“No, please, Stephen,” she pleaded, grabbing at the lapels of his coat. “I don’t want to move. I’m fine here.”
“No. You’re not,” he said with finality, wishing to put an end to her protests.
“What will the other servants say?”
“Who cares what they say? You deserve better and I won’t have you pent up in this tiny room with a dodgy lock!”
There was a pause, a moment during which Stephen thought she might have seen reason, but it was fleeting. “Then fix the lock.” She crossed her arms over her chest in defiance. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Stephen sighed. It was time to try another tactic. He wanted her in the main part of the house, closer to him, where he could watch over her better.
He pulled her close again, stroking her hair with a gentle hand. The overwhelming need to protect her, to keep her safe, caused him to alter his tone.
“Becky, for your safety, I beg you, allow me this one concession.”
***
Becky wasn’t thrilled to remain alone in this particular chamber after all that had transpired. And Stephen made a valid point. What if Shaw somehow made his way back into the house? He would know where to find her, and in the dead of night, no one would be the wiser. She didn’t want to cause a stir amongst the servants—she already felt alienated enough in that realm. But in the end, she had no choice but to acquiesce.
She nodded her head. “Fine. I’ll go.”
Stephen heaved a sigh of relief and planted a kiss to her brow. Becky wanted nothing more than to melt into him and stay in his arms all night, but he pulled away and stood from the bed. “I’m going to call for Mrs. Brown. I’ll be right in the hall if you need me.”
He tugged on the bellpull and then stepped through the small door, closing it firmly behind him so that Becky could change into another dress.
She was still shaking as she unfastened the clasps of her gown. Tears threatened to spill forth once more as she hung it in her armoire, the ripped fabric a reminder of what had almost been. But she choked them back, forcing herself to remain strong, to not think about what could have been, but what was. Though that was just as terrifying a prospect. What would Shaw do now that he knew where she was...and that she was alive? Even worse, what would her father do?
Becky heard Mrs. Brown’s waddling feet amble down the hall. Stephen’s voice was muffled as he gave instructions to the housekeeper, and then the woman retreated once again.
A light knock came on Becky’s door, and Stephen entered once he’d been granted permission. His expression was grave, his dark brows settled into a worried frown.
Becky suddenly felt self-conscious standing there in front of him. Her body trembled with the mix of emotions, her heart and mind raging a fierce battle within her. Part of her desperately wanted to run to him, to take her place back in his comforting arms. But another more sensible part of her warned to take care. It wouldn’t be long before all of London knew of her deception, and then where would that leave her? Where would that leave Stephen?
Rain began to tap lightly at the window, prompting her back to reality, to the man standing before her.
“You should probably get back to your guests, my lord.”
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he said decisively. “Come, I will show you to your new room.”
Becky had to admit her new room was far more preferable to the rustic closet she’d been living in. It wasn’t all that large, but the fabrics were light and white, trimmed in pale green, the walls papered to match. Someone had taken great care in decorating this room, and Becky found herself curious as to who had occupied it before.
Two maids came in to fill the copper tub by the fire and Stephen instructed them to stay with her until Lady Eastleigh arrived. Becky could not bring herself to look at them, even as they helped her to bathe. She could only imagine what they thought of this new situation, or the rumors they would spread below stairs. She could only pray Phoebe would come quickly to alleviate the tension that hung like a dense fog in the room.
It wasn’t until she was clad in her cotton nightgown and tucked beneath the counterpane that the door to her new bedchamber creaked open. Phoebe stepped through, still in her elegant, dark blue evening gown and the maids made their exit as she edged around the bed.
“Becky?” Phoebe looked down at her, her brown eyes awash with concern. “What has happened?”
In brief detail, Becky relayed the events of the evening, omitting the bit about Shaw being her cousin, of course. Once Phoebe was satisfied that she was calm and safe, she took her leave, claiming Becky should get her rest.
Though Becky wasn’t sure she would ever rest peacefully again.
Twenty
Becky stretched under the warm, plush coverlet of her new bed as the sun filtered into the room. Her eyes still closed, she let the sunlight warm her face while her mind sought consciousness. She sat up, yawned and rubbed her eyes until they felt ready to be exposed to daylight.
And to Lord Hastings.
“Good morning." He smiled as she stared blankly at him. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh,” was all she could manage just then as she struggled to remember the events of the previous night. The ones that had landed her in this room. “Eh, fine, I think.” She cocked her head to the side. “What are you doing here?”
Stephen gave a laugh and leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve been watching you sleep. Waiting for you to wake up.”
His voice was a deep rumble that was altogether discomfiting and comforting at the same time. She looked up and met his eyes, clear and blue, like the sky just outside her window. He was smiling suspiciously.
“Why?” she asked, still not awake enough to read the meaning in his gaze. “And where are the children?”
“Getting ready.”
“For...?”
“Today is the annual summer festival.” He leaned over and pushed a lock of her unbound hair from her eyes. “We are all going into town for the celebration.”
“Oh, of course.” She’d forgotten about it completely. She wanted to protest that she didn’t feel much like going out and celebrating, but Stephen didn’t give her the opportunity.
