Seduced in September

by Genevieve Turner

  “You would know about potatoes,” she said under her breath.

  But of course he heard. “Oh yes, that’s all we Irish know. Potatoes. And horses.” He nodded. “And Romish things.”

  She wondered what he would say if she told him she’d been baptized under the same rites he’d been. Probably something wicked. Something to get under her skin, the same way his hands on her did.

  Nothing rattled her the way his sly comments did. Not even his hands. If only she could turn Dove back to the stable yard and never see him again.

  “Once more if you please.” As if he knew of her desire to flee. “And try to ride the horse this time, not simply be carried along.”

  She set her jaw, gathered up the reins again. Dove was a bit more eager this time, but not much. Adele concentrated on her hands, her seat, keeping her back straight, heels down, eyes forward, body quiet.

  So much to remember when riding. It wasn’t at all restful, and she didn’t know why so many people were mad for it. But she reached the end of the poles without the telltale thunk of a hit—again—then turned Dove to face Mr. Coyne. Without the triumph this time.

  “Better,” he allowed. He was stingy with his praise. “Again.”

  So she went again. And again. Until her rear was aching and her thighs tingling with the effort, the tips of her ears numb with cold.

  If only she could have stayed indoors with a book.

  “All right,” he announced after her dozenth bouncing ride. “That’s enough for poor old Dove today.”

  What about me?

  But Mr. Coyne only cared for the horses. Even so, she pulled Dove to a stop with relief.

  They went back the way they came, Mr. Coyne whistling as they rode, his dog trotting beside him with easy insouciance. Well, let them behave so. She was done with them for the day.

  Too bad she’d remember his hands tonight, when she closed her eyes.

  When they arrived back at the stables—the blessed, blessed stables—Mr. Coyne called for Joey again.

  “You help Miss Vere off,” he told the boy, “and put up Dove. I’m going to put Clarion through his paces before he kicks down his stall.”

  He wheeled his horse, set his heels to its sides, and was gone in burst of flashing hooves. She would not allow herself to be impressed with his athletic form. She simply wouldn’t.

  “He is a fine rider.”

  She snapped her gaze toward the worshipful sigh coming from her feet.

  Thomas was staring after Mr. Coyne, looking as if he were watching Hector himself ride away. To a twelve-year-old boy, Mr. Coyne would appear quite heroic.

  She sighed silently as she allowed Joey to help her down. Master Thomas’s adoration of Mr. Coyne was troublesome. But she hadn’t yet thought of a way to temper it and wasn’t even certain if she should. Besides herself, Mr. Coyne was one of the few people at Beckworth to take notice of Thomas.

  Thomas had been the old duke’s ward, thanks to a clause in his father’s will that gave guardianship to the Duke “or his heir.” It was that last bit that was causing all the trouble, because no one knew who exactly the Duke’s heir was. And therefore Thomas temporarily had no guardian, and the matter of his future remained unsettled. Poor lamb.

  Stepping away from Dove, she went to herd Thomas back toward the house. “What are you doing in the stables?” she chided her pupil. “I hope not bothering the grooms.”

  “No. I was only visiting my puppy.”

  “Well, since you’re here and I’m here, perhaps we should take a walk.” She couldn’t lie and say the weather was pleasant, but it was about as pleasant as they were likely to see today. Stretching her legs would help with the ache in her bottom as well.

  They strolled to the lake, the surface of it as darkly gray as the skies overhead and just as welcoming. Adele had Thomas point out various trees and shrubs as they went so that she earned her keep on this walk. But there were few insects to see and no wildlife. This unnatural summer had set the estate into hibernation just as surely as the lack of a duke had frozen it into stasis.

  Thomas had found a switch on the path and was swiping at the air before him. She ought to stop him, but best that his fidgets came out here instead of in the school room.

  “Miss Vere, you grew up without any parents, didn’t you?”

  She caught her intake of breath before it became a gasp.

