More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  “Do you see my face, Max?” she asked earnestly.

  He nodded.

  “Is it turning black?”

  He hesitated a moment and then nodded again as a single tear escaped down his cheek.

  “Your uncle will ask me how this happened, and I will not lie to him. You must learn that although you do not intend bad things to happen, there are always consequences for your actions.”

  He nodded again, and more tears spilled onto his cheeks. Becky drew him into a tight embrace. “It’s all right. I forgive you, Max.”

  By this time, Lydia had become so overwrought that she had begun to cry again. Becky comforted the little girl while Max picked up the pieces of broken toys from the floor. She sat down, put Lydia on her lap and began fishing out the bits of egg from her blonde curls.

  It was in that moment, as she sat holding the child, that the exhaustion set in. An overwhelming, all-consuming need to sleep. Her eyes drooped involuntarily, and her head felt as if it held the weight of an anvil. Lydia climbed down after a few minutes and retrieved her doll, which had been caught in the crossfire. Becky propped her elbow onto the small desk and placed her head in her hand.

  The next thing she knew, a calm voice was calling her name. She opened her eyes slowly to see Mrs. Brown and the children standing over her. Becky glanced about, struggling to gain her bearings.

  “What happened?” she asked with a start.

  “Ya fell asleep, Miss—” Mrs. Brown broke off with a gasp. “Why is your face all purple, Miss Thorn?”

  Like a tidal wave, the events of the past several hours flooded her conscience and she sucked in a sharp breath as she realized the pain in her cheek.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” she said. “What time is it?”

  “Time for breakfast, miss. They’re all waitin’ for ya downstairs.”

  “But the children...I was supposed to get them ready. Lord Hastings said to bring them along.”

  “Never you mind, miss, I’ll keep watch over the children. You go on and have yourself a nice breakfast.”

  “But I can’t let them see me like this, Mrs. Brown!” The panic settled in her belly. “Lord Eastleigh will cart me right off to Ravenscroft Castle and Lord Hastings will...” Throttle Max, she was about to say and then stopped when she saw his face. The poor child already looked as if he might soil himself. She didn’t need to add insult to injury.

  “Miss Thorn!” Lord Hastings’ voice boomed down the hall, and everyone froze.

  “Miss Thorn, I—What the bloody hell happened to your face?” Hastings stood in the doorway now, clearly trying to process the scene.

  “Perhaps we could discuss that in private, my lord,” Becky suggested.

  “Later.” His eyes narrowed on his young nephew. “For now, your friends await us for breakfast.”

  Once they put a reasonable distance between themselves and the nursery, Hastings asked her again what happened to her face.

  “An unfortunate incident with a chair, my lord.” For some reason she felt horrible about tattling on Max. What would Lord Hastings do to him? Memories of her own childhood, of her violent and erratic father, came to mind, making her reluctant now to tell the truth.

  “Did you fall?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Were you pushed?”

  “No.”

  “Were you hit?”

  Becky hesitated and then nodded her head, knowing it was not her place to keep such a thing from the man. The children were not her own, but she could possibly do something to protect them from a fate similar to her own as a child. “Please, don’t do anything, yet. He didn’t mean to, my lord. Whatever that child does, there is not a malicious bone in his body. He did not mean for me to be hurt. I know that for certain, he...he’s very angry, my lord. About what, I don’t know, but he’s too young to understand his anger.”

  Lord Hastings seethed. His nostrils flared, his fists clenched by his sides. “I will teach him how to understand his bloody anger if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Becky stepped in his path to stop him from walking back toward the nursery and placed a hand on his chest. Both their eyes dropped to her hand and she quickly pulled it away as if his chest were a hot stove. She looked up and met his clear blue gaze.

  “He feels bad enough as it is, my lord,” she said carefully. “I agree there should be punishment, but hitting him for hitting me will not solve anything. Especially since it was an accident.”

  “Then what would you suggest, Miss Thorn?” he asked, acidly.

  “A proper...paddling?” She wasn’t sure at all what she meant by that and clearly, neither did he.

  “Proper?”

  “Yes. You must...punish...with love.”

  Hastings snorted. “I’ve never heard such nonsense, Miss Thorn.” His lips quirked into a skeptical smile. “Paddle with love? No, Miss Thorn, I shall discipline the boy however I see fit. The entire left side of your lovely— of your face is purple, for God’s sake.”

  Becky had no more words, no retort or recommendation. The viscount’s slip-up had rendered her mute. Had he really almost called her lovely?

  “Miss Thorn?” Lord Hastings waited for her to say something, but when she said nothing, he simply stated, “Your friends await.”

  Nine

  Stephen led the way to the dining room, not trusting himself to walk behind Miss Thorn. She already had him practically hypnotized. It was enough that he had to look so often into those shining green eyes; he didn’t know what would happen if he had the opportunity to take in the rest of her.

  Especially after their kiss. She was all he could bloody think about.

  They arrived at the dining room, and he stepped aside to allow her through first. “I’ve finally found her, gentlemen,” he announced.

  Eastleigh and the twins stood in deference, and Stephen watched as their jaws simultaneously unhinged.

