More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  “Of course,” Becky sighed. “Just don’t go too far. We still have a great deal to do before dinner.”

  Max ran off after his sister and Becky collapsed backwards onto the grass. She closed her eyes, drinking in the warm sun, reveling in the cool breeze, thankful that the children had suggested a recess. Her head still pounded, making her more tired than she might normally have been.

  A cloud moved over the sun just then, sending a shiver down her spine. Becky sat up to retrieve her shawl and nearly jumped out of her skin.

  The cloud was, in fact, a very finely dressed viscount.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I frighten you?”

  “No, I mean, yes...but, it’s all right. I just thought...” She looked up to find him staring at her, a beguiling grin across his face. “May I help you with something, my lord?”

  “How is your eye?” Lord Hastings inquired politely.

  “Better, thank you, although one wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at it, I’m sure.”

  “Right.” He seemed distracted.

  “Lord Hastings, is everything all right?”

  He paused to think about her question and then held out his hand to her. “Would you care to take a walk with me, Miss Thorn?”

  “But the children—”

  “Just a short one. We won’t go where the children can’t find us.”

  Becky was glad of that. She certainly didn’t want to be anywhere truly alone with Lord Hastings. She had already kissed him; Lord knew what she might do next time there was no one about to catch them.

  She took his proffered hand and allowed him to haul her to her feet. Evidently, he was not all too aware of his own strength and he hauled her right into his chest. She would have stumbled back to the ground if not for the sturdy arm that snaked around her waist to steady her. There was an uncomfortable pause as they stood there, almost nose to nose, before Lord Hastings dropped his arm and stepped away from her.

  “Shall we?”

  Becky walked alongside him, stealing glances when she could, taking note of his distinctive features. The way the sun illuminated a few golden strands of his thick brown hair. The way his breeches hugged his powerful thighs. The shine of his Hessian boots. The way his brow furrowed as if he had something of grave importance to discuss with her.

  “I received a letter, Miss Thorn,” he said at last, breaking the tension. “From Ravenscroft Castle.”

  Becky was surprised. She had not yet heard back from Phoebe. How disconcerting that her friend had written to Hastings first.

  “May I inquire as to the nature of the letter, my lord?”

  “Well,” he began, “it’s hard to say. The letter is signed Lord Eastleigh, yet I can’t help feeling it was written by the marchioness. You see, in the letter, your friends invited themselves to come for a stay at Hastings House. Not in so many words, of course, but somehow I can’t countenance his lordship being so...forward.”

  Becky stifled a giggle. Either Phoebe had written it or she had threatened Benjamin with his life if he didn’t do it himself.

  “I do apologize for my friend’s behavior, my lord, and I daresay your suspicions are probably on the mark, although I am not sure why you have informed me of this. I am guessing you will not actually extend the invitation to Lord and Lady Eastleigh.” And how on earth did Phoebe plan to travel in her condition, anyhow?

  “Quite the contrary, actually,” Lord Hastings admitted. “I wanted to see how you felt about having a house party.”

  Becky stopped in her tracks, forcing Lord Hastings to turn back to face her. “I fail to see how I should have any bearing over whether or not you have a house party, my lord.”

  “This from the girl who told me that I should ‘paddle with love’?” One eyebrow quirked mockingly. “I want to know if you think the children would do all right with guests in the house.”

  “Have they never been exposed to outsiders, my lord?”

  “Very few, and not in a very long time.” He stared down at his boots. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a socialite, Miss Thorn.”

  “So I gathered,” she mumbled almost inaudibly.

  “If you wish to deliver an insult, I prefer you do so to my face, Miss Thorn.”

  His expression had grown hard again, and Becky felt suddenly foolish for speaking out of turn. If only she could get hold of her tongue.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said flatly. “In the future I will be certain to shout my insults so that all the world may hear.”

  “That will do, Miss Thorn.”

  Becky’s cheeks turned hot. What was the matter with her? Why did she feel it appropriate to speak so candidly with her employer?

  “They will be fine, Lord Hastings,” she said after a moment.

  “Who?”

  “The children, remember? The house party?”

  “Oh, of course. Right. Well, then, that’s all I needed to know. I will extend the invitation to your friends and perhaps some friends of my own. Just to make it even, you know...” He trailed off, seeming vastly uncomfortable all of a sudden.

  “Is there something else you wish to discuss, my lord?” Becky ventured.

  She was half hoping they might be able to address their kiss in the drawing room. Not that she really wanted to, but perhaps they could clear the air and move on to establish a working relationship that wasn’t riddled with uncomfortable silences.

  “No, Miss Thorn, not that I can think of.” He looked at her meaningfully. “Was there a topic you wished to discuss?”

  Becky thought her heart might beat out of her chest as he stared at her. He was so devastatingly handsome in the sunlight, his eyes the color of the skies above them. She absolutely could not seem to find her tongue.

  What was she to say anyhow? They both knew that what they had done was wrong. That it could never happen again. So what was there to discuss? Should she tell him never to touch her again or would she regret it if she did?

  Thankfully, the children came bounding over the hill just then, freshly picked daisies in hand.

