Stephen waved him in and gestured to the chair in front of the desk. Eastleigh sat and slid one of the balloons to Stephen. There was silence while both men took a drag of their beverages and then the marquess leaned forward in his chair.
“Quite an evening last night, wasn’t it?” he asked, his tone leaden with obvious meaning.
Stephen rolled his eyes as he set his brandy down. “I’m going to assume you’ve heard.”
Eastleigh nodded. “Was I that obvious?”
Stephen looked down at the glossy surface of his desk. “May I inquire as to how much you’ve heard?”
“Only enough to know that she wants to come home.”
Stephen bit back the urge to tell the man that Hastings House was her home. Damn! He stood from his chair and strode to the window, his eyes focused on the drive where he’d first seen the top of her shimmering golden hair. “I’m a damned fool, Eastleigh.”
The marquess said nothing, so Stephen went on, assuming the man must agree with him.
“I asked her to be my mistress. My mistress! Have you ever heard of such an asinine thing in your entire life? What was I thinking? Anyone could look at the girl and know she’s not a mistress! She’s a wife, a mother, a teacher—not a blasted kept woman!”
“Then why did you ask her to be?”
Stephen thought for a moment, ashamed of his own stupidity. “Because I’m selfish, I suppose. Unthinking, idiotic, imbecilic. Need I go on?”
“I think I’ve got the idea.” Eastleigh grinned and sat back in his chair. “But, if you feel that way, why don’t you just marry her?”
Stephen’s eyes flashed with surprise as he looked at the marquess, startled that a powerful member of the beau monde saw nothing wrong with taking such a girl for a bride. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered why he himself saw anything wrong with it.
She was among the most intriguing women he’d ever known, and certainly among the smartest. The times he was with her were the happiest he could remember in recent, or even distant, memory. And she made the children happy too. How could he ever have thought to take her away from them?
Furthermore, it wasn’t as if he went into Society all that often anyhow. What the hell did he care what the ton thought of his actions?
Stephen’s heart twisted in his chest, a feeling totally foreign to his body. Years of hurt and heartache, anger and frustration, had made him forget what it felt like to love. To be loved.
To be in love.
A laugh bubbled within him and blurted from his mouth before he could stop it. “Marry her!” he exclaimed into the quiet room. “That is exactly what I plan to do...that is, if she’ll still have me.”
Eastleigh smiled as he rose from the armchair. “I’m sure you won’t have to worry on that account, Hastings. It’s obvious that the two of you are...”
Stephen nodded knowingly, thankful the man hadn’t spoken the words aloud, but grateful he understood. It was one thing to think about love, quite another to speak of it with another man. “Thank you for your support, and advice, in the matter, Eastleigh.”
“May I be the first to offer my felicitations?”
“Thank you,” Stephen said as they shook hands. “Now I should probably ask the bride.”
***
When Becky descended the stairs that afternoon, certain Stephen would be out of the house already, she found two adorable children, dressed and smiling, staring up at her from the bottom of the stairs.
And one dashing viscount staring at her as well. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket and shiny Hessian boots, his cream colored trousers tight and defining.
Becky’s heart lurched. He had always been handsome—breathtakingly so, if truth be known—but there was something different this morning. He lacked his usual arrogance, his brooding intimidation, the sense of anger that had remained before, even in his smiles.
The anger that had been there last night when she’d run off in the middle of their argument. But why shouldn’t she have?
Fresh indignation bubbled to her surface as his proposition replayed again in her head, but she fought to keep it at bay. The last thing she wanted was for the children to know anything was wrong. They would learn disappointment enough when she boarded the Eastleigh carriage in the morning.
“What’s this?” she asked as she approached, careful to keep her eyes on Lydia and Max rather than their uncle.
“Uncle is taking us on a picnic!” Lydia exclaimed, and though Becky wanted desperately to protest, to remind Stephen he had guests, she couldn’t bear to see any sadness on the child’s face.
“Shall we?” Stephen gestured to the open front door and Becky ushered the children through, nodding kindly to Bentley as they exited.
A barouche sat waiting in the drive, a large picnic basket resting by the driver.
“Where are we going?” Becky wondered aloud.
“You’ll see,” Stephen quipped surreptitiously as he lifted Lydia into the cab.
Becky waited her turn while he helped Max up to the seat and then she took the hand he proffered, daring a glance in his direction. Stephen gave her a warm grin and brushed her knuckles with his thumb, sending a frisson of anticipation down her spine. A frisson she immediately squelched with the memory of last night.
What are you up to? she asked with her eyes before she climbed into the seat next to Lydia. Stephen only lifted his brows in silent response and then followed close behind her. Once settled, the barouche took off at a leisurely pace.
***
Sitting across from Becky, Stephen seized the opportunity to study her, to assess her state of being after last night, to drink his fill of her. Dressed in a white muslin gown, sprigged with small green flowers the color of her eyes, the sun coloring her cheeks to a delicate pink, she was bewitching.
The very definition of beautiful.
Not a mistress, but a wife. Soon to be his wife.
