“Where are you taking me?” she asked and then followed her question with a loud hiccough.
Stephen laughed. “You’ll see.”
Becky was sure she had never seen him like this, and she was positive it was not her current state of inebriation that made him seem giddy. Was that truly a laugh she’d heard?
He led her to a wing of the house she had never seen and finally to a large gallery where the walls were lined with portraits dating back hundreds of years.
“This,” he said with a flourish, “is the family portrait gallery, Miss Thorn. Several generations of Hastings men and women hang here, watching and waiting to see how their descendants are managing the estate...and their families. No doubt if they were alive, they’d be a bit disappointed in the way the last couple of generations have turned out.”
Becky turned to the viscount, her question in her eyes. Suddenly the evening had taken an interesting turn. He walked toward a large painting of a man and waited for her to follow him.
“This is my father.”
“Oh,” was all that Becky could manage.
“Right. That is about all there is to say about him. A cold, hardened man with unreasonable expectations. Needless to say, we were not close.” He moved on to the next portrait. The blue eyes made it evident who the woman was. “My mother. A frail woman, given to dark episodes, who drank herself to death.”
Becky said nothing, fascinated by the detached way Lord Hastings spoke of his family. As if they had been strangers to him. Perhaps they had been.
They moved on to a large painting that hung in the center of the back wall. A tufted, red velvet chaise faced the portrait and Hastings sat, never once taking his eyes from the piece.
When Becky looked up, she realized she knew the children in the painting. Younger versions of Max and Lydia stood next to a strikingly handsome man and a woman of equal beauty. And Becky understood why they were there.
“Their parents?” she asked quietly, sitting down beside Stephen on the chaise.
He nodded.
“Are they...?”
“Dead? Yes.”
Becky’s heart constricted. “How?”
“Arthur and I fought together at Waterloo,” he began. “We thought we were invincible. We were out to conquer the world...well, Napolean, anyway. But Arthur did not come back with me. He fell only a few hours before Napolean’s surrender, and I returned to Hastings House alone to pick up the pieces of my sister’s broken heart. Sadly, she could not be mended.”
He paused, clearly struggling to relive the next piece of the story. Becky remained silent, allowing him time to gather his thoughts and emotions.
“Marie was not a well woman, Miss Thorn.” He swallowed hard. “When she met Arthur, she was only sixteen, but she was in love with him. Or perhaps just infatuated. It was rather hard to determine. And seeing as she was in possession of a rather large fortune and carrying his child, they were forced to elope. She had Max the following year and things only got worse...”
“What happened when Lydia was born?” Becky prompted.
Hastings looked back up at the portrait, his eyes gray and stormy. “We all thought she had gotten better, actually. Her mood swings were less drastic; she smiled a lot—at least a lot more, so I’m told. But when I came back without Arthur, that was the end of it.”
“The end of what?” Becky wondered aloud.
“The end of Marie. It was the children who found her...in the weapons gallery.”
Realization dawned like a great squall. Suicide, and her children had been the first ones on the scene. No wonder they were so troubled. No wonder Lord Hastings was so troubled. She would be, too. This family had seen more than their fair share of hardships. For three generations the Hastings had been suffering and the man sitting next to her seemed caught in the middle.
She took Hastings’ hand. He did not flinch, only grasped the fingers that had reached out to him.
“It’s not your fault, you know?” she said softly. “You are not responsible for the mistakes of others.”
“No, but I’m responsible for what they left behind.”
Becky tried not to flinch at the bitterness in his tone. “It’s not their fault, either.”
Hastings acknowledged her comment with an absent nod.
“Thank you for telling me,” Becky said at last after a long bout of silence.
He finally dared to look at her and for once, she didn’t feel frightened or even uncomfortable. She only felt the overwhelming urge to hold him and comfort him, to be held in return.
But she no longer needed to suppress the urge. Hastings grasped her hand tightly and drew her on top of him in one swift movement. And then he was kissing her, touching her, caressing her back, molding her curves to his hardened form. He aroused sensations she never could have dreamed even existed.
“Lord Hastings.”
“Don’t you dare call me that when I’m kissing you,” he demanded before plundering her mouth once more.
“What about the children?” she gasped as he unclasped her dress, exposing her bare breasts to the cold air of the gallery.
“I would rather not talk about them right now, if you please.”
“But don’t you think—”
“No. Clearly, I don’t.” And then he kissed her again, making it impossible for her to say another word.
One hand reached up to her hair while the other held her firmly against him. He plucked the curls free of the few pins she had inserted and her hair fell in a cascade down her back. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, it occurred to her that anyone could come upon them. But when his hand closed around her breast, and his finger toyed with the tip, all was forgotten.
She succumbed to his caresses, to the play of his tongue on her lips, and reveled in each new sensation. She had never been kissed like this, and certainly had never been touched like this. It was so new, so intimate. Yet, she wasn’t scared or embarrassed. She was simply...aroused.
