Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess

by Christine Merrill

  Which must have a meaning as well, she supposed. She flipped to the G page, and did not find what she was seeking, and so tried again under the other name, carnation, and found a whole list, with each colour having a different meaning.

  And her finger stopped upon red. Admiration. He felt admiration, for her?

  She returned to the hall, shutting the library door behind her. Apology. Humility. And sincere admiration. Why could it not have come from any other man in the world? From Simon, perhaps, whose loutish behaviour had got her banished from London. If his few moments of stolen passion had been accompanied by a floral apology, and some sign that it had meant anything at all to him to be alone with her? That he had done what he had done because he sincerely admired her?

  A tear traced down her cheek, and she wiped it away. Her friends in London felt nothing but embarrassment in knowing her, as was demonstrated by their distance before her departure. No one had come to see her off. And she doubted, even now, that they had given much thought to her absence.

  But Timothy Colton had known her only a short while, and they had spoken only a handful of times, most of them marred by threats and strange behaviour. And yet, she did not doubt for a moment the truth of the flowers, or think his feelings were less than he claimed.

  She hurried back toward her room, but stopped on the stairs, gripping the handrail. She was giving him too much credit in this. And there had been a fleeting moment of pure pleasure, on discovering the meaning of the flowers, and knowing their source. Was it so easy to forget the reason for this visit? The man was a murderer.

  But not cold-blooded, a tiny voice reminded her. What had happened must have been a crime of passion. She could see in his treatment of the children that he was not a man given to common displays of violence.

  But that did not matter. He had killed Clare.

  But Clare was the one in the house prone to childish tantrums and violent behaviour, if the children were to be believed.

  If Tim had acted against her, perhaps she had given him good reason. Had she done something that he had seen as a threat to his children? Whatever the reason, he had been deeply wounded by his actions, as had the whole family. The children were desperately afraid of being separated from their father, no matter what he had done. And he longed to keep them close.

  She had thought she could blunder into the house, denounce the man and leave with a light heart, knowing that justice had been done. But what would that do to the children? How would the truth help anyone?

  She was trembling in confusion as she climbed the last stairs to her room. Anything she had done, anything she did and anything she might do—all paths would lead to more pain for this family. And knowing that Lord Colton had tender feelings for her made it all the more complicated.

  She could forgive her body’s reactions to him. He was a handsome man, virile and with an element of darkness that made him all the more attractive. It was no different from falling for a rake or a rogue. The knowledge of danger made the flirtation more exciting. But her time in London should have taught her better. She must not let her mind wander into sympathy for him or allow herself to be flattered by a bouquet. A few flowers would not wipe away the stain of murder.

  And perhaps she was being foolish. Admiration could mean many things. Some of them were quite simple and not the least bit romantic. He might simply be acknowledging a job well done in the garden today—his admiration of the way she had dealt with the children’s fears. He might have given her the flowers without another thought about her, or the foolish romantic meaning she might construe.

  She came back to her room, and saw the bouquet again, a lone spot of beauty in the otherwise grim room.

  Her room.

  She sat on the bed, shocked by a rush of emotions. Suddenly, she was sure that no servant’s hand had touched the vase. Tim had prepared the thing himself. And then he had climbed the last lonely flight of stairs and placed it there for her to find. He would feel no compunction about it. It was his house, after all. All the rooms were his.

  But she knew it was more than that. The message was clear, and there was nothing innocent about it. He had entered her room without her knowledge or permission, and left flowers so that she might know what he had done. Whatever she might think he meant by admiration, it meant more than just common praise. The man who had killed her cousin desired her. Although the meaning of the bouquet was harmless, the delivery spoke of possession, and of a man who would not be swayed by barriers of propriety if he wanted her.

  She remembered the darkness in his eyes, and the way it seemed to swallow her as she looked into them. When he came for her, would she be able to resist him? And would she want to try?

  Tim dug his hands into the soil on the potting table, feeling the tension leave his body and peace flow in with the scent of earth. Why couldn’t everything be as simple? Sun, soil and water. And plants were happy. But people?

  He was never sure. He could not shake the feeling that his lovely new employee hated him. It was not as if he hadn’t given her every reason to. He had not treated her well, for he had not meant for her to stay.

  But this was something more. She had disliked him from the first meeting. It was as though she’d come into the house with the feelings. And yet she seemed unfazed by his behaviour. No matter how he tried to frighten her, she remained defiant in a way that the other governesses had not. He had forbidden her to take the course of action she had taken this afternoon, and she had ignored him as though his opinions did not matter.

  He smiled grimly to himself. She had been right, of course. The children were doing well under her care. In the garden, they had looked better than they had in months. And the sight of them together had moved him, for a moment, to wonder what it might be like for them to have a mother, not a nurse.

  He shook his head. He’d been thinking the same such nonsense when he’d cut and arranged the flowers. But it had been worse than that, when he’d taken them to her room. If he’d intended a simple ‘thank you’, he could have delivered it to the classroom. Or sent a maid with it.