  “Becky, what happened?” the marquess asked as he rushed to her. “Who did this to you?”

  He asked the question of Miss Thorn, but his black glare fixed on Stephen, who forced himself to remain expressionless.

  She laughed, a light tinkling sound very much in contrast with her somber demeanor from moments before. “No one did anything to me,” she told him. “I’m afraid I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was bludgeoned with a chair.”

  “A chair?”

  Stephen turned to look at the twin who had spoken and noted his expression was one of unveiled skepticism. He was certain they all imagined him to be the culprit.

  “That’s right,” she agreed. “Little Max was in a bit of a state this morning, but it’s all been sorted out." She pasted on a dazzling smile and said, "May we eat, now?”

  The three men looked from each other to Stephen and back at Miss Thorn before slowly returning to their chairs.

  “Is Max very often ‘in a state’, as you put it?” the other twin asked dubiously.

  “I’m afraid my nephew is a bit troubled,” Stephen replied.

  He did not care to speak of his family’s situation with anyone, let alone complete strangers who had barged into his home in the middle of the night. It was true Miss Thorn needed to know—deserved to know—the source of his nephew’s rage, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak on the subject. It was far too painful.

  “What on earth could a nine-year-old have to be troubled about?” Eastleigh wondered aloud.

  “A great deal, actually,” came Stephen’s acid reply. Not that the man deserved an answer. It was hardly his business. “Coffee?”

  Silence prevailed over the rest of the meal, everyone choosing to hold their tongues in lieu of a morning row. And when they were done, Eastleigh requested to speak with Miss Thorn alone.

  Obviously, Stephen could not say no. Though it was his house and his employee, he knew he did not hold the cards. It was obvious the marquess felt responsible for the girl, and rightly so, based on what she had told him of her relationship with th
e family. He had done a great deal for her, and it seemed she practically considered his family as her own. If he demanded she return to Ravenscroft Castle, Stephen was certain she would go.

  He prayed it would not come to that. It seemed the children had already formed an attachment to her, and perhaps he had too, though he preferred not to think of it.

  Stephen allowed them use of his study and waited for the verdict next door in the library. He contemplated eavesdropping, but in the end, decided against it.

  Grown men did not eavesdrop.

  Maybe it would be best if Miss Thorn went back home. Perhaps he could go back to being who he was before: sure and sound and in control of his thoughts and feelings.

  He thought about their kiss the night before and the way she had touched him in the hallway earlier that morning. The way he had almost said something endearing in broad daylight.

  Bloody fool! It was one thing to have been enticed to kiss her in the dim firelight at two in the morning, but to be so overcome while the sun was shining...

  A knock interrupted his thoughts and the marquess appeared in the doorway before him.

  “Eastleigh.”

  “Hastings.”

  They acknowledged one another with a slight nod.

  “Becky assures me that it was in fact Max who bludgeoned her this morning,” the marquess began, “though you must understand my concerns that she might be lying. I don’t believe Miss Thorn to be a dishonest person, but she is too determined for her own good. She was determined to make her own way in the world—to not rely on our kindness and good fortune. And she did, in fact, lie to conceal the reality of her current situation here at Hastings House. I leave her with you, but with a great deal of reluctance, you understand?”

  Stephen contemplated his next words very carefully. He understood the marquess’ concerns but at the same time felt incredibly defensive at the accusations.

  “Lord Eastleigh, although I am not what most would consider to be a warm person, I am not so ill-behaved that I would strike a woman. And even if I were such a man, do you really think I would do so with you and your brothers in such close proximity?”

  “You have a point, Hastings, although I also have my concerns about the boy. I do not wish for Miss Thorn to be subjected to danger whether from a grown man or a child.”

  Stephen’s blood boiled at the mention of his nephew. The little bugger had made this very difficult situation even more unbearable.

  “The boy will be punished appropriately. I assure you this will never happen again. You have my word.”

  “Well, then,” Eastleigh said lightly. “I believe it’s time for my brothers and I to make our departure. Thank you for your hospitality, Hastings. Hopefully next time we can meet under less strained circumstances.”

  They shook hands, and Stephen walked Lord Eastleigh to the front hall where Miss Thorn was saying her goodbyes to the twins.

  “Do take care of yourselves,” she said, her green eyes misting.

  “You too, Becky.” One of them—Michael, perhaps—engulfed her in a warm hug and Stephen couldn’t stop the stab of unwelcome jealousy.

  He suppressed the urge to take her into his arms himself. Instead, he bid adieu to the twins while Miss Thorn said goodbye to Lord Eastleigh.

  “Please make sure you give these to Phoebe as soon as you arrive back at Ravenscroft,” she said as she handed over the letter and a baby cap. “I knitted this for the baby last night...I’m hoping for a girl. And this letter explains everything. I thought it best for Phoebe to read it from me rather than hear it from you. You will assure her everything is all right, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” the marquess replied. “Just try to keep your face away from flying chairs in the future.”

  The three men made their exit, leaving Stephen alone with Miss Thorn once again. Somehow, he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her, which was rather unlike him.

  “You knitted an entire hat last night?” he asked, trying to keep the amusement from his eyes.