Hastings took his time, giving her opportunities to say no, to refuse him. In her wine induced haze, she was well aware that were she to ask him to stop, he would do so without question. But she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted this moment to last forever.
Twelve
Stephen woke several hours later somewhat surprised to find his governess lying half naked in his arms, but quite pleased that she was. He snuggled her closer, taking comfort in having her there as his mind wandered back to the evening’s events.
He’d never told anyone about his family, especially not about his sister. Only select servants knew what really happened that day in the weapons gallery.
But now that he had divulged his deepest, darkest secrets, he somehow felt lighter. In that moment, he might have even said he was happy.
Happy. He chuckled at the notion. He hadn’t been happy since he was a boy of twelve, heading off to Eton.
Becky shivered in her sleep and Stephen drew her closer to him, contemplating the odd feeling of levity in his chest. He stared down into her face and smiled. Her lips were softly pouted, and a little mew escaped with every exhalation.
Stephen would have been content to stay there with her all night, but he knew he couldn’t. It would soon be dawn, and the household would stir. It wouldn’t do to be caught with his governess half naked in the portrait gallery.
He maneuvered himself out from under her as carefully as he could and then scooped her easily into his arms. He had every intention of returning her to her own room, but then realized he had no idea which one was hers.
“Damn!” he hissed as he stared at her, sound asleep in his arms. “God help us if anyone finds out about this, my Sleeping Beauty.” And then he carried her off, like a captive princess, to his own bedchamber.
He moved quickly through the halls, worried that the hour might be late enough—or early enough, rather—for some of the servants to be awake already. A grateful sigh escaped him as he burst through his chamber door and used his booted
foot to close it once again. He laid Becky down gingerly on his bed, trying not to wake her, and removed her evening dress. He replaced her chemise back over the plump breasts he had bared a few hours earlier. A surge of longing came over him. Not necessarily lust, although that was certainly on his mind, but a longing just to be with her. Just to be near her. It felt like heaven to have her cuddled against him, and he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet.
Stephen crawled into the bed beside her, hushing her sleepy moans with soothing words, and gathered her once again into his arms. Surely, this was madness. But as he took in her heady scent—soap and wine and sunshine—he relaxed into a deep and uncommonly peaceful sleep.
***
The crow of a rooster stirred Becky in her sleep, but she wasn’t at all ready to wake yet. With a sigh, she burrowed further under the thick down coverlet and snuggled closer to the warm body next to her, determined to ignore the cock’s crowing.
Warm body? she thought sleepily and then, deciding she was in a pleasant dream, drifted back to sleep. That is until the warm body began to move and placed a heavy, muscular leg over her mid-section.
Becky opened her eyes and nearly swooned at the sight of her employer lying next to her, practically on top of her. Had it not been for the fact that she was already lying down, she most certainly would have fainted dead away.
“Oh, good heavens,” she whispered as the first streaks of sunlight crept through the heavy curtains.
She looked about the room, panic settling in the very marrow of her bones. How was she to get out of this? Mrs. Brown would surely wonder where she was by now and the children would be waiting for her to begin their lessons. Furthermore, it was after dawn, which meant the household was already bustling with servants. There was no way she could make it to her room without being seen.
Perhaps if she could slip out beneath Lord Hastings’ notice, he would forget what had happened last night. Although, the more she thought about it, the more she realized she was rather fuzzy on the details herself.
What had happened last night? And how in God’s name had she ended up in his bed?
Becky turned back to the sleeping man. She would have to remove his leg in order to get away. Part of her didn’t want to. A wicked little voice in her head told her to stay where she was and nuzzle closer to his hard, masculine body. However, this was one time where she could not allow that wicked voice to control her.
This was positively scandalous! It was bad enough she had dined with him alone—twice—but to engage in the kind of scurrilous activity that could land her in his bed was simply deplorable.
She wriggled her body, hoping to stir him enough so he would remove his leg, but it seemed the more she wriggled, the heavier his leg became. She tried pushing against it, but met with little success.
“Blast!” she mumbled. “Why won’t you move your blasted leg, you scoundrel?”
“You could try asking me to move my leg.”
Becky nearly jumped out of her skin. “You wicked man! How long have you been awake?”
Hastings chuckled and slowly opened his eyes. “Long enough to hear you cursing my name.”
“Do you mind?” she asked, indicating the leg that still held her captive.
He lifted his leg. She scooted away and then turned to him, apprehension settling deep in her belly.
“Did we...?” She gestured to the bed, unable to say the words.
“Believe me,” he said, a glint of pride in his pale eyes, “you would know if we had.”
“Lord Hastings, this is not a time for humor,” she scolded. “I’m ruined!”
“It’s not as if you’re a debutante, darling. The servants will look the other way.”
Becky climbed down to the floor, ignoring the fact that neither statement was actually true at all. “I am not your darling and this has nothing to do with the other servants. We slept together, for heaven’s sake!”