  “Perhaps I should go,” Lord Hastings said.

  “No, please don’t.” Becky stopped him. “I’m sure the children would like to say hello. They see so little of you.”

  “Yes, and I daresay we’re all better off for it.” He turned to go, but it was too late.

  “Clarabelle!” Lydia screamed into the air. “Tell Uncle that I’ve picked some flowers for him!”

  Becky watched as the child ran to her uncle, wrapping her slight body around his legs. Lord Hastings was obviously not used to such displays of affection—at least not from children—and looked as if he preferred to be trapped in a burning building rather than be hugged by a five-year-old girl. He reached down to pry the child from his legs, but she only giggled and held on tighter.

  “Lydia, please let go of my legs,” he said as if he were negotiating a business transaction.

  More giggling.

  “Lydia!”

  “She can’t hear you, you know?” came Max’s admonishment. “You have to tell Clarabelle to ask her.”

  Lord Hastings’ eyes flashed with sudden anger, and Becky decided it was past time for her to step in.

  “Clarabelle—”

  “No!” Lord Hastings cut her off, his face turning a violent shade of red. “You will both stop indulging this nonsense immediately. She can hear me just as you can. And Clarabelle does not exist!”

  The giggling stopped, but Lydia continued to cling to her uncle, her pale eyes filled with unshed tears as she looked up at him. Becky’s heart went out to the poor girl. She was so young to be constantly subjected to the unfeeling tempers of the men in her life. Now the one person, imaginary or not, that she had trusted and depended upon the most had been rendered nonexistent. She was certain Lydia did not think Clarabelle was real, but to have her friend denounced publicly had to be heartbreaking.

  Becky knelt down next to the child. “Lydia,” she whispered, her glare on the
man being held captive. “He didn’t mean it. We all know how real Clarabelle is and how much you love her. Come, let us go find her and take a nap.”

  At Becky’s touch, the child released her uncle and fell willingly into her governess’ arms. She hugged her tightly, her head on Becky’s shoulder, as they walked back to the house, leaving Max and Lord Hastings to gather up the mess they’d left on the lawn.

  “Miss Thorn!”

  Becky stopped to turn to Lord Hastings.

  “You will meet me in my study once the child has been deposited in her room.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later Miss Thorn stood before the large mahogany desk in Stephen’s study. Her cheeks and hair were sun-kissed, and her skin slightly dewy from the heat.

  Stephen had never wanted someone more than he wanted Becky Thorn at that very moment. She beguiled him at every turn, made him desire her and despise her in the same moment and, worst of all, made him feel things. Things he had hoped would stay suppressed forever.

  He no longer knew what to do, what to think, how to act. She had turned his world upside down and she wasn’t any the wiser. This young, beautiful, outspoken governess had succeeded somehow in making Stephen feel like a person again. Like a part of the human race.

  And damn it, he hated that.

  “Ahem,” Becky cleared her throat as if she meant to get his attention.

  Not that she needed to. He was quite aware of her presence.

  “Have a seat,” he said, a little more coldly than he had intended.

  She sat gingerly, self-consciously, he noticed. Stephen knew that he unnerved her, especially since their kiss, but he couldn’t help it. She unnerved him, too.

  “Do you know why I called you here, Miss Thorn?”

  Becky shifted in her chair. “I would assume to discuss Clarabelle.”

  Stephen walked around to the front of his desk and perched in front of her, leveling her with his gaze. “Why does she do that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why does she do that? Speak only to her imaginary friend?”

  Becky blinked as if she weren’t quite sure she had heard him correctly. “I-I wish I knew, my lord,” she stammered. “I’ve known Lydia for barely a week and unfortunately no one seems able to offer any insights into the child’s past.”

  Stephen nodded. She was right, of course. How could she know why the child acted as she did when she knew nothing about her? He knew all about Lydia, but still he didn’t understand why she preferred the counsel of her imaginary friend to living, breathing people. But perhaps it was time he told the new governess just what lay beneath the surface of his sad family.

  “Miss Thorn, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me this evening?”

  More blinking. Clearly, he had taken her off guard. Of course she would say no—for God’s sake, she should say no. After what had happened between them, he wouldn’t blame her, but he sincerely hoped she wouldn’t hold it against him.

  “I’m not sure that’s such a wise idea, my lord.” Becky’s voice was barely a whisper.

  “Miss Thorn,” he said as he sat down in the chair beside hers. “I haven’t been what one would call polite since you’ve come here. As a matter of fact, I’ve probably been the antithesis of polite. And I’m certain that kiss only complicated things. But I would like to change your opinion of me, if you will give me the chance.”

  She looked up at him with her startling green eyes and asked, “Why?”

  Stephen couldn’t help but laugh at her question. “I don’t know, Miss Thorn, I just would.”

  Becky stood, her brow crinkled in confusion. Stephen was sure she was going to say no. He steeled himself for the rejection, unsure of why it mattered so much to him.

  “Very well.”

  “Come again?” He couldn’t have heard her correctly.

  “I said ‘very well’. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Stephen smiled after her, wondering what the devil he was thinking.