Becky caught his eye, but he made no effort to disguise his pleasure in watching her. She looked away and he followed her gaze to the leafy oaks that lined the drive.
The day was glorious. The smell of summer lingered in the air and reminded Stephen of his childhood. Of running through fields with his sister. Of swimming at the pond and trying to distinguish shapes out of fluffy clouds. At least those were the things they did when their father was away. When the viscount had been in residence, both children were made to sit behind their tiny desks in the nursery and study their academics until their eyes couldn't focus anymore. Thankfully, the viscount had not often been in residence.
He glanced at his niece and nephew. It was his new mission in life to make sure Max and Lydia knew the same joys he'd known as a child; that they never know the pain of sitting in a wooden chair for hours on end. He hated that he'd wasted so much time being a boor to them already. That he'd somehow fallen into the habits of his father.
But it didn't have to be that way anymore and he knew it. Becky had changed that.
The barouche turned down a path leading to a picturesque pond that sat far out on Hastings’ property. There was shade aplenty and soft, manicured grass, perfect for setting out a picnic. Not to mention an abundance of frogs for keeping the children occupied.
Once they came to a stop, Stephen alighted first and then turned back to help Becky and the children. Max and Lydia went running for the pond as soon as their feet touched the ground, leaving Stephen and Becky alone to search for a spot to set up the picnic.
With the basket in one hand and Becky’s arm laced gingerly on his opposing arm, Stephen steered them to a blossoming elder tree, its small white flowers trickling to the ground, an enchanting addition to the already charming scene.
Becky knelt down on the blanket, once Stephen had laid it out, and began to unpack the basket. Roasted chicken and a loaf of bread, apples and sweet biscuits, along with a bottle of champagne, were among its contents. Stephen opened the bottle and poured two glasses of the effervescent liquid.
As Becky took her first sip, Stephen watched her intently, his eyes narrowed as he studied her.
“What?” she asked, and he did not miss the ice in her tone. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to forgive him. Of course, he’d yet to even apologize.
“Do you wish to discuss what happened last night?”
Becky shook her head. “What is there to discuss?”
“A great deal, actually.”
She looked away, toward where the children played by the pond. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“I know.”
Her head snapped back to look at him, shock in her emerald green eyes. But she didn’t bother asking how he knew. Instead, she said, “I think it’s for the best. I haven’t been here that long anyhow. Soon, the children won’t even remember my name.”
Stephen doubted that, and he knew Becky didn’t believe it either.
There was a long moment of silence before she asked, “Why did you bring me here?”
“I didn’t, remember? That was Mrs. Brown’s doing.”
Becky rolled her eyes. “No, I mean, why did you bring me on this picnic?”
Stephen focused his sparkling eyes on her, his expression sobering. “Because I thought that if you could see how much the children and I need you—want you—you might change your mind about leaving...I don’t want you to go.”
“You should have thought of that before...before last night.”
“How can I make it up to you, Becky?”
Marry me, she wanted to scream at him. Make me a bloody honest woman, you bastard!
But the opportunity was lost as the children came bounding up the hill from the pond. The pair ran full speed toward the picnic blanket, squealing with unfettered delight.
“Miss Thorn, you should see all the frogs in the pond!” Max came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the blanket. “There must be millions!”
“And Clarabelle even kissed one!” Lydia exclaimed, giggling happily.
Stephen grabbed the child by the waist and drew her into his arms, tickling her tummy. “Just so long as you didn’t kiss one!”
The child giggled even more as she tried to wriggle free of her uncle. In spite of herself, Becky smiled as she watched them together. Only weeks ago, he’d been afraid of being anywhere near Lydia. Angry and bitter, he’d kept them both at arm’s length, careful not to involve himself in their lives any more than he had to.
She knew full well they needed her and that deep down she needed them too. But what price was she willing to pay to stay? Would they go on like this forever—picnics and family outings—just the four of them? Or would he eventually take a bride, a real mother for the children?
It was yet to be seen, and she still had not made her decision, but for this moment she allowed herself to forget about the future and revel in the now.
She met Stephen’s eyes over Lydia’s blonde curls and smiled softly. He returned the smile, so warm and genuine, and Becky felt that somehow he was going to find a way to make it up to her.
Twenty-Three
The last evening of the house party was a bittersweet occasion. After the picnic with Stephen and the children, Becky felt as if things were looking up. Although she still had not come to a decision about whether or not she was going to stay at Hastings House.
Blast Stephen and his picnic! Blast his bloody proposal! And blast David Shaw! What she really should be doing is running for Dover to board the next boat to somewhere far away. Somewhere where neither of the men in her life could find her. But did she really have the gumption to pick up and leave that way? Without a word to her friends...or to Stephen? Despite his indecent proposal, she still cared for the bloody man.
By the end of dinner, she still had no answer, but she had come to one conclusion: that she would not waste her last night with her friends or Stephen. Seeing as her mind was not made up, she didn’t know whose last night it would actually be.
After dinner, they gathered in the drawing room to enjoy one another’s company for the last time. A quartet of gentlemen sat at the card table, a rousing round of Hazard occupying them, while the rest gathered around the pianoforte.
