More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  “What else do you know of the viscount?”

  “Not much, but we’re quite familiar with his pubs. He’s a supplier to several of our haunts and actually owns a couple of others. We catch tidbits here and there.”

  “I’ve seen him once or twice,” Michael added. “Seems a bit surly if you ask me.”

  “And private. You won’t meet many who know much about his personal life.”

  Having heard enough, Benjamin jumped to his feet and strode to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Michael called after his brother.

  “To Rye, where else? Deane!”

  Benjamin heard his brothers' quick footsteps behind him. He wasn't surprised. They rarely passed up a chance for drama and adventure, and when it didn't come to them, they had a tendency to create it.

  “We’re coming with you,” Andrew told Benjamin.

  Deane materialized and handed Benjamin his hat and cane.

  “What about Lady Elizabeth?” he wondered.

  “I don’t think she’d like to travel to Rye this evening, but one never knows.”

  Benjamin rolled his eyes at Michael as Andrew offered a more succinct reply. “I’ll pen a note to inform her there’s been an emergency. She’ll understand.”

  Minutes later the three men piled into Benjamin’s carriage and set off to rescue Becky from the elusive Lord Hastings.

  ***

  Becky’s fourth day as a governess proved to be just as exhausting as her first and when she reached her room at half past seven, she couldn’t even look at her food. The only thing on her mind was sleep and so she ignored her dinner tray, undressed and curled up in her tiny bed, allowing her exhaustion to take over.

  What seemed like mere minutes later, a frantic knock sounded at her door.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned. Now she would never be able to fall back to sleep tonight.

  “Miss Thorn?” Mrs. Brown’s worried voice came through the door. “I’m sorry to disturb, miss, but I’ve been sent to retrieve you. Immediately.”

  Becky fumbled in the dark until she found the door. “Mrs. Brown, what time is it? What’s going on?”

  “It’s just past midnight, miss. But there’s some gentlemen come to see ya. Right good-lookin’ gentlemen at that. Lord Hastings said to bring ya down straight away.”

  “Gentlemen?” Becky repeated, the dregs of sleep immediately giving way to apprehension. What if they had found her? She would be doomed for sure. But she had no choice. If she didn’t go down and face them, one of them—all of them, perhaps—wouldn’t hesitate to search the entire house for her. “All right, I’m on my way.”

  When Becky entered the downstairs drawing room fifteen minutes later, she discovered that Mrs. Brown had not been lying. There were in fact three very handsome men waiting for her.

  Well, four if she counted Lord Hastings, but she didn’t care to include him.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was Lord Eastleigh and not her father. It had never occurred to her that the marquess might show up at Hastings House and now that he stood there in front of her, another wave of panic shot through her body. Something was wrong. Why else would he come all the way to Sussex in the middle of the night?

  “What is it, my lord?” she asked. “Is Phoebe all right? Has she gone into labor?”

  “No, no, everything is fine, Becky,” he rushed to assure her. “We came to see how you were doing.”

  Becky looked skeptically around the room. “Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to send a note? Or at least travel in the daytime?”

  “One would think so.” The marquess looked a little perturbed. Or maybe just tired.

  But so was Becky, and she was not in the mood to try and play guessing games. “Would someone please explain to me why I was woken in the middle of the night to come down here?”

  “I would be happy to.” Lord Hastings stepped forward into the light of the raging fire, and Becky’s heart raced.

  She wasn’t sure why she had never noticed how strikingly handsome he was. It had crossed her mind, of course, that he was a nice-looking man when he wasn’t being a complete arse, but something was different now. Something about him seemed softer, more enticing. Sensual.

  “Miss Thorn, is there any reason you failed to inform your friends that Lady Hastings does not exist?” His voice was more tender than she’d ever heard it and it vexed her that her stomach actually flip-flopped as a result.

  She forced herself to focus. “Is that what this is about?” The three of you have come all the way from London in the middle of the night because I failed to mention one minor detail?”

  “Minor detail?”

  Becky backed up instinctively at the sudden impatience in Lord Eastleigh’s tone.

  “A-All right,” she stammered. “Perhaps not so minor, but did you really think me to be in danger?”

  “We sent you away to interview with a non-existent woman and received word that said woman had hired you on permanently.” The marquess’ voice escalated as he spoke. “Then I arrive in London tonight and discover that Lady Hastings does not even exist and furthermore, besides being a supplier of beer, most people know very little of Lord Hastings.”

  “All right, I’m sorry!” she yelled, knowing she was most certainly in the wrong. “I just didn’t want you all to worry. I knew if Phoebe found out that I had been brought here under false pretenses, she’d march me straight back to Ravenscroft Castle...or make you do it.”

  “And I should.”

  “My lord, please, you don’t mean that,” Becky pleaded. “Can’t we sit down and talk this through? There is nothing untoward going on here and there is no way that I’m leaving those children.”

  There was a pause; Lord Eastleigh was clearly thinking through his options. “How did this happen?” he asked at last, his gaze fixed on Lord Hastings.

  “Can I get you a drink first, Eastleigh?” The viscount proceeded to pour five tumblers of brandy. Becky was grateful he’d thought to include her. She desperately needed something to calm her nerves.