  Eleven

  After Becky fed the children and told them each a bedtime story, she took to her room to prepare for dinner that evening. She must have been out of her mind to accept the invitation, but her curiosity always seemed to win out over her logic. So, she donned one of the finer dresses in her collection, and primped for a late and probably awkward dinner with her employer.

  What would her mother think if she could see her now? She retrieved a locket from the top drawer of her bureau and opened it. Inside was the only miniature ever rendered of Lady Thornton. It wasn’t a very good likeness, and it was worn from years of handling, but it was the only way for Becky to remember her. She missed her mother immensely, especially now when she needed her advice. There were many questions she needed answered: Had she done the right thing by leaving Ravenscroft Castle? Was she doing the right thing now by cavorting with the man who paid her wages? Had it been wrong to kiss him?

  Of course she knew all the answers already, but it would have been nice to have someone validate her feelings. To tell her everything was going to turn out just the way it was supposed to. The sense of foreboding that came over her now was not at all reassuring.

  Mrs. Brown knocked on her door, interrupting her plaintive thoughts.

  “He’s waiting for you, miss.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” she said as the woman fastened the last of the clasps on her gown. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Becky walked the corridors, barely aware of what she was doing. She felt stiff and nervous and in desperate need of strong libation.

  She entered the dining room on silent feet that did not alert Lord Hastings to her presence, and she almost decided to leave it that way. He stood by the fire in crisp black evening clothes, one arm propped on the mantel, his hair slicked into a distinguished coif.

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Becky thought that the volatile Lord Hastings looked like a dangerous man. Not dangerous in the way one might think, based on his short temper and terse tongue, but dangerous in a way that might be devastating to a young woman’s heart.

  “Good evening,” she said at last. Her voice drew his attention away from the burning embers.

  He paused as if drinking in the sight of her and then bowed ever so slightly. “Good evening,” he echoed. “Please, sit down.”

  Lord Hastings pulled out the same chair Becky had occupied during their last dinner together, and she sat obligingly.

  “Wine?”

  “Yes, please.” He passed a goblet to her and Becky breathed a sigh of relief as the warm, crimson liquid made its way to her belly.

  His lordship sat and drank of his own wine as a servant placed the first course in front of them.

  “So how are you settling in, Miss Thorn?”

  “Fine, thank you. The children really are wonderful.”

  “And the rest of the staff? Are they treating you well?”

  Becky paused. The truth was she spent very little time with the servants. Mrs. Brown was the only one she saw on a regular basis.

  “Fine, my lord. Just fine.”

  Becky felt the heat of Lord Hastings’ stare on her as she sipped her turtle soup. She looked up and met his amused blue eyes.

  “What?” she asked, her voice more candid than she intended.

  “Fine, you say?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Why did you hesitate so before you answered?”

  She did not respond but only stared back at him with what she hoped was a vacant expression.

  “Out with it. Have they treated you poorly?”

  She bit back the urge to tell him that no one had ever treated her as poorly as he had when she first arrived. “No, of course not, it’s just...”

  “Yes?”

  “No one ever said that being a governess would be easy.” She smiled even though the very subject tugged violently at her heart.

  “What do you mean?”

  Becky met his gaze and realized he w
as truly interested in learning what she had meant by her statement. She hesitated to tell him. To let her guard down with this man could be perilous. To admit how lonely she was without her friends, away from her home, would only make her more vulnerable. She guessed that was the last side of herself she should expose to Lord Hastings.

  But somehow she couldn’t stop the words. “Well, my lord, the position of a governess is tricky, as I’m learning. I’m not used to being so...alone.”

  “Are you lonely now?” he asked in a low murmur.

  She nodded her head. “Quite.” But it was so much more than that.

  The truth was that she had never felt so out of place in all her life. So out of sorts, tired, confused, questioning the decisions she had been so thrilled to be able to make in the first place. It wasn’t like her, but that didn’t matter. She was where she was for a reason.

  For the children.

  She had not come to Hastings House to make friends, and she had certainly not come with the belief that she would find a place she would call home. She came to earn her own wages, to care for children who had no one else and to perhaps learn a little about herself.

  All of a sudden she desperately wanted to change the subject. “May I have more wine, please?” she asked, adding a jovial lilt to her voice.

  A footman refilled her glass promptly as the main course was placed before them. The conversation turned to talk of the local gentry, the weather and the breweries for which Lord Hastings had become popular.

  It seemed that the more wine she drank, the less inhibited she became. She found herself slipping into an easier time despite the fact she dined with her handsome and often tyrannical employer. When the dinner was done and the dishes had been carted away, Hastings refilled both their wine glasses and bid Becky to follow him.

  “I really shouldn’t have more, my lord. I daresay I’ll collapse before I make it up the stairs.”

  “Don’t worry,” he replied as he ushered her from the dining room. “I’ll make sure to catch you should you fall.”

  Becky’s heart fluttered at his insinuating remarks, and she ruthlessly squelched her burning desire to kiss him again.

  With his hand on the small of her back, Hastings steered her through the halls of the manor and up the main staircase. It was dark and quiet, all the servants having gone to bed already. Her head spun slightly and her skin was a tad warm in spite of the drafty corridors.