  The only way to answer that question was with an untruth. She had grown up with her father, not that she’d ever been able to acknowledge him as such. Natural that Thomas would be curious about such things, orphaned as he was.

  “I was taken in by Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield,” she said, “which was better than having parents, I should think.”

  Such false assurance. But she was a practiced liar—Mrs. Fairfield had made certain of that.

  “They never had any children of their own?”

  How forward the curiosity of a child was. Thomas had no notion of the bog he was pulling her into.

  “No. But they were kind enough to raise me.”

  Adele often wondered what it must have been like for Mrs. Fairfield, raising her husband’s bastard while never being gifted with any children of her own. If she’d resented it, it had never shown. But that resentment must have been there, a hard, dormant little seed lodged within her heart that she ruthlessly pinched the sprouts from.

  “Do you think the new duke will be kind?”

  And how painfully exposed the vulnerability of a child was. Thomas was almost as alone and friendless as she was.

  Adele certainly hoped the new duke would be kind, since she was as dependent on the new duke’s goodwill as Thomas was. The duchess had taken Adele on as a special favor to Mrs. Fairfield, which made Adele’s position here marginally more secure than it might have been elsewhere. While Adele never showed by look or deed her crude origins, some future employer might discover them and turn her right out. Her father had given her quite the tightrope to walk for the rest of her life.

  “I’m sure the new duke will be happy to have you stay here.” She put more hope than reassurance in her voice. “Or perhaps you could go off to school.”

  If only they could find this new duke and solve all of these things. Most inconsiderate of him to disappear like that and inconvenience everyone.

  Thomas slashed at the air with his stick, the air hissing back as if wounded. “Will they ever find him? Where do you think he is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I bet he’s in America somewhere.” Thomas was obsessed with tales of America, the raw vastness of it sparking his boyish imagination. “Do you think he was scalped by Indians?”

  A chill ran across her skin. “Thomas! What a morbid thought!” But America was wild—it would be an easy thing for even a duke to disappear there.

  “You should be worried about your French,” she told him primly. “No use fretting until this duke actually appears.”

  And if he never did… well, they’d find someone else to be the duke. While the entire estate held its breath in the meantime.

  They continued on in silence for a time, Thomas still slashing at the air with his stick. A strange snuffling sound came from behind them, and then angry yips.

  Adele wanted to groan. Lady Maude’s pugs were coming upon them. The dogs liked to nip at people’s heels, and although they couldn’t get through the thick leather of her boots, she had no desire to shake one of the little monsters off if it did grab hold.

  “Miss Vere!” That was the lady herself, her cane crunching as it met the gravel of the trail.

  She put on a practiced smile and turned to greet the older lady. Mrs. Ford—formerly Miss Leyton—was with her aunt, holding tight to the pugs’ leashes with one arm, the other supporting her aunt. Mrs. Ford looked quite happy, even though she was dealing with irritable creatures on either side.

  Once, Mrs. Ford had been as drab as Adele herself, just one of the many female relations fed and supported by the old duke. But then s
he’d married Mr. Ford, who was the land agent, and she’d bloomed. Marriage agreed very well with her. Given that Mr. Ford gazed on her as if she were wondrous, it was no surprise.

  “Airing out your pupil?” Lady Maude asked.

  “Yes, my lady.” She curtsied to them both. “Mrs. Ford.”

  “Such fine manners,” Lady Maude said. “Mrs. Fairfield did well with you.”

  “Thank you.” Adele beckoned her pupil forward. “Thomas,” she prompted.

  He made his bows as he said, “Ladies.”

  Mrs. Ford applauded when he was finished. “Well done! Miss Vere, he’s a credit to your instruction.”

  Pride glowed within Adele, but she kept her expression still. “The finest compliment a governess could have.”

  Mrs. Ford’s answering smile was so warm, so content—it almost hurt for Adele to look at. Adele had no hope of marriage, but to see Mrs. Ford so radiant in hers… well, a person might feel a pang at such a thing. It was only natural.