Hastings removed himself from the bed and padded to where she stood. Becky tried to avert her gaze from his near naked body and felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks. Goodness, he was glorious! His form was muscular and powerful, but somehow lean. And his—Oh, dear God, she really shouldn't have been staring at that!
He cupped her face in his hands and tipped it until she was forced to look at him. She met his hazy blue eyes and her breath hitched.
“Exactly,” he said. “We slept together. That is all. There is nothing for you to feel ashamed of...Becky.”
“Did you try—"
“Never. As caddish as I may seem, I would never try to take advantage of an unconscious woman.”
“How very honorable.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he continued. “As a matter of fact, it was my intention to deposit you in your own room. Unfortunately, I have no idea where that is, so you ended up here.”
“You could have slept on the sofa,” she ground out, and then added, “like a gentleman.”
“I could have. But I didn’t want to...I swear, Becky, I did not debauch you in your sleep.”
“Well, thank you,” she said, not knowing what else one should say in such a situation.
Her breathing had slowed to almost normal by now, although her heart still hammered hard against her chest. It was exhilarating to have him so near. The air in the room was chilled, but Lord Hastings radiated a burning warmth that reached to the core of her being.
Through the fogginess in her mind, she remembered the feel of his lips on hers, his hands on her breasts, and suddenly wished she could kiss him again. That she could stay here in his room with him.
But she couldn’t. A simple dinner had turned into a night of barely restrained passion and a shameful ordeal.
“How do I get out of here?” she asked, her face still cupped in his hands.
“Now that—” he tapped her nose playfully with his finger, “—is an excellent question.”
Hastings helped her dress in her gown from the night before and then quickly dressed himself. They discussed their options for getting her back to her room, but none of them was foolproof. The chances of her arriving safely on the other side of the house without being seen were slim.
“If you go by way of the portrait gallery, you stand to get lost. You were quite inebriated by the time we made it there last night. But if you take the back staircase, you will surely meet with one of the staff.”
“So then I’m stuck here?” She couldn’t deny that part of her was happy at that thought.
“No, I’ll just have to escort you,” he said plainly.
“Lord Hastings, how will that look when we are found traipsing through the house together with me in last night’s attire?”
“Would you please call me Stephen when we’re in private?”
Becky let out an exasperated sigh. “I think impropriety has played a big enough role in our collective lives. Private or no, I cannot call you by your given name. And you should stop using mine as well. I don’t remember giving you leave to do so in the first place. Now, how am I to get out of here?”
An amused Lord Hastings walked across the room to stand in front of her. “I’m escorting you to the main stair, Miss Thorn.”
“And if we’re caught?”
“We’ll think of something.” And with that he walked out the door.
***
“Darling, look!” Phoebe waved a small piece of parchment in the air as her husband strode across the lawn to her.
His black hair shone almost blue in the morning sun, and his riding pants accentuated his powerful thighs. Phoebe blushed as he neared. Though they had been married almost a year, he still made her feel giddy.
Benjamin bent to kiss her on the cheek and then took the seat between her and Katherine.
“Well, don’t you want to know what it is?” Phoebe asked excitedly.
“Not really,” he droned as he crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. “But I have a feeling that won’t matter.”
Katherine smacked him on the arm. �
��Go on, Phoebe, tell him.”
“We’ve been invited to Hastings House!”
“Well, that’s no surprise since we’re the ones who did the inviting.”
“Why are you in such a disagreeable mood this morning? Aren’t you excited?”
Benjamin popped a biscuit into his mouth with a sly grin. “I shudder to think what would happen if I weren’t.”
Phoebe tried to deliver a punch to his arm, but he caught her wrist and drew her close, forcing her to deliver a kiss instead.
He was laughing as he said in overdramatic tones, “I couldn’t be more excited if that river over there flowed with pure brandy!”
***
Stephen led the way through the house, berating himself all the way. He simply should have woken her up last night and seen her to her room then. Though he couldn’t deny he’d had the best night’s sleep of his life, lying next to her. But he didn’t care to think of the implications of such a thing at the moment. They had more important matters at hand.
They rounded the corner at the end of the corridor and Becky rammed into Stephen’s back when he came to an abrupt stop. There was a bit of a scuffle as he tried to push her back, out of sight of the servant making his way toward the staircase.
Neither of them said a word as they waited for the man—was it James?—to descend the stairs and disappear. But Stephen was acutely aware of Becky behind him, her rapid breathing; her mere presence did things to him that he wasn’t ready to analyze yet. He made a conscious effort to keep from reaching out to grab her hand as they set off again.
He did have to admit it was rather amusing sneaking about his own house, like a spy. With a beautiful, honey-haired accomplice.
As they reached the first floor landing at the bottom of the staircase, Stephen was feeling confident that they had avoided any major catastrophe. He stood to his full height, abandoning his “spy stance”, and marched confidently through the portrait gallery, through the main parlor and finally to the small vestibule that housed the servants’ staircase.
More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance) Page 8