“I know that after last night, the last thing you probably care to do is dance and make merry. But it’s either that, or be left here, alone.”
“You’ve given the servants leave to go as well.” She nodded in understanding. Of course he wouldn’t deny them this one day of frivolity, especially when there would be no guests to tend to at the estate.
Stephen rose from his chair next to the bed and retrieved a tray from one of the side tables. “Here, I had breakfast brought up for you. I told everyone we would leave at noon. Do you think you can be ready by then?”
Becky glanced at the clock, amazed to see that a noon departure gave her just over an hour to get ready. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept until eleven in the morning. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t take her nearly that long to get ready; she would spend the rest of her time trying to figure out what to do about her situation.
She nodded and then Stephen bent to kiss the top of her head. Becky resisted the urge to pull him down into the bed with her. She wanted to feel the warm security that came with having him near. But he was gone before she could do anything about it.
***
At noon, the entire household climbed aboard the fleet of carriages that waited in the drive and set off for the celebration. Becky shared a small conveyance with the children and Mrs. Brown, while Stephen and his guests boarded several crested Hastings carriages.
The children chattered on excitedly, nearly drowning out the crunching sounds of rock and earth beneath them. The housekeeper, however, remained uncharacteristically quiet. Becky wouldn't have described her attitude that afternoon as cold, but she certainly didn't radiate with her usual warmth. It would not have taken a genius to understand the sudden change in the woman—clearly she took umbrage with Becky being move
d out of the servants’ quarters.
She considered bringing up the topic, explaining that Hastings did it for her own good and nothing else, but she chose to hold her tongue. No one would believe her anyhow. She didn't even believe herself. Of course he moved her for safety's sake, but why he cared so much about her safety was the question on everyone's minds. Would he have done the same for a scullery maid?
The carriage slowed as they grew closer to the noisy celebration. The sounds of children squealing and lively music penetrated the walls of the vehicle, causing Max and Lydia to squeal their own joy in return. When they came to a stop, it was mere moments before Stephen appeared at the door to help them all to the ground. Becky ignored the slight tingle that ran up her arm at his touch, and likewise his piercing eyes. Instead, she squinted into the bright sun until she spotted Phoebe near the carriage ahead of them.
Remembering her duty to the children, she took them by their hands, and led them to where the Wetherbys had gathered. Not surprisingly, Stephen followed.
"There you are," she said to Phoebe as they approached. "Would you care to dance with the children and me?"
Stephen interjected, "They don't know how to dance, Miss Thorn. They'll be trampled in that mayhem."
She ignored him as she bent to the children’s level. “Are you two ready to show your uncle what you’ve learned?”
Max and Lydia nodded their heads rigorously.
Her only response was a wry smile. “Lady Eastleigh, will you be joining us?”
Phoebe looked to her husband. “Will you be all right with Charlotte for a bit?”
“Of course I will!” Lord Eastleigh replied indignantly and then kissed his wife on the lips before turning her loose to dance.
***
Stephen watched with fascination as Becky ran with Lady Eastleigh and the children across the lawn to where the dancing was taking place, already a flurry of colored skirts as others weaved in and out of one another. He was so enthralled with her, every little thing about her made him want her more.
He focused on her lush body as she danced, every movement perfectly enticing. In her white dress, with her golden hair flouncing loosely down her back, and a chain of daisies crowning her head, Stephen felt as if he were snatching the cradle. But when he thought of her underneath him, wanton in his arms, he felt differently.
And when he thought of that blackguard, Shaw, atop her, a whole different set of emotions surfaced. Damn, how would he ever get that image out of his head? Thankfully, Becky seemed to have recovered from the ordeal, perhaps less scathed than he was. Or at least she was putting up a good front for her friends and the children.
“Your wards are quite spirited, aren’t they?” Eastleigh said as they settled onto a stone bench.
Stephen snapped back to the present. “I had no idea they even knew how to dance.”
“They didn’t until a few days ago. Miss Thorn and my wife spent an afternoon teaching it to them.”
“Really?” Stephen turned back to the dancers, amazed that Max and Lydia had learned the dance in one day. “They must be excellent teachers.”
Eastleigh gave him a questioning glance. “Is that not why you hired Miss Thorn in the first place?”
Stephen thought about that for a moment. He had never even asked Becky about her credentials, he realized. Whenever she tried to speak to him of the children, he changed the subject, not at all interested in what they were learning. But of course, he was not about to reveal such things to Lord Eastleigh.
“Well, yes, of course.”
The marquess picked up his cooing child from her frilled carriage and began to bounce her lightly upon his knee. Stephen had to admit he was not at all used to seeing men with infants. Or children at all, for that matter. It was foreign in their circles; titled men most often could not even describe what their children looked like. There was something a bit discomfiting in that this powerful peer had no qualms about displaying his affection for his young daughter, or for caring for her in the absence of his wife.