  They all sat around the fire and listened as Becky and Lord Hastings relayed the underhanded workings of Mrs. Brown. Becky was all too aware of the man in shirtsleeves, sitting next to her as they spoke. They had yet to have a civilized conversation since her arrival. Yet now, with Cerberus sitting across from them, they spoke as one, allied together in an effort to keep them from taking her away. They finished each other’s sentences and laughed nostalgically at events that had taken place only a few days earlier, as if she had been there for years.

  It was an odd feeling, one of belonging that Becky had never anticipated she would experience in this household. Perhaps it was not real, though. Perhaps he was only being this way because he needed her to stay on to look after the children. She had to admit he already looked far more rested and far less frazzled than he had upon her arrival four days ago. She was certain the strain of not having a bona fide governess had taken its toll on the entire household, but she couldn’t stop herself from wishing that maybe he wanted her to stay for other reasons. Reasons that had nothing at all to do with Max and Lydia.

  They were fleeting thoughts. Inappropriate, fleeting thoughts and she had no clue from whence they came. But sometimes the way he looked at her, the way he studied her as if she were the most fascinating work of art he’d ever seen...Well, either way, their little act seemed to be working.

  It was past two o’clock by the time they had the three Wetherby men convinced. Poor Mrs. Brown was summoned once again from her sleep to prepare three of the guest bedchambers. Once she had retrieved the three men, Becky bid Lord Hastings goodnight and attempted an exit.

  “Miss Thorn, may I have a word?” Hastings said in a tone that told her it wasn’t a question.

  She halted on the threshold. “Can it not wait until morning, my lord? I am awfully tired, and I will have to be up in—”

  “No, it can’t.” The viscount strode to where she stood and slid th
e door shut, requiring Becky to move back into the room.

  She cleared her throat. “All right...”

  “Miss Thorn, I’m still wondering why on earth you would lie to the Wetherbys about the pretenses under which you were brought here.”

  “I told you,” she said with an ounce of defiance. “I didn’t want to worry them.”

  “You didn’t want them to take you home,” he corrected.

  Becky swallowed hard. “No. The children need me.”

  “And what do you need?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “That was quite a performance you put on for Eastleigh and his brothers.”

  “I rather thought it was more like a duet.”

  A wry smile came to the viscount’s lips, and Becky wondered what he was getting at.

  “Either way, you were eager to dispel their fears and convince them to let you remain here...with me.”

  Becky’s heart leaped to her throat. Was it possible he was trying to gauge her affections? Part of her wanted to admit that she was guilty to his charge. That she was curious about what it would be like to have his lips on hers, to feel his hands on her waist, and other more scandalous parts of her anatomy. But that would be foolish of her. This man was her employer. Obviously, she was tired and reading more into his questions than she should.

  “And the children,” she said at last.

  But before she could utter another word, Lord Hastings was before her, his rough hand caressing her cheek, his blue eyes peering into hers like rays of morning sunlight. Becky should have been frightened, should have pushed his hand away and told him never to touch her again, but she couldn’t.

  She didn’t want to.

  “I do not mean to be so forward, Miss Thorn,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “But you are perhaps the most astonishing creature I’ve ever met.”

  Becky said nothing, but only stood there, trembling despite the warmth of the fire. What was she thinking? This was all wrong, beyond inappropriate, and there was only one place this could lead. She couldn’t let that happen. She could not allow her personal desires to interfere with her job. The children needed her, and involving herself in an affair with their guardian would only prove to be a foolish mistake.

  But at the same time, there was something so right about having him near. Something so tantalizing about having his hand against her cheek, his lips just a whisper away from hers. Becky had never wanted anything so badly in her entire life.

  Without thinking, she raised herself onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. She had never kissed anyone before, had never been kissed, but that didn’t seem to matter. Hastings took the reigns, drawing her closer to him, pressing her soft, feminine body against his hard chest while he plundered her mouth with his own. He tasted of brandy and cigars and his clean masculine scent wafted through the air, robbing Becky of any rational thought.

  It was an animalistic urge that drew her further into him, that made her press her aching breasts harder against his chest. But when he stepped into her and his hardened member pushed against the curve of her stomach, Becky was startled back to reality.

  He released her without any struggle and walked a few paces away. She watched him as he sought control over his faculties and wondered what would come of this little rendezvous. Would he send her home with Lord Eastleigh tomorrow? Would he let her stay and then force his attentions on her? Becky had never been so aroused or terrified in her entire life.

  “For the children, eh?”

  Becky stifled an indignant retort. What was he out to prove by kissing her? That she found him desirable? That she was a wanton chit not worthy of caring for his wards?

  “Was this some kind of trick?” she asked, straining to keep her composure.

  He frowned. “A trick?”

  “To prove something?”

  “Might I remind you that you kissed me?”

  “Only because you made me!” It wasn’t until the words were out of her mouth that she realized how childish they sounded.

  “I don’t remember making any demands, Miss Thorn.”

  “You made an advance, my lord. Why? What is it that you’re out to prove about me?”