  But he had wanted to do the thing in secret. And he’d wanted to see where she slept.

  He had never been to the tiny room under the eaves. It was little better than an attic, and not at all as he imagined the governess’s room to be. But with Lily in the bedroom most convenient to the nursery, the governess had made do with second best.

  The small space had been full of the scent of her. He could understand why the children might thrive under her care, for there was something else in the air, as well. A lively intelligence? A lack of care? A singleness of purpose that was the same he felt when at work? He had looked about her room and felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

  But quick upon it came the feeling of desire. He remembered the fire in her eyes when she looked at him as she flouted his authority and dared him to respond. She’d had opportunity enough to tell him that he was behaving improperly, or at least to show fear in the face of his advance the previous day. But she had stood her ground as though willing to see how far his emotions might take them. Perhaps she secretly wanted his kiss as much as he wanted to kiss her. How easy it would be to lie down upon the bed to await her return!

  Then he would strip her bare and crush the flowers against her skin to release their scent and to mark her with the meaning of his gift. He would make love to her with all the passion and turbulence he felt in his soul. And she would give him the peace that she had shared with the children. She would set him free.

  He could imagine her, under him, neck arched to receive his kisses, legs spread to receive his body, unafraid to cry out in passion, alone at the top of the house where no one might hear what they were doing.

  He had left the room, frightened by the image, hurrying down the stairs until he was back in the conservatory. Once there, he shut it tight against the outside world. There were reasons to fear discovery.

  What he imagined was wrong. He wished to treat a you
ng lady of good character, a servant under his protection, as though she were a mistress, wanton and experienced, and eager for his touch. It showed how far his own character had fallen. If he had come to believe that all women were no better than Clare had been, hungry and whorish, then in the end he would treat the next woman in his life in the same manner he had treated his wife, with loathing and contempt. And the relationship would come to the same bitter end.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day at breakfast the children greeted her as formally as ever they had. It was as if a curtain had dropped over the success of the previous afternoon, and it was all but forgotten. Daphne cursed herself for thinking their problems would be so easily solved. While the children might be better than they had been on her arrival, their behaviour was nowhere near the boisterousness that she might call normal. And it did not help that yesterday’s sunshine had disappeared, replaced by fog.

  After almost a week of her pathetic attempts at teaching, Edmund and Lily seemed to have contented themselves with being self-taught. They got out their books without argument, helping each other through any difficulties. Daphne arranged Sophie’s usual table for drawing, and gave her pencil and charcoals, showing her how to smudge the coal to get lights and shadows, before wiping her hands and going to the sofa. Without thinking, she took her own sketchbook in her lap and made a rough drawing of a park, shrouded in mist. She added shadows, and phantoms hiding behind crooked trees. The grimness of the subject suited her current mood.

  Perhaps this afternoon she could find the time to begin her search of the downstairs. Lord Colton had nothing of interest in his room. If there was anything out of order, it would be below, in the study, perhaps. Or the conservatory, where he spent so much time. But how was she to go into his sanctum without arising suspicion?

  Perhaps she should thank him for the carnations. But it might mean being alone with him in the study again. And the man she had met, when last she was called there, was not at all like the one who had attempted to speak with flowers. It was most confusing.

  Sophie tugged upon her skirt, trying to gain her attention, and held papers out to Daphne, with a half-smile and eyes eager for approval.

  ‘You have finished already?’ Daphne smiled back. ‘Such a clever girl you are. Let us see what you have done.’ She got up from her seat and walked across the room to Sophie’s table.

  Sophie held the drawings out before her, and Daphne remembered, too late, that she had not given the girl a theme. Sophie had drawn her parents in a way that shocked the viewer with their dissimilarity.

  The one of her father was an accurate enough rendition, although the nose was a trifle too large. He was smiling, as she had often seen him do when greeting the children. He was in shirtsleeves, probably just come from the conservatory, for Sophie had even managed to capture a smudge of dirt on the white of his cuff. His arms were outstretched and welcoming, as though he meant to scoop the viewer into them and hold them close.

  For a moment, Daphne forgot all trepidations and smiled back at the picture, just as Sophie was doing.

  But the one of Clare left no such feeling of peace. She supposed it was some progress that the woman in the picture did not lie dead at the foot of the stairs. Instead, she was very much alive. She was wearing a gown that Daphne recognised from their time in London. She had admired it greatly. But it had never occurred to her how inappropriate it might be, if one were mothering small children. In the picture, Clare’s red hair was piled high on her head, and jewels glittered at her neck and ears. Her hands were gloved, and seemed to hover at her skirts, as though she had been caught in the act of pulling them out of reach of mud on the street. Her lips were twisted in a cold smile that conveyed utter disdain. Sophie had captured her beauty, but also her unapproachability.

  But there was something else about the picture, something unaccountably wrong. At first, Clare seemed out of scale with the picture of her husband. In the drawing, she seemed overtall, her features elongated in a way that accentuated the haughty brow. It was then Daphne realised that the perspective was not so much wrong as merely different. Although she could not see his legs in the picture, Tim must have been on his knees, for he was just as he would look to a five-year-old who was meeting him on eye level as he crouched to give a hug.

