Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  She was almost to the road when she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel behind her. Mr. Severson pulled the vehicle up beside her. “Good morning, Miss Halloran.”

  She didn’t think she’d ever seen a more handsome man. Contrary to her, he appeared well rested and ready for the day. His greatcoat was cut of the finest gray wool, and he wore it and his low-crowned hat with the dash of careless negligence. His boots shone in the morning light.

  What pleasure it would be to wear shoes made of such fine leather. For a moment, she was tempted to take him up on his offer.

  She started walking toward the road.

  “I was hoping to catch you,” he said pleasantly, as if she hadn’t snubbed him. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Here, will you stop for a moment?”

  “I’m sorry, I must reach the Bull and Crown in time to catch the post.”

  He pulled the phaeton in front of her, blocking her path.

  Isabel stopped. “All right then, what do you want?”

  “To amend my offer,” he answered smiling, his teeth strong and even. “You see, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided you are right.”

  “About what?” she asked, confused.

  “Marriage,” he replied.

  Four

  Isabel wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said your price was marriage.” Mr. Severson spoke calmly, as if they discussed the morning weather and nothing more. “I’ve agreed. I will marry you.”

  It had been a long, disappointing night, and Isabel was in no mood for jests…especially since her heart did a little leap at the word “marry.” No one had ever made her an honorable proposal. She was too honest not to admit to a measure of excitement over receiving one.

  But she wasn’t a fool.

  He was almost blindingly handsome. Wealthy. Self-assured. Everything a woman could wish for in a man, including the fact that her toes curled when he kissed her. All he had to do was smile to set her pulse racing. She’d never met a man like him.

  So it was with great pride that she mimicked his cavalier nonchalance, and answered, “You can’t agree to marry me because I didn’t ask you.”

  “Yes, you did,” he shot back. “Last night you said your price was marriage.”

  “I was telling you that I would not be kept.”

  “Then I’m volunteering to marry you,” he replied smoothly. His eyes danced with delight, as if he had anticipated her answer. He was enjoying himself immensely—at her expense.

  She struggled with an urge to throw her valise at him. Seeing it hit him right in the head and knocking him off the high seat of the flashy, overpriced vehicle would give her no end of satisfaction.

  “Why are you doing this?” She looked to the house. “Is this a dare you took with your cronies? Are they hiding in the windows snickering at the sight of you baiting the governess?” She gave him a look of pathetic sympathy. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough havoc in my life?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer but backed up and started to walk around the phaeton.

  “Miss Halloran, you misunderstand my intentions.”

  She ignored him, hoping everyone, including the gardeners and the lads preparing for the day’s hunt witnessed her giving him the cold shoulder. She’d arrived at Wardley Park a lady, and that was how she would leave it.

  The ribbons of her bonnet had come undone. They never stayed in place, but she was not going to ruin the effect of her “walking away” by stopping and retying them.

  “Miss Halloran, I’m speaking to you.”

  She smiled to herself. She was making him angry. Good. She liked getting in the last word.

  Then she heard him jump down from the seat of his carriage, the stones crunching beneath his booted heels. He gave the horses a soft command, and she knew he was going to follow her.

  Isabel lengthened her stride. She didn’t want to appear as if she were running, but she might not have a choice.

  Her rush was to no avail. His legs were longer and stronger. He was gaining on her. “Miss Halloran, don’t be an idiot.”

  That made her stop. “What did you call me?” she demanded, whirling on him.

  “An idiot,” he dared to repeat.

  She dropped her valise, her fists doubling. “If I were a man, I’d call you out.”

  “If you were a man, I wouldn’t be asking you to marry me.”

  “That’s not my point—”

  “But it is a significant one,” he interjected, “and I only referred to you as an idiot because it was also the only way I knew of making you stop.”

  “Well, it did, and it made me bloody—” She drew back from swearing. “It made me angry—”

  “I see that.”

  “No, you don’t see. This is a game to you. You and your friends—”

  “Those men are not my friends,” he corrected her.

  “You drink with them.”

