Dangerous Lord, Innocent Governess

by Christine Merrill

  But he looked up to see the governess, waiting in total stillness at the top of the stairs. She was dressed for bed, barefoot on the marble. His arrival had surprised her. She must have thought if she did not move he would not notice her.

  He smiled, and remembered his discovery of her in the afternoon. Too late for that, my dear. From now on, I will watch your every move. She might pretend that she had the best interests of the children at heart, but what purpose did she have to search bedrooms and creep about the house when all were in bed? If Adam had not sent her, nor Penny, then who? It made no sense to think that without motive or direction, she would go unerringly to the source of so many problems and secrete it about her person.

  His anger conquered his fear, and he started up the stairs, focusing on her eyes as he climbed. The truth was hidden in them, if he could manage to dislodge it. She’d lacked the sense to flee the house this afternoon, when he’d given her the chance. And now she would answer to him for what she had done.

  As he stared at her, he was pleased to see her fidget. Did it bother her to be a thief and a spy? He certainly hoped so. The crime was not so grave as some. If it was only against him, he would have turned her out without a thought.

  But to deceive his children, and to allow them to trust her and to become fond of her? It was an act that could not be so easily forgiven.

  So he intensified his gaze upon her, and added a cold smile. He could see the hairs out of place from their tussle on the bed, and the slightly swollen look of her mouth from the kisses he had given her. She had not fought him then, had she? Probably too embarrassed by his discovery of her snooping, and wishing she could distract him from the truth. And she very nearly had.

  Or, perhaps it was more than that. He could see her eyes grow large and dark at his approach, and hear a slight hitch in her breath. Was she frightened, or was that desire he saw, when he looked into those deep green eyes? And then she bit her lip in an unconscious gesture of indecision. He felt his body respond to the naïve sensuality of it. It had to be a ruse. She must know how easily she could control him and was testing the strength of her attraction.

  It was to be a battle, then, to see who could uncover the truth about the other. And at what cost.

  ‘Miss Collins,’ he said, and watched her start. ‘I have returned to continue our conversation. But perhaps the top of the stairs is not the best place, for you know how treacherous stairs can be.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Daphne felt her chest tighten with fear. Of all the places to meet him, why must it be the dark heart of the house, on the very spot where Clare had fallen? And if he was as innocent of that as she suspected, then why did he climb the stairs like a guilty man? She reached out and put her hand on the banister to steady herself.

  He looked at it and laughed, stepping dangerously close to her and placing his own hand over hers. ‘Frightened?’

  She stared back into his eyes, wondering what had happened to the gentle man from the conservatory. ‘Should I be?’

  ‘An innocent governess would have no reason to be afraid. But then I doubt that an innocent would be sneaking around the house in her nightclothes.’

  ‘I got up to check on the children.’ That was true. For she had felt a storm in the air, and been restless enough to come downstairs to make sure they slept well.

  ‘The nursery is far down the hall. What reason did you have to be on the main stairs?’

  The children had brought her down from her room. But the knowledge that the lord of the house had not returned from his errand was enough to keep her there. She swallowed and said nothing. But as she looked into the face of the man next to her, she suspected he knew the truth.

  He sneered. ‘If you wish to search my room, it is just behind you, right next to Clare’s.’

  ‘I have already done so. Since you were not in the house, I meant to go downstairs to search your study.’

  He laughed, as though admiring her impudence. ‘You are caught in the very act of disturbing my peace. And you show no remorse at all. Who set you upon me, and how much are they paying you? If it is money you want, I will pay you twice as much to pack your things and go.’

  ‘There is no one else. No conspiracy to trap you.’ She stared at him, searching for the man inside. ‘Only me.’

  ‘Only you.’ The thought seemed to amuse him, as though he had found himself worrying at a shadow. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, gently, as if to show her that on a moment’s notice he could yank security away from her, leaving her helpless at the top of the stairs. ‘Then what do you want from me? And what are you willing to do to get it? For I grow tired with you snooping through the corners of my life.’

  ‘I want the truth. I want to know what really happened, the night your wife died.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He laughed as though she had said something funny, released her wrist and reached for a handkerchief to wipe away the tears of mirth forming in the corners of his eyes. ‘And you go to such elaborate ends to gain the truth. You come into my home. Insinuate yourself into my family. Sneak from room to room, poking through our things. If you wanted the truth, you need only have asked.’

  ‘And you would have given it to me?’ Now it was her turn to smile in scepticism.

  ‘I don’t think you understand what a burden the truth can be, or the price you must pay to gain it. If you knew, you would not seek. And when you know it, I doubt you will find satisfaction.’

  ‘But I want to know, all the same. And I will not stop until I have discovered it.’

  ‘You want to know,’ he mocked. ‘Very well. Your search is over. I will tell you everything.’

  A thrill went through her. For a moment, she thought she had bested him. And then she saw the look in his eyes.