  She looked at the floor. “Well, I finished it—”

  “Right,” Stephen cut in, deciding he did not really want to confront the events of the previous evening. “Well, I suggest you go down to the kitchen and get something for that cheek. I’m going to have a word with Max. I’ll see you...well, when I see you, I suppose.”

  Ten

  “What were you thinking?” Phoebe exclaimed at her husband for what seemed like the hundredth time. “How could you leave her there alone with an unmarried man and two hellion children?”

  “Darling, calm down, it’s not as bad as all that.” Benjamin lay across the bed, his hand to his forehead.

  Phoebe had been berating him for nearly an hour now, outraged that he had willingly left Becky at Hastings House. If he didn’t find a way to calm her down, she’d send herself into labor.

  “Benjamin, what are we going to do?”

  “We are going to do nothing,” he replied firmly. “Becky wants to be there. We are not going to drag her away just because you’re suspicious.”

  “And what about you? You don’t think this situation is at all worthy of suspicion?”

  Benjamin let out an exasperated sigh. He was tired from two days of traveling and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Clearly, that was not going to happen. Nothing he said seemed to make any difference in his wife’s current state of outrage.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Phoebe persisted.

  “Come here.”

  “I’m too upset to sleep. We need to talk about this.”

  “Phoebe,” he said, a warning tone in his voice. “Come here.”

  Phoebe inhaled through her nose, clearly agitated at his demands. But she had to know that he would not say another word on the subject unless she went to him. She rolled her eyes and slumped her shoulders in childlike diffidence, then plopped herself, and her massive belly, ungracefully on the bed. “Yes?”

  Benjamin rolled onto his side and began caressing her back. “Why don’t you tell me how you’ve been for the past couple of days? Are you feeling all right? Getting enough sleep?”

  “Benjamin, I don’t want to talk about me!” she cried, her tone laden with frustration.

  “Well, I don’t want to talk about Becky or Lord Hastings.” He kept his voice calm as he placed delicate kisses along the back of her arm, inhaling her wonderfully familiar scent as he did. “We’ll have to come to some kind of compromise, won’t we?”

  She squirmed slightly, but not enough to make him stop. “What kind of compromise?” she asked with a pout.

  Benjamin readjusted himself on the bed so he was sitting up. Pushing her luxurious auburn hair over her opposite shoulder, he nibbled at the nape of her neck, causing a rash of goose pimples to break out on her skin.

  “Benjamin! We haven’t finished talking about this.”

  He reached around her and tugged at the ribbons holding her robe together. It slipped away, revealing a thin chemise, which shared the same fate. “I think I’m finished, darling,” he whispered as his hand molded around her naked breast.

  Phoebe arched back into him as his hands roamed freely over her breasts, pausing to tease the rosy tips. “Well, I’m not,” she said with a breathless moan.

  “All right.” Benjamin moved to her side, but didn’t remove his hand from her. “Say what you must and be done with it.”

  “I think...ah...”

  He leaned his head down and took the hardened nipple into his mouth. “Mmmhmm, go on,” he urged, his voice muffled.

  “I think...we should secure...ah!” Benjamin rejoiced that he’d made her lose her train of thought. “Secure...an invitation.”

  “To where, darling?” he asked as his teeth grazed her taut nipple.

  “To—oh, you louse, you know where!” she exclaimed, unable to take any more teasing.

  “You’re in no condition to travel, my love.”

  “But I will be...soon, I hope.” Hearing the sudden
exhaustion in his wife’s voice, Benjamin abandoned his seduction and raised his head to look at her.

  He stroked his fingers through her hair and pulled her closer so he could kiss her. “Consider it done, my love. Consider it done.”

  ***

  Two days later Becky’s cheek was on the mend, which meant she looked like a frightening monster. Shades of purple and yellow dominated the left side of her face, and she felt sorry that the children had to look at her all day long. Despite the pain, she had no choice but to continue Max and Lydia’s lessons.

  On this particular day, they had begged her to take their lessons outside—that is, Max and Clarabelle had begged her—and although the sun only contributed to her pounding headache, she could not deny the children such a lovely spring day.

  They sat in the middle of a lush green patch of the garden, Max reading to himself from a book of Greek history, and Lydia trying to read aloud from a children’s primer with Becky’s help.

  Becky was having a difficult time concentrating, though. Her mind continually wandered to thoughts of Lord Hastings. She had not seen him since the morning Lord Eastleigh and the twins had left, but she’d seen full well the results of his handiwork on Max.

  The child had returned to the nursery that day, his eyes red and swollen, as she imagined his backside must have been. But when she questioned him, he refused to talk about it, already trained in the prideful ways of the aristocracy.

  “Clarabelle, can you please tell Miss Thorn that I’m tired of reading?”

  Becky looked down at the girl and chuckled softly. She looked like a little angel with her blonde curls gleaming in the afternoon sun. It was impossible to deny her anything she pleased.

  “All right, Clarabelle,” she replied. “Tell Lydia she may go and pick wildflowers if she prefers.”

  Lydia took off across the garden at a run toward a patch of wild daisies, her doll and primer forgotten on the blanket.

  “May I go too?” Max asked with squinted eyes.