  But Clare had towered over her small daughter. She made no effort to hide her height or to relate to the girl on her level. The angle of view had created strange shadows, making Clare’s face not just aloof, but openly hostile.

  The expression, coupled with the set of the hands, and the knowledge that it all came through the eyes of a child… It made Daphne suspect that Sophie had approached too close, with hands that were less than immaculate, and been sent packing for it.

  She glanced again at Lord Colton’s dirty shirt, rumpled hair and easy smile.

  Sophie reached out to touch the picture, wistfully. The coal smudged her fingers, and she glanced at the drawing of her mother, as though she had been caught anew, and found wanting. She hurriedly wiped her hands upon her pinafore, then looked at the smudges she’d made, and gave Daphne a look of hopeless resignation.

  Daphne laughed at the girl and reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, hurrying to set her at ease. ‘Drawing is messy work, isn’t it? But it cannot be helped.’ She took Sophie’s hands in hers, wiping. Then she bent low so she could look into the girl’s face. ‘Your drawings are very good. You have learned much since I’ve been here. I am very proud of you.’

  Without warning, Sophie threw her arms around Daphne’s neck and almost pulled her off balance, giving her a hug and a rather wet kiss upon the cheek.

  Daphne hugged her in return and then gave her a kiss on the top of her head. She was momentarily overcome by the sweet smell of little girl and the desire to be able to sit with her, holding her tight whenever she wanted.

  She realised her mistake almost immediately, releasing the girl and taking an involuntary step back. It was wrong. She had never loved children, nor had she meant to change her feelings about them. She would be gone soon, back to her normal life. Some day, perhaps she would have her own. But these were not hers to hold. She was to care for them. Not about them. And she absolutely must not develop a sense of attachment. For who knew what would happen, if she succeeded in her plans?

  Sophie sensed the rejection and stepped away herself with a look that said she realised she had been bad again, and was sorry.

  And impulsively, Daphne threw her fears aside and pulled the girl back to hug her again. She would sort out the details later. But for now, things would be as they were, and all would be happy. ‘Do not worry, Sophie. You only startled me for a moment. Thank you very much for the lovely hug. And do not worry about dirty handprints and smudged drawings. Accidents happen all the time. No one is to blame.’

  The girl gave her the most amazed look, as though the concept of an accident was a foreign one. And then she gave Daphne another hug, this one guaranteed to leave a dirty handprint on Daphne’s neck. Sophie stood back and waited for the response.

  Daphne laughed. ‘Now that was not an accident at all. That was deliberate, you silly girl. But it came with another very nice hug and it is not terribly difficult to wash my neck. I hardly think it merits punishment. Do you?’

  Sophie stood, as though considering for a moment, and then gave a solemn nod, which, as Daphne watched it, turned slowly into a smile.

  ‘Very good. Now go wash your hands in the basin, and we shan’t have to worry about it.’

  By afternoon, the fog had turned to rain. It made steady streams on the window panes, and the children dozed over their books. Daphne was dozing in her chair as well. Even Sophie, who normally had no trouble entertaining herself with paper and pen, was drawing listless spirals, but showing no interest in them.

  Daphne glanced at the drowsy children. If there were some way to keep them occupied, while she investigated the conservatory… And if she could distract Lord Colton as well…
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  A thought occurred to her. If it worked, it would be almost too perfect. She shut her book with a snap and smiled at the children. ‘Enough of this. You cannot learn anything if you are barely awake. Let us have an adventure.’

  The children looked at her sceptically.

  ‘We will go downstairs, into the conservatory, and ask your father what he is working on.’

  ‘We cannot,’ Lily said, without even thinking.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is working and does not need us interfering.’

  Edmund added, ‘We will track the dirt everywhere and spoil our clothes.’

  ‘Urchins,’ said Sophie, in a sharp tone that made the older children start guiltily as though hearing the voice of a parent.

  ‘Has your father told you that?’ Daphne asked, feeling a sudden wave of annoyance at the man. It was little wonder that his relationship with his children was in shambles.

  ‘The door is closed,’ said Edmund firmly, as though that answered all.

  ‘I suspect it is to keep the plants from taking a chill,’ Daphne answered reasonably. ‘We will go and ask him, shall we? Bring your books. And your drawing things,’ she added, looking at Sophie.

  The girl hopped off her stool, eager to leave the schoolroom.

  The other children followed with less enthusiasm as she led them down to the east wing of the ground floor.

  Although it was still raining and she could hear the low splattering of water against the multitude of glass panes, light was streaming through the glass doors at the end of the hall. She threw them open, and shepherded the children inside, then waited for Lord Colton’s response. She could but hope that the presence of his family would distract him from any of the tricks he tried when she met him alone. He would be too eager for their attention to pay Daphne any mind. And he would hardly expect her to acknowledge his gift of flowers while they were there.