  ‘I will tell you, later. In your room. After we are finished. The time is long past when I’d have given you the truth without something in return for the trouble you have caused here.’

  He was staring at her with a hungry smile that delved into her, grasping and stroking. He was waiting for her to cry off. Expecting her fear to be greater than her curiosity.

  But her heart was hammering in her chest, for so many reasons. She was on the edge of a great truth, and he held the key to it all. And what was common sense, in the face of it? She should be insulted by his suggestion, just as he wished her to be. She should tell her father and her brothers. They would call the man out for it. Or run to the safety of the housekeeper, and leave on the first mail coach in the morning. She could let all know that Lord Timothy Colton was as horrible as he wished people to believe.

  Or she could remain silent, tell no one and let him have what he wanted. She would finally know the answer to the question that had been haunting her for months: what had really happened to her cousin? And, more importantly, she would learn who the real Timothy Colton was and what his part had been.

  When their lips met, she knew that she already belonged to him, no matter what might happen. If there was a chance that she could bring him back to being the man who had kissed her in the conservatory, then she wanted to try.

  ‘Very well,’ she said softly.

  And for a moment, she saw the look in his eyes falter. Perhaps it had all been a bluff to frighten her. At his heart, he did not want her. Not in this way. But then his doubt was replaced by suspicion, and desire overcame all. ‘Now is as good a time as any. Lead me there.’

  ‘You know the way. You have been there before, have you not?’

  The gleam in his eye faltered again. It was as if she had struck a wolf upon the nose, and for a moment, turned him into a dog. She turned her back to him, before she could see the wolf return, and walked ahead of him, down the landing to the servants’ stairs. It was dark, and she had left her candle on a table in the hall. She did not bother to light another, feeling her way up the stairs, towards the door at the top.

  She could hear his footsteps on the stairs behind her and felt the dread in her growing. Suppo
se she was wrong and he was the brute she had once thought. She would be giving him the chance to abuse her, as he had Clare, to use her for his own amusement. It might all be a trick, and she would be no wiser for it than before. She knew that she should turn and confront him. Tell him that she had changed her mind. If she did it before they reached the door at the top, would he retreat or simply force her backwards into her room? She suspected it was the former. For after coming to know him, she could not believe that he was as wicked as he liked to pretend.

  But if she did nothing?

  Once they were in the room and the door was closed it would be too late to cry off, should she find that she could not follow through with what she had promised. And yet she kept walking, listening to the steady pace of his steps behind her, glad that he could not see her tremble. When they reached the room she entered, leaving the door open behind her. She turned to face him, but could see nothing in the utter darkness of her room.

  ‘I should not be here.’ It was easier without the sight of his haunted, angry eyes. For his voice told her he was as frightened by what was happening as she was. ‘Why do you not send me away?’

  When she did not answer him she heard him take a sudden step forwards, and she caught her breath in a gasp.

  ‘Do you mean to scream, then? Perhaps it will bring the servants, and I will stop. Or you could run from me and from this house, as I have asked you to do before now. It is not too late to run.’ His voice was low and inviting, as he reached out and tugged at the belt that held her wrapper, pushing it open and off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. ‘But then, you will never know the truth.’

  It was wrong of him to stay, but she did not want to send him away. Now that he was so close to her, she could not seem to find her voice to say anything at all. She could smell the spicy sweetness of the flowers he had given her, still scenting the air.

  But he brought his head inches from her body, inhaling deeply so that she could feel his breath changing the air against her throat. It was as though he wished for nothing more than the scent of her. And then he whispered, ‘You will not speak? Very well, then. But, if you do not stop me, I will not stop myself.’

  Where she should have felt fear, she felt an odd excitement. And instead of pushing him away, she arched her neck and leaned closer to offer herself to him, until his lips touched her skin.

  His hand snaked around her neck and he lifted his face to hers, forcing her mouth open to accept his kiss. There was none of the tenderness from the conservatory, or even the cool lust she’d felt from him in Clarissa’s bedroom, as he’d awakened desire in her.

  There was just a relentless thrusting with his tongue, to prove his possession over her mouth and the rest of her. He kissed her until her body felt weak and helpless in his arms, wet and hot and as open as her mouth.

  His hand dropped to the neck of her gown, and in one smooth move he ripped the thing from throat to hem, then pulled it away from her to leave her standing bare in front of him in the darkness. And then he paused. ‘Scream, damn you. Don’t you realise what is happening? Make me stop this.’ She heard him cast the rag to the floor as he seized one of her breasts, kneading it hard. His fingers caught the nipple, rolling and pinching, and the arousal coursed like a stream through her entire body.

  She realised in shock that she had reached up with her own hand to copy his movements in her other breast, to magnify the feeling. Instead of a scream, she let out a low moan of pleasure.

  His hand dropped away and he was breathing heavily, as though he had just run a great distance. Then he let out a low curse and stepped away.

