her throat and he straightened swiftly to smile at her. “Miss Faversham, I trust your accommodations are agreeable?”
“Yes, Your Grace, they are perfectly suitable for the night.”
“Good.”
“I have packed for the trip. I trust the rest of my things can be taken with your party to London?”
“Of course.”
“And what of Lady Francine while I am away?”
“Carole has been acting as chaperone and will continue in your absence. You are more than welcome to give her your own explicit instructions if you wish.”
“I appreciate that, Your Grace. I would like to speak with her after supper.”
“As you will. I’ll have Stapleton make the arrangements. Shall we?” He turned for the dining room as Stapleton swept the doors open.
Gideon stood at the head of the table with Perry on his right. He looked to Miss Faversham, who nodded and placed Francine on his left, as she was the next highest rank in the room. Shaw was seated next to Perry and Miss Faversham next to Francine.
Shaw managed to come up with several topics of conversation of minor import, from the style of dresses worn at the opera to the differences between barouches, phaetons and curricles, and why the duke owned all three, as well as recently published books and plays.
It seemed Gideon and Francine were drawn together by an intangible force. Their hands often brushed as they both reached for seasonings or silver. By the end of supper, they were both wound so tight from the momentary encounters that retreat was the only option.
Gideon retired to the library with the men to peruse the hidden plans, and Francine followed Miss Faversham to the warm and inviting evening parlor.
As she looked around, Francine realized it was the first time she’d been in this room. It was more masculine than the other parlor, decorated in a rich burgundy with gold trim. The gold was simple striping and piping, not tassels and gilding. Several more settees and chairs occupied the room since it was an evening parlor and used for entertaining.
The women sat together on one of the settees by the fire and Miss Faversham told Francine more of her previous position.
Francine interjected minimally, whispering. She felt her voice getting stronger, but she didn’t wish to take any chances on damaging it further, so she was trying to abide by Gideon’s wishes and not speak as much as possible.
“I do hope your voice is recovered when I reach London,” Miss Faversham said. “I want to learn more about you. I wish I could use the sign language I have seen you using. It is wonderful—perhaps you could teach me some when I return?”
Francine smiled and nodded, also wishing she could speak, but a bit thankful because it protected her from saying something wrong, like I learned sign language from a girl with no home, from Five Points in Denver. Without much conversation, they decided to turn in. Miss Faversham would be leaving early and needed rest, and Francine wanted to relax and read some more in the private parlor.
“He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.” Francine read the passage from Wuthering Heights aloud. She put the book down on the small table next to the settee, closi
ng her eyes and absorbing the prose.
“You are more myself that I am,” Gideon said, the words rumbling forth in that baritone Francine loved so well. She stood and looked at the entryway. “Whatever our souls are made of, yours—” The words reverberated through his torso. “—and mine—” He paused, looking into her eyes. “—are the same.” His voice came from deep within his core, raspy and coarse. It burnished her soul. She gasped, feeling his voice beneath her skin, firing every nerve. He silently shut the parlor door, engaged the bolt, and walked toward her.
“Gideon,” she whispered.
“Francine, I am going to kiss you.”
She looked up at him. His hair was messy from the day, falling over one smoldering green eye.
“Ah, Gideon.” She whispered his name again, letting it float softly from her lips.
The tension inside him broke loose and his mouth descended to hers, their lips meeting in strength and softness, his begging hers to open to him as she sucked and licked his lips. He massaged the hollow beneath her ear with his thumb and she sighed. He took advantage, delving into her offer with his tongue. He tasted of sweet red port and undone passion.
She shut her eyes tightly, allowing his supplication.
His lips released her but their gazes held as he gently lowered her to the settee. She stared up at him, her long dark lashes distorting the room like a screen. Something about his countenance had her heart rushing to keep up. He sat at the other end of the small settee and leaned back against the corner with one knee bent, lazily resting on the seat beside her.
“Lay your hands on me,” he whispered, his voice low.
Her eyes widened and she reached out to his knee, her hand shaking like the top of an overheated teakettle.