  “I don’t drink. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to set the record straight.”

  “Well you have poor taste in companions,” she replied.

  “You might be right.”

  “I am right, and I’m also tired of you. Leave me alone.”

  She picked up her valise and walked around him. To her endless frustration, he fell into step beside her. “I’m sorry I called you an idiot.”

  Isabel didn’t acknowledge him.

  “I don’t have any friends really,” he said conversationally, as if they were having one. “Well, there is Haddon. He’s my blood brother, and he is not anyplace close to Wardley Park. If he was, he’d assure you that I have never offered marriage to a woman before, and certainly I wouldn’t do it as a joke. This is not some ruse or ‘baiting the governess’ game. I’m sincere.”

  From the direction of the house came the sound of the hounds being brought round. The dogs would be used to chase out the birds during the hunt. Their howling emphasized Mr. Severson’s own doggedness. She kept her focus on the brick pillars and placing one foot in front of the other.

  “You should consider my proposal, Miss Halloran.”

  “I have. I said no.”

  He hooked his hand in the crook of her arm and swung her around. “Isabel, listen to me. I am attempting to do the honorable thing. The devil knows I’m not a gentleman often, and it only seems right that when I try to be one, someone listen.”

  She looked into his eyes. He seemed sincere.

  A tradesman’s dray turned onto the drive from the road. Gently, Mr. Severson moved her over onto the grass to let the wagon pass. The driver in a felt hat with frizzy hair sticking out beneath it nodded to them with undisguised curiosity and continued on his way to the house.

  A horse whinnied in the distance, and she realized Mr. Severson was not dressed for hunting. Indeed, he gave all appearances of taking his leave of Wardley Park.

  Perhaps, he was acting alone.

  Perhaps, he was serious about his offer.

  The thought was riveting. Isabel forced herself to breathe. “You are offering me marriage?” She punctuated the last word with one gloved finger.

  He gave a little shrug and nodded.

  “Why?” The word practically burst out of her.

  “You told me marriage was your price. I’m willing to pay it.”

  Isabel couldn’t shake her doubts. “This is nonsense.”

  “The price is high,” he agreed.

  “Not about the price,” she retorted, “but your willingness to marry me.” She swallowed before admitting, “You don’t need to fear someone is going to call you out on my behalf.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “I have no champion.”

  “You do now. I’m your champion.”

  A champion…someone who cared about her, who watched her comings and goings. She’d not had that since her mother died.

  Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face. “What is it, Isabel?” he asked.

&nb
sp; She wasn’t about to expose her deepest hurts to him. “A man doesn’t just enter into a marriage on a whim.”

  “Actually most do,” he argued. “Few have sound reasons.”

  “But you wouldn’t,” she responded more to herself than him. “In fact, you are not like the others. I wondered last night why you were involved with Richard—”

  “Richard?”

  Isabel dismissed the name with a wave of her hand. “Lord Riggs. What are you doing with him and Mr. Wardley and those others?” As if she’d conjured him, she could hear Richard shouting at his friends to leave their breakfasts and come out for the hunt. Soon, they would be charging across the countryside heading for the open fields in search of pheasant.

  “We were in school together, and Riggs sought me out,” Mr. Severson answered. “Wardley’s invitation to this weekend came through him.”

  “He wanted to borrow money. He never has any.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Mr. Severson affirmed. “But to his credit, he hasn’t asked to borrow even a shilling.”

  “Then perhaps Mr. Wardley was paying him to find a husband for his daughter.” She frowned. She had a larger mystery to consider. “Why would you even be willing to marry me?”

  “Why would I not?”

  Exasperated, Isabel said, “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not,” he answered.

  “Then why would you make such an offer?”

  His answer was to let his gaze drop to her breasts.

  With a will of their own, her nipples tightened immediately—and she wanted to go to him. All too clearly, she remembered the heat of his body pressed to hers and the discovery of needs she’d not known before.

  He knew his impact on her. He raised his gaze and gave her a look so knowing and so intense everything inside her melted—including her resistance.

  The hunting dogs, the house, her