  For a moment, she heard nothing. Then, there was the sound of her door closing, the rustle of clothing dropped on the floor and the thump of boots. She was blind in the darkness, straining to hear his approach. But there was nothing. She was alone in the dark, cold and frightened of what might occur next.

  Suddenly, his mouth closed over the slope of her shoulder. She felt his teeth graze the skin and the pressure as he sucked. Then it was over and he disappeared again. The sensations raced through her body, even after the contact stopped. She reached for him, longing to bring him back to her. But her hands met empty air.

  He must have been able to see better in the dark than she, for he caught her hand in his and his lips touched her fingers, his tongue flicking the tips. And then he was gone again.

  Only to return and run a fingernail down her spine, from nape to hip. It made her arch her back and thrust out her breasts until they met his outstretched hands.

  He was playing a game with her. She did not know the rules or the object, or who might lose from it, but it must be a game. Or torture, she realised, as his hands disappeared and his lips touched the underside of her breast. This time she cried out in frustration when the kiss ended, and it made him laugh.

  She was beginning to make out vague shapes in the darkness, and could see him standing before her. So she reached out and guided his head so that his mouth covered her nipple, forcing him to settle there for a time and suckle until the trembling began in her again. Then he pulled away.

  She reached out again, and he stepped away from her, and murmured, ‘Close your eyes.’

  She did, and was shocked again at the increased intensity of the feeling, as his fingers brushed against the place where his lips had been. Then he disappeared again. She opened her eyes, searching for him, only to feel him behind her, pulling her body tight to his, the hair of his chest cushioning her shoulder blades, his sex pressing against her, his hands travelling easily over her body. His touch was stronger now, as he cupped her breasts and stroked her belly.

  It was not fair. She could not touch him in return, and she found she needed to most desperately, to kiss and stroke as well. But he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pinned her against his body as he made free with her, letting his other hand settle between her legs.

  She started back at first, for this was even more exciting than his lips on her breast. He was exploring her, fingers touching, tracing, tickling and constantly returning to the place where he knew she was most sensitive. In response, she ground herself against the hardness behind her as though her body longed to pleasure him. It made his hand press even harder against her, rubbing against her until she could barely stand it. And then his fingers thrust into her, and it was more than she had ever felt, and yet still not enough. She was grinding against him now in uncontrollable ecstasy, her body wet and trembling, and could hear herself begging him, a desperate litany of, ‘Oh, please, please, please…’

  Perhaps he sought to stop her pleading, for he brought a hand to cover her lips, and she seized upon it, kissing the palm. She drew the fingers between her lips, running her tongue over them, and sucking them deep into her mouth.

  And then, everything happened at once. He muttered an oath in a feverish voice that was as helpless as hers, then pushed her forwards, bending her over the footboard of her bed. Her weight rested on the hand between her legs, which was spreading the entrance to her body, readying her, guiding himself. And when he felt her shudder under his hand, he plunged into her, over and over, holding her steady, urging her on, until her will broke under his and her body lost the last shred of control. She shook and spasmed; every nerve in her body seemed to explode with the feeling of him taking her. And the trembling, grasping feeling went on, and on, until she felt it in him as well. After a final surge, his movements slowed, and he pulled her upright, his arm locked around her shoulder, and his face buried against the damp hair on her neck. He was kissing her there, pressing his lips to the flesh, sighing in satisfaction.

  And she sagged against him, adoring the feel of his arms around her, warm and strong. Holding her up, holding her close, his body still in hers, possessing and possessed. He was rubbing his cheek gently against her skin, as though he revelled in the softness of it.

  But then he sighed again. It was no longer satisfaction, but despair. And the friction of his cheek on her body was h
is head shaking no, no, no, as though it was possible to ward off what he knew was coming.

  She remembered their bargain, wishing that it was possible to call it back. But it was too late.

  He whispered in her ear. ‘You wanted the truth. Well, you have certainly earned it, my dear. You have beaten me at my own game. Very well played.’

  She started away from him, trying to escape the gentle caresses, and arms that had become a prison.

  But he held her close, and whispered, in the same soft voice. ‘What happened the night my wife died is just what you suspect. After years of it, I could no longer stand her taunts and her public infidelities. And so I got stinking drunk and pushed the filthy whore down the stairs.’

  Then his arms dropped to his sides and he pulled away from her. And the cold and emptiness of the house seemed to rush into her, filling her with the unbearable burden of the truth.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tim threw on his shirt, gathered the rest of his clothing into his arms and turned to make his escape. His descent down the first flight of stairs went easy enough. But with each passing step he could feel his legs begin to give way, his stomach churning. By the time he reached the ground floor he was running, down the hall, into the conservatory, slamming the door behind him.

  He dropped the bundle on to the slate floor and rushed through the room to the tiny door at the back. He threw it open, dropped to his bare knees in the garden, and proceeded to be sick behind a shrubbery.

  The storm had broken while he was in the attic room. He steadied himself on his hands, letting the rain run off his hair and soak his linen, feeling the mud on his knees and between his fingers.