The Governess and Mr. Granville

by Abby Gaines

  Even Trent, whom Dominic knew to be ramshackle and devoid of interest in the pianoforte, was too good-mannered to disagree. Indeed, his manners toward Serena were quite charming, Dominic noted. As they arranged themselves into an attentive audience for Lady Mary’s musical performance, Trent sat down on Serena’s left. Dominic made sure he took the place to her right. She was, after all, a member of his household and therefore under his protection. She was also an inexperienced girl who might have her head turned by a London gentleman intent on flirtation.

  Lady Mary launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “Greensleeves,” singing the ballad in a very pleasant alto. She would be quite relaxing company of an evening, Dominic decided. When the song finished, he leaned in to Serena. “May we talk now?”

  “Lady Mary is talented, isn’t she?” Serena said. “And she has a delightfully gentle voice.” She said that as if it was of some significance.

  “You won’t fob me off again,” he said. “I want to speak to you on the terrace, now.”

  Her jaw set, as if she might refuse.

  “Serena,” he said, in a “gentle” voice of his own, intended to convey dire consequences if she didn’t cooperate.

  Two minutes later, they were at the terrace rail, staring out into the darkness. Naturally, they stood apart, in full view of the drawing room.

  “Have you spoken to Miss Penelope Carr yet?” Serena asked brightly. “She’s a notable wit and, I hear, a woman of strong faith.”

  “Serena, what’s going on? One moment you’re glaring at me, and the next you’re a ray of sunshine. I wish you’d stop listing these women’s good qualities as if they were horseflesh. Next thing, you’ll have me inspect their teeth. I find this most uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t exist to make your life comfortable,” she snapped. “Your sister and I have been forced to parade these women in front of you in the hope of finding some kind of connection. And believe me, if watercolor skills and gentleness of voice won’t do it, I haven’t ruled out inspecting their teeth—purely because you’re too much of a coward to choose for yourself a woman you might actually love.”

  “What did you call me?” he demanded.

  She hesitated, as if realizing she’d gone beyond the bounds of what was acceptable. That if she were a man, he’d be obliged to call her out, no matter that the authorities these days took a dim view of dueling.

  Then she said, “I named you for a coward, sir, and I stand by it.”

  “How dare you!” His heart was thumping so hard it was setting his blood to boil in his veins. “The moment I became aware of the need to marry, of my sister’s concerns for my children’s future, I undertook to find a wife. I will do it, just as I’ll do whatever is necessary for the care and protection of those within my charge. That, madam, is not cowardice. It’s the very opposite.”

  “If you were acting from ignorance, I could understand it,” she said. “But you know the joy of a loving marriage, and you deem it a risk not worth taking.”

  “That’s my prerogative,” he growled.

  “Not when a fear of intimacy means you refuse even to engage in discussion with your children.” She snorted. “Beyond telling them I am the last woman in the world you would marry.”

  “I don’t have a fear—” He broke off. “What are you talking about? I said no such thing.” He would never be so rude. Unlike her.

  Her skin was alabaster-pale in the moonlight, her eyes glittering. “Perhaps not those exact words,” she said. “But the children were worried and confused. They wanted to talk to you about the prospect of a stepmother—I don’t think for one moment they seriously intended me for the role—and you fobbed them off, as you do at the first sign of threat to the aloofness you so carefully maintain.”

  “I did not say you were the last woman I would marry.” Hang it, he couldn’t remember exactly what he had said, only that he’d been anxious to close down the line of conversation.

  To avoid hearing concerns from his children that might upset his plans.

  To fob them off.

  She was right.

  He’d said something about not marrying Serena—though nothing about “last woman in the world”!—and charged out of the drawing room.

  And his thoughtless words of self-preservation had hurt her. That was why she’d been so cool.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like the biggest wretch in history. “I shouldn’t have said I would never marry you.”

  “That—that’s not what I’m objecting to.” A blush rushed into her cheeks.