  “The only thing I wanted to prove was that you chose to stay for more reasons than the blasted children!”

  “Why?”

  Hastings shook his head. “I’m not exactly sure, Miss Thorn,” he said quietly.

  “My lord—”

  He held up a hand to quiet her. Not in his usual demeaning way, though. It seemed he simply wanted to put an end to the conversation and she couldn’t blame him. She wasn’t keen to reveal any more truths herself.

  “Will you join us for breakfast in the morning, Miss Thorn?” he asked without looking at her.

  “But the children—”

  “Bring them, too. We will have a family breakfast before Lord Eastleigh and his brothers depart. Seeing as they are your...acquaintances, I think you should be there.”

  Becky wasn’t sure what to make of the invitation. She had the distinct feeling that perhaps he did not want to be left alone with the marquess and the twins. As intimidating as Lord Hastings could be, there were not three of him. Either way, she would not refuse.

  “I shall see you at breakfast, then, my lord. Good night.”

  Eight

  Becky did not sleep a wink that night. No matter how hard she tried to put it from her mind, she could not stop thinking of the awkward moment in the drawing room.

  He had kissed her. No, she had kissed him, hadn’t she? She buried her face in her pillow, mortified at the thought. She had kissed her employer, the man who paid her wages, a man at least ten years her senior. A man with secrets and problems—more than any woman would ever want to assume.

  Assume? What was she thinking? It wasn’t as if they were going to take that silly kiss any further. It was a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment, on both their parts, that could never be repeated. If he allowed her to stay on, she would simply pretend nothing ever happened. She would go about her business with the children and do her best to avoid him at all costs.

  Unfortunately, she was having breakfast with him in just a few short hours. But after that she would begin her aversion tactics.

  Fraught with nerves, she paced her bedroom floor, wringing her hands. “I must find something to do with myself, if I’m not going to sleep,” she mumbled to the air.

  Spotting the book of Shakespeare Sonnets she’d retrieved from the library, she picked it up and flipped through to her placeholder.

  “All right, number fifty-seven,” she said as she plopped onto her bed and curled her legs beneath her. “‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’”

  She slammed the book shut without reading another word. To put “slave” and “desire” in the same sentence made her vastly uneasy.

  She drummed on the outside of the book with her fingers as she looked about the room for another diversion.

  “A letter!” she exclaimed, jumping from her bed. “Phoebe deserves to hear the truth from me directly. I’ll send it along with Lord Eastleigh in the morning.”

  Becky penned the note, but much to her dismay only fifteen minutes passed from start to finish. By the time Mrs. Brown came to wake her at half past five, she had written letters to everyone of her acquaintance, knitted a small pink cap for Phoebe’s baby, who she sincerely hoped would be a girl, and was dressed, eager for the day to begin.

  Although her body was exhausted, her mind was a bundle of nervous energy waiting to be expelled. She pushed past Mrs. Brown with an enthusiastic greeting and practically ran to the nursery. Before she even reached the door, she knew there was trouble. Lydia’s ear-piercing shrieks echoed down the hall, accompanied by a cacophony of loud banging.

  “They can’t be left alone for five minutes, can they?” she remarked to no one in particular.

  When she flung open the door to the nursery, she didn’t kno
w whether to laugh or cry at the horrifying scene. Lydia sat on the floor next to her dollhouse, her knees drawn close to her chest, her face the color of a ripe tomato, as she continued to release her blood-curdling screams. Max ran about the room, brandishing one of the small wooden chairs, using it to destroy everything that was in his path as if the chair were a sword and the toys were a jungle’s thicket. Food had been flung all over the nursery, and both children had bits of egg in their hair and butter smeared...well, everywhere.

  If it had not been so troubling, it might have been funny.

  “Enough!” Becky yelled into the room, but she could not be heard above the noise.

  She crossed into the room and was about to grab the chair from Max’s arms when he swung it backward and delivered a startling blow to Becky’s left cheek. Pain shot through her, sharp, like she'd never known. She fell to the ground with the force of it and let out a strangled cry.

  Max dropped the chair, his eyes wide with terror, and Lydia stopped her screaming while she waited to see what Becky would do.

  No one spoke.

  Becky put her hand to her cheek and winced at the contact. She slowly rose to her feet and stared back at the two children who watched her intently.

  She was furious. It took a good deal of strength to keep her hands from wrapping around the boy’s neck. But for obvious reasons she held back.

  “Are you going to hit me?” Max asked, panic in his voice.

  Sudden tears pricked at her eyes. Partially from the throbbing pain in her cheek, but mostly because of the sad and terrified eyes that regarded her now. He hadn’t meant to do it, and she knew that.

  Becky knelt down on her knees and beckoned him forward. From her position, they were almost of a height.

  She took him by his upper arms and made him look directly into her eyes. “You hurt me, Max,” she began in hushed tones, ignoring the pain that came from speaking. “I know you didn’t mean to, but it was bound to happen. May I ask why you saw fit to destroy the nursery with the chair?”

  He stared back at her with his azure eyes and she saw that they pooled with tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Thorn,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean to. Are you going to tell Uncle?”