Stephen’s gaze shifted to Lydia, her small, blonde head covered with little curls and her eyes lit up as if it were Christmas morn. He had rarely seen her smile until Miss Thorn had arrived. And Max had smiled even less. They were angry and sad, and Stephen’s own brooding behavior only made them worse. It was no wonder Max always destroyed things and Lydia only spoke to Clarabelle. But they were so different now and it had not yet been a full month since Becky’s arrival. He wondered what happy times their future might hold now that she was there.
“Lord Hastings!” Stephen blinked from his reverie to find Miss Thorn standing directly before him. Her honey-blonde hair was wild and her green eyes twinkling. If he didn't know better, he might have mistaken her for an enchanted woodland fairy. “Do come dance with us!”
She pulled on his hand, her fingers soft and delicate around his, trying to move him from the bench.
“Miss Thorn, it’s been years since I’ve danced a ring dance.”
“Then you’ve danced it before! Splendid!”
And with that, he was off the bench, traipsing after Becky to dance around the pole. He was tentative at first, unsure of the steps, unnerved by the rapid pace, but within minutes it all came rushing back to him and he weaved expertly in and out of the other dancers. The lute music filled his ears, the laughing and singing of his niece and nephew...and Becky, who was responsible for the overwhelming sense of joy that filled him now.
When night fell and they had all tired of dancing, they walked together to the sweet vendor for refreshments. As Stephen stood in the queue, a light tug came at his coat and he looked down to see Lydia staring up, batting her pale blue eyes at him.
“May Clarabelle have a sweet bun as well, Uncle?”
Stephen smiled down at her. Even though Clarabelle was imaginary, he couldn’t very well say no.
“Well, I suppose—” And then he cut off when the realization hit him that the child had addressed him personally.
Not through Clarabelle.
“Lydia?” he asked, as if trying to assess to whom he was speaking.
“Yes?” she replied in the sweetest voice he'd ever heard.
“Darling, you spoke to me!” He bent down to her level and called, “Miss Thorn!”
Becky heard her name and rushed to see what was the matter. “Is everything all right?”
Stephen was beside himself, unsure of how he had missed his niece's miraculous transformation. “She spoke to me,” he breathed.
“Well, of course she did,” came Becky's reply. “She's always spoken to us, haven't you?”
Stephen stared at the two of them, dumbfounded by the new development. No one had ever reached the children the way this woman had. No one had ever reached him the way she had, either. Every day he was more convinced that Becky must hold some kind of magical powers.
She smiled up at him as he stood to his full height; that smile penetrated to his very core. Their gazes held for one earth-shattering moment before Becky turned her attention back to Lydia.
“Why don’t we go help Lord and Lady Eastleigh with the blanket?” she said to the child.
Lydia nodded and they turned to go, but Stephen stopped them. “Miss Thorn, may I have a word?”
Becky looked around uncertainly. There were droves of people about and it was hardly the place to have any kind of private conversation. She gave him a meaningful look.
“Perhaps later, my lord,” she replied, her speech slow and deliberate. “That is, if it can wait?”
Stephen understood her reservations. He nodded his consent and watched as they walked off into the twilight toward the lawn where the marquess was laying out the rug for their picnic. He joined them minutes later, his hands filled with plates of food, a runner boy behind him with even more. They all sat and ate heartily, famished after so much dancing and merriment, reveling in the cool evening breeze.
By now, several of the other house guests had joined them in their picnic, and
the conversation flowed as freely as the ale. Stephen noticed that not only did Becky drink the brew, but she seemed to enjoy it far more than the average woman might.
A sailor-song singing, ale-drinking governess. When looked at logically, she was the worst sort to bring up a pair of aristocratic children. But when one saw her with Max and Lydia, it was obvious that she was the perfect sort for them.
By midnight, the festivities had dwindled down, the musicians had tucked away their instruments and the vendors, their wares. The murmur of the nearby brook lent a peaceful atmosphere to the scene, lulling the children to sleep while young lovers walked arm in arm under glowing lanterns. Most of the servants had gone home, including Mrs. Brown, and Lord and Lady Eastleigh declared that it was time to take Charlotte out of the chilled night air.
Accepting that the glorious evening had come to an end, Stephen wrapped Lydia in his coat and swept her into his arms while Becky rousted Max and accompanied him to the carriage.
They settled into the coach, Stephen on one side with Lydia curled up in his arms, Becky on the other, Max’s head nestled in the fabric of her skirts.
Once they were rambling down the country road, Becky looked up at Stephen, her eyes searching as she studied him in the moonlight. “You wished to speak with me?”
His blue gaze settled on her in the darkness. “I did.”
She waited for him to go on.
“I’ve been thinking, Miss Thorn,” he began, “and I would like to offer you another position within my household.”
Becky blinked in surprise. “Are you not happy with my work with the children?”
He laughed, realizing she did not get his meaning. “It’s not that, Miss Thorn. I would like to offer you a far more...elevated position.”
“Elevated, how?” she queried.
“I would like to ask if—”
Stephen was cut off by a squirming Lydia, and he realized it was a foolish time and place to be having this discussion. He could not very well pose such a question with his niece right there in his arms. Asleep or not, this was something that needed to be addressed in private.
More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance) Page 13