  “It should be,” he said. “I was appallingly rude. How could I have been so mean-spirited, when you have never been anything but generous of heart?”

  Where had that come from?

  She was staring at him.

  “Despite also being too forthright,” he reminded himself and her.

  Suddenly, she smiled. It was like seeing the rainbow after the rain, and he only now realized how much the lack of her smile, seeing it shining on others but not himself, had dampened his evening.

  My enjoyment is dependent on the smiles of Serena Somerton?

  Not possible.

  Not acceptable.

  Dominic became aware that his breathing was rather labored, his chest constricted.

  “Dominic, thank you.” She sounded slightly breathless herself. “That was a generous thing to say.”

  He had to get out of here. No matter that he hadn’t yet spoken to her about that blasted letter burning a hole in his pocket.

  Very stiffly, very correctly, he bowed. “I spoke unwisely, Miss Somerton, and I apologized. That’s all. Do not, in your usual unguarded manner, read any more into it.”

  He had the relief of seeing that captivating smile vanish.

  * * *

  The house party kept Serena busy day and night, arranging activities and seeing to the comfort of the guests. She bore the brunt of the load for Marianne—that was her job—and she was enjoying it. She was far too busy to have much to do with Dominic, who was fully occupied in getting to know his female guests.

  By the third day of the party, there was still the distance between them that he’d been careful to create at the end of the first night. Heaven forbid he should say something heartfelt and not feel obliged to retract it, she thought with irritation, as she instructed the servants on the setting up of today’s picnic lunch. Several folding tables had been brought outside, and there were blankets for the younger members of the party to sit on.

  Nearby, several of the ladies were sketching, while the men were mostly engaged in comparing hunting stories from last winter. Archery targets had been set up on the south lawn. Crawley, the gamekeeper, was a proficient archer whose instruction skills, Marianne said, would be in great demand, since the sport had recently become so fashionable again.

  Serena had already witnessed Dominic, from the corner of her eye, landing three arrows right on target. She enjoyed archery herself, and knew just how difficult that feat was.

  “Look there,” Miss Peckham, one of the sketchers, said. “Just what I needed to liven up my picture.”

  An approaching horseman trotted down the middle of the lawn.

  Lady Mary giggled. “A definite improvement on the view.”

  Serena tried not to consider that too forward from a lady she scarcely knew. If one of her sisters had made the comment, she’d have thought nothing of it. Indeed, she would have agreed; the visitor had an excellent seat on his horse, which was itself no hack.

  A moment later, she realized the horseman was Mr. Beaumont. She glanced at Marianne and found her already fanning herself.

  Dominic left the archery range and sauntered toward them. Except it wasn’t really a saunter; Serena observed the stiff set of his shoulders.

  “Dominic, it’s Mr. Beaumont,” Marianne said.

  “So I see.” Her brother’s voice was cool.

  Mr. Beaumont dismounted a few yards away. A stable boy came running to take the reins of h
is horse. One of the dogs came out, too; a sharp word from Dominic stopped its growling.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Granville, Miss Granville,” Beaumont said. “I must apologize for intruding on your party. I had hoped to call in before you grew busy with today’s activities.”

  “Alas,” Dominic said, with clearly feigned sympathy.

  Mr. Beaumont looked momentarily awkward. “It’s you I came to see, Miss Granville. I found this in my uncle’s library, and prevailed upon him to lend it to you.” “This” was a leatherbound volume. The title, stamped in gold, read A Cornucopia of Herbs and Their Remedies.

  Marianne’s face lit up as she accepted the book. “This is exactly the kind of volume I like to pore over. That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Beaumont. Isn’t it, Dominic?”

  “Very,” he agreed.

  “I have something for you, too, Mr. Beaumont,” she said.

  Dominic tensed.

  “Pawn to C4,” Marianne said.

  Another chess move, presumably a follow-on to the opening moves they’d mentioned on the bridle path, Serena guessed.

  “Risky,” Mr. Beaumont murmured. “I wonder what’s in your mind, Miss Granville?”