“Do play a waltz, darling, so we can dance,” Phoebe begged of her husband.
The marquess slid onto the tufted bench and poised his fingers above the keys just as a strong hand clamped around Becky’s elbow.
“May I have this dance, Miss Thorn?”
Becky looked up into Stephen’s smiling eyes and felt her resolve slowly slipping from her grasp. She inclined her head and walked with him to the middle of the room. Phoebe and Lord Andrew were already there, poised to curtsey and bow.
The music swelled and Stephen took Becky into his arms, holding her close. His hand splayed across her back and held her steady when her knees wobbled and threatened to fail her.
She caught Phoebe’s eye as they whirled about; an eye that winked suspiciously and twinkled with mischief. What is she up to?
When Becky looked back at Stephen, his expression was that of a very hungry wolf, a man on fire, and she suddenly ached to be alone with him. To fan the flames that lit his pale blue eyes.
“Please don’t look at me that way,” she said.
“Why not?” His voice was a low rumble.
“Because you’re making me blush.”
He smiled triumphantly.
“All this flirting will have no bearing whatsoever over whether or not I choose to stay.”
“Then what will have bearing?”
The waltz came to an end, thereby saving Becky from having to answer, and Michael insisted that Lord Eastleigh play another so that he might have a chance at twirling one of the two ladies about the drawing room floor as well.
Stephen pushed Becky towards Michael and moved to the pianoforte. “I may be a bit rusty, but I did play once upon a time. Would you care to dance with your wife?”
Eastleigh gave him a grateful smile and vacated the bench, clearly eager to have his arms about his marchioness.
And so the evening went. Dance after dance, Becky and Phoebe traded partners, laughing gaily as they were whisked about the floor. But whenever she was in Lord Hastings’ arms, the laughter would not come. Becky was rendered mute by the fierce sense of longing that overcame her when she was wrapped tightly in his embrace. The overwhelming need to be with him, in every possible sense.
And the imminent necessity to make up her mind.
Eventually, the sky turned from dusk to ominous darkness, and Becky was no closer to a decision. It was so easy to be caught up in the excitement of their affair, by the prospect of playing house with this man and his wards, but she had to remind herself that it was not real. It could not last. And she would end up exactly where she’d started if she wasn’t careful. Only by then, she would have wasted years of her life.
Perhaps it was better to move on now.
The party broke up just before midnight with promises to see one another in the morning over breakfast and then they all went their separate ways in search of their bedchambers.
All except Becky.
She was wound tighter than a new pocket watch to be able to go to sleep, her nerves on edge from the intoxicating dances and her need to make up her mind.
Instead, she decided to slip into the library, where a fire was burning low, and sneak a small snifter of brandy.
She was not the only one to have that idea.
“I thought you’d come here.” Stephen stood in the shadows of the dim library.
“I hoped you’d come here,” she replied, finally willing to admit how she truly felt about him.
“Did you?” he asked, his features set in a somber question. “Does that mean you’re not leaving?”
“No...that is, I haven’t made up my mind.”
“Then I’ll just have to make it up for you.”
Unwilling to waste another second, Stephen closed the distance between them and took Becky into his arms, bringing his lips to hers with frightening hunger. She opened to him,
allowing his tongue to search her, to caress her lips, to taste her.
“I need you, Becky,” he whispered huskily, and Becky knew she wouldn't be able to deny him whatever he asked for at this point. “Please say you’ll stay.”
She moaned in agreement. “Take me upstairs.” Stephen pulled back to look at her, to assess the meaning in her words, in her eyes. She nodded up at him in answer to his silent question.
“Go to your room,” he whispered. “I will meet you there.”
***
Becky paced her room, nervously awaiting Stephen’s arrival, wondering what in all of heaven and earth she was thinking. Despite the heat that washed over her when in his presence, and the fire that made her ache in places she’d never known she had before, she knew that giving herself to him—the way he was expecting her to—was an altogether horrible idea.
The man had asked her to be his mistress and although she had turned him down rather harshly, she wondered how he would interpret her most recent invitation.
Becky was not naïve. She knew what message she would send by giving herself to him; but she no longer cared. All she cared about was Stephen, the children, and finally finding the happiness she desperately wanted.
She only hoped she was making the right decision in order to achieve said happiness.
A faint rapping came at her door and before she could reach it, Stephen slipped into the room. He had removed most of his evening ensemble, now wearing only his white linen shirt, open at the neck to reveal a tuft of dark fleece, and black trousers. Without his jacket, it was easy to see the power in his muscles, the fine chiseling of a body well cared for.
He stood before her like a wolf ready to devour his prey. His eyes settled on her form and she grew hot, as if her insides had turned to molten lava. Her breath quickened the longer he stared and she was aware of his gaze, focused on the rise and fall of her bosom that swelled from the bodice of her gown.
Though the room was warm from the blazing fire in the corner, Becky shuddered with anticipation, with nerves, with longing. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to be in his arms, to be one with him, to feel his body pressed against hers.
More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance) Page 15