  But there was no point in pining after what couldn’t be. She set her hands on Thomas’s shoulders, taking comfort from the solidity of the boy. “We’re heading back toward the stables,” she said. “Are you going the same way?”

  “Hardly.” Lady Maude pulled a face. “The smell of horses ruins my digestion.”

  Mrs. Ford hid a smile. “We’ll be going toward the village.”

  “I’ll wish you a good morning then.”

  Adele pressed her hand into Thomas’s back when he remained silent.

  “Oh, good morning, ladies,” he said hurriedly.

  They left each to go their separate ways. After a time, Adele and Thomas came back in sight of the stables, having completed the loop around the lake.

  Hoof beats pounded out from the bridle path leading north, one that Adele had never been on. In the next moment, Mr. Coyne came tearing in on that beast of his, crouched low over the horse’s neck, man and mount flying together as they ate up the distance.

  His cap was gone, his dark brown locks pushed back by the wind, his face split in a wide grin. His coat was gone as well, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms that capably gripped both sets of reins.

  And his neckcloth… Adele dropped her gaze and sucked in a breath.

  She could see the base of his neck and the very beginning of his chest.

  No English rose would ever stare so at the bared skin of an Irish groom. But Adele was no rose—the sallow hue of her skin gave away that her ancestors had been kissed by the Mediterranean sun.

  All the more reason to look away from the crudity of Mr. Coyne. She must always play the perfect English governess. She had no room to slip.

  Thomas made a low, worshipful noise. The same kind Adele would have liked to make.

  She had to get away from here. Before thoughts of the stable master’s hands, his forearms, his chest, pushed that needy noise building in her chest past her throat.

  She held out her hand. “Come along, Thomas. Time for French.”

  The boy groaned but took her hand. She marched back for the house, walking as fast as she dared—but it was too late. Mr. Coyne pulled Clarion to a turf-gouging stop in front of them. “Miss Vere.” He touched a finger to his forehead in lieu of tipping his hat. His dog plopped down next to him, tongue lolling insolently.

  “Mr. Coyne.” All pinched lipped, icy disapproval, as unwelcoming as the skies above them. She didn’t dare give him any further courtesy than that. “You seem to have lost your cap.”

  His blue eyes laughed. “Among other things.”

  She would not comment on his shocking state of undress. She would not.

  But she would remember.

  “Clarion looks as fleet as a bird,” Thomas said, wriggling harder than his puppy. “Will you be taking him to Epsom next year?”

  Horse racing. This was not appropriate either. “Come along,” she urged.

  Her pupil didn’t hear, all of his focus on the half-dressed man before them.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Coyne allowed. “With our racing stables at Newmarket shut down, things are… uncertain.” He gave her a look of significance, which was to brief for her to fully comprehend. “We’ll see what the new duke says. Might want to sell off the racing stock. Not every man is as devoted to horses as the old duke was.”

  “He can’t sell the horses,” Thomas said, “he just can’t!”

  But he could. The new duke could turn all of them out, every man, woman, child, and beast, with a wave of his hand. Only a child would rail against the injustice of that.

  “Thomas,” she snapped. That was enough of that. If the child grew any more agitated he’d be utterly useless for his French lesson. “Come along. Mr. Coyne has his duties to attend to. And you have your lessons.”

  That blue gaze flicked to hers, as if they were conspirators in managing the boy. “Listen to Miss Vere. And I’ll see you for your lesson after luncheon.”

  I don’t need your help with my pupil. Infuriating man.

  She held her mouth flat so that he wouldn’t guess at her irritation. “Thomas,” she said again.

  Her pupil came along readily enough. Mr. Coyne tossed her a salute as they passed, his gaze mocking.

  She gave him a short nod in return as she sidled past the horse’s pawing front hoof, never once meeting his eyes.

  A proper English girl wouldn’t acknowledge such insolence, would pretend that it didn’t even exist. That he didn’t even exist.

  Proper was all that Adele could ever dare to be.

  Chapter Two

  Another schoolbook left on the floor.

  Adele spied it beneath a bookshelf as she covered the supper plates. A stew of beef and barley and peas, the same as they’d had three days ago and two days before that. It was filling enough, but Adele knew she’d be heartily sick of it come winter-time. She was already sick of the bread, or at least the sad excuse served with the stew. This bread turned to a thick, gummy lump in the mouth, almost impossible to swallow. It ought to be a crime to serve bread such as that.

  But the wheat had been spoiled, which meant that the flour was spoiled, which meant that this was the best bread they could hope for. At least until next summer, should warm weather decide to appear then.

  Adele sighed as she crouched beside the bookshelf and picked up the poor, forgotten book. Thomas loved to read, but he could be so careless with his books. She’d have to speak with him tomorrow. She set his slate in the cabinet—that had been left out as well—and noticed that his slate pencil was dull. She picked it up. Might as well sharpen it, since she was planning to sharpen her own.

  She sat behind her desk and fished her penknife from the drawer. This was her favorite part of her day, when the schoolroom was quiet and tidy and she could sit with some small task and simply be alone. Being responsible for a child meant that her much needed moments of solitude were few and far between.

  Thomas’s room connected to the schoolroom and she could hear the soft snuffling noises of his sleep, along with a few snores. She smiled to herself as she drew the blade across the pencil tip. Such sweet sounds the child made as he slumbered. She hoped they were pleasant dreams—Thomas deserved to have those.

  A strange noise, an inhuman one, came from his room. She dropped the slate pencil into her lap as she stiffened and listened hard.

  What was that?

  It came again, high and short and hair raising. Her fingers tightened on the knife handle. Then another sort of yip, as if the creature were in pain.

  It was definitely in Thomas’s room, whatever it was. And she had to go find it.

  She took a cautious step toward the door, than another, her skin cold. No cries rose from Thomas, only his deep breaths as he slept on.

  Again, the noise came. She stilled. This time, her mind put a name to it.

  A dog.

  It was a dog, crying. A puppy, actually. She sighed, lowered the hand gripping the penknife. The boy must have snuck his puppy into the house and then left it
in his room. Poor little thing was no doubt hungry and longing for its mother.

  Sure enough, when she went into the room and looked under the bed, there was one sad puppy, yipping for his family. Somehow, Thomas slept on through the noise. The sleep of the innocent was deaf it seemed.

  Adele got to her knees, reached under the bed, and pulled the struggling puppy into her arms.

  “Hold still,” she muttered. “I’m trying to save you.”

  The puppy remained unconvinced, its sharp claws dragging across her sleeves and snaring in the fabric there.

  “Ouch!”

  One desperate swipe of its paw caught the bare skin of her wrist. That was going to leave a mark. Finally, she got the both of them into the hallway without waking Thomas.

  Now what to do? She could summon a footman and have him take the puppy back to the stables, but those poor young men had enough to do without her foisting a loose dog on them.

  Or she could throw on her cloak and do it herself with less fuss. So she did just that, sailing down the servant’s stairs, through the kitchens, and out to door to march past the kitchen gardens, the moon providing barely enough light to find her way. The ground was damp, soaking the hem of her gown with a heavy, clinging chill. She had only to make it to the stables, deposit this dog with his mother, and traipse back. She could bear the cold until then.

  Stay clear, she ordered the clouds. Just long enough for me to make my way back to the house.

  The stables were a black shape against the slate gray of the horizon, the building entirely dark. But of course no one would leave a lamp lit in a stables—the danger of fire was terrible with all that wood and hay. And horses wouldn’t need a lamp at night.

  It did make her task a bit harder though. And strangely frightening, for all that she’d been in the stables many, many times before, the black tunnel of the breezeway looming like the gate to something terrible.

  Stop being a ninny—there’s nothing to be scared of. She felt her way along the stall doors with her free hand, the puppy curled up in her other arm. The stall that held the litter was in the middle of the row of stalls, if she remembered correctly. She prayed she had—all this darkness was making her skin crawl.