  Dominic twitched, as if about to object to a perfectly innocuous conversation about chess.

  Serena remembered what Marianne had said about her previous suitors. How Dominic had taken it upon himself to chase them away. Had become overprotective—he’d admitted it himself. It would be too bad if Marianne lost her chance to get to know their new neighbor because of Dominic’s lack of courage in matters of the heart.

  Beaumont observed the sketching ladies, the archery targets. “What a splendid scene on this beautiful day.”

  It seemed clear to Serena he was angling for an invitation. It was equally clear that courtesy dictated that Dominic must extend that invitation.

  Dominic said nothing. Funny how he could lecture Serena about proper behavior, then entirely disregard good manners when it suited him.

  “Did you find your lemon balm, Miss Granville?” Beaumont asked. A transparent attempt to prolong the conversation.

  “Not yet,” Marianne said. “I read that it grows in more exposed areas, so maybe Miss Somerton and I will climb a hill one day.”

  A silence fell. Stretched into awkwardness.

  “I don’t suppose...” Marianne began, then trailed off. She wouldn’t ask him outright to stay, for fear of provoking gossip among their guests—nothing could be more humiliating than to be accused of “setting one’s cap” at a man. Perhaps she worried, too, that Beaumont would refuse the invitation. Though it was plain to Serena that he wouldn’t.

  Mr. Beaumont didn’t pester Marianne to finish her sentence, displaying a discretion Serena knew she would appreciate. Finally, he bowed and said, “Well, I suppose I should—”

  “Would you like to join us, Mr. Beaumont?” Serena asked. “We’re about to sit down to a picnic luncheon.” She sensed, rather than saw, Marianne’s sag of relief.

  As for Dominic’s disapproval...no sensing required. It was fully evident in the slash of his dark brows drawn together.

  Marianne said breathlessly, “Please do, Mr. Beaumont.”

  Which meant Dominic could do nothing but agree. “By all means, join us.”

  His endorsement was offered with a total lack of enthusiasm that Mr. Beaumont proved able to ignore as he accepted with grace. Serena rather admired that.

  Marianne introduced Beaumont to Lady Mary and Miss Peckham. Mr. Trent came over to join them. Serena deemed Marianne well enough chaperoned that she could walk away from Dominic’s glare.

  She murmured her intention to try her hand at archery, and left.

  Crawley soon had her equipped with a longbow and a quiver of arrows. Serena pointed the bow toward the ground to load her first arrow, nocking it to the bowstring. She positioned herself with her forefinger above the arrow, the next two fingers below, then raised the bow. It had been a while since she’d done this, so she drew back carefully, testing the curve of the yew wood. Unfortunately, she released too soon, and the arrow flew embarrassingly wide of the mark.

  “Drat,” she muttered, and reloaded.

  “You didn’t find your anchor point, Miss Somerton,” Dominic said behind her.

  Her second arrow, which she’d been in the process of pulling back, veered wildly toward the rose garden.

  “You should know better, Mr. Granville, than to speak when an archer has her bow almost at full draw,” she said.

  He bent to the quiver and handed her another arrow. “I suspect you were anchoring at the ear. Try the corner of your mouth.”

  He was right that she preferred to use her ear as the anchor point that would stay consistent from shot to shot, allowing her to reassess her aim.

  “Thank you, but I know what I’m doing.” She nocked the third arrow.

  “I’ve frequently observed, Miss Somerton, that you assume more knowledge than you have. This bow is likely heavier than you’re used to.”

  She raised the bow.

  “The corner of your mouth,” he instructed again.

  He’d hit the target with three consecutive shots, she remembered. And he was right, this bow was heavier than the one she used at home. In one fluid movement, she drew the arrow back to the corner of her mouth, then relaxed the fingers of her drawing hand.

  The arrow sailed straight, and struck the outer rings of the target.

  “Good work.” Dominic handed her another arrow. “You could try moving your back foot a little closer to the front one.”

  She did as he suggested.

  “Now your shoulders are misaligned.” His hands came down on her errant shoulders and adjusted her position slightly. For one moment, his fingers rested there. Then he stepped back.

  She took her shot; the arrow landed just outside the bull’s-eye.

  “Thank you,” she said to Dominic. “That was good instruction.”

  “Will you trust my instruction on another matter?” He sounded serious.

  Serena searched his face. “If it makes sense to me.”

  He huffed what might have been a laugh, if his expression hadn’t been so grave. “Will you ever just agree to what I ask, without arguing?”

  “It’s unlikely,” she admitted.

  He relaxed, and his face assumed less austere lines. “That cursed upbringing of yours.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver, presumably to preserve the appearance of an archery lesson, then took her bow. “Mr. Beaumont’s intentions toward my sister are dishonorable.”

  Despite his coolness to the other man, this was the last thing she’d expected.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “You say yourself you can be too protective of Marianne.”

  Dominic pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “I received this letter a few days ago. This is what I wanted to speak to you about.”

  The night she’d accused him of cowardice, and he’d accused her of generosity of heart.

  “I shouldn’t have called you a coward,” she said quickly. The burden of her unguarded tongue had been on her conscience.

  One corner of his mouth twitched. “No, you shouldn’t. Read this, and I’ll forgive you.”

  “I can’t read your private correspondence,” she demurred.

  “Are you saying, Serena, that you’re reluctant to involve yourself in my affairs?” His eyes gleamed, and suddenly she was very, very glad she’d apologized.

  “I don’t suppose I could say that with any credibility,” she admitted.

  He laughed. “Then read it.”

  She took the letter. Dominic lined up perpendicular to the archery target and shot his arrow. The trajectory was straight and true: another bull’s-eye.

  “How smug of you.” Serena unfolded the page he’d given her—two pages, as it turned out. “What is this?”

  “After you mentioned encountering Mr. Beaumont on the bridle path, I wrote to a friend in London requesting a report on our new neighbor,” h
e said.

  Serena’s heart sank. She grasped the pages with both hands—gracious, the crest at the top was that of the Marquess of Severn—and began to read. Which proved easy, as the letter was written in one direction only. The marquess was clearly an extravagant man. Serena didn’t know anyone who would send two sheets of paper, rather than crossing and if necessary recrossing the lines on a single sheet.

  Once she passed the greeting “My dear Granville” and ensuing platitudes, Beaumont’s name and various phrases began to jump out at her. They started off fairly innocuous—“always in the pink of fashion...to be seen at any and all ton parties”—and grew progressively worse. “Expensive habits. Given to gaming. Excessive drinking—his father was the same.”

  “I suppose any young man might commit youthful follies,” Serena said hesitantly. “These sound bad, but possibly Mr. Beaumont has reformed.”

  “Read on,” Dominic ordered.

  She obeyed.

  “Short of funds.” Serena drew in a breath. “Beaumont has acquired a reputation as a fortune hunter,” Severn wrote, “his charming manners having made inroads into the hearts of several heiresses. I believe most fathers are aware of his conniving nature and odious intentions, and have taken steps to protect their daughters....”

  Serena let the paper fall to her side, the fingers of her left hand pressed to her lips. “Oh, no.”

  “Indeed.” Dominic sounded sympathetic. He set the bow on the ground. “Serena, I know that as a parson’s daughter it’s in your nature to see the best in everyone, even, occasionally, including me.” At her querying look, he explained, “You seem convinced there are tender feelings lurking deep within me. But I can’t let Beaumont prey on Marianne. I can see she likes him.”

  Serena nodded. “I liked him, too.”

  Dominic’s smile was grim. “The young ladies Beaumont pursued in London needed their parents’ permission to marry, and had the purse strings controlled by their fathers. Marianne is twenty-five and in complete control of her fortune. She needs no one’s permission to wed, at which point her funds become her husband’s.”

  “So you’ll tell her what you’ve learned.” Serena winced at the thought of his sister’s disappointment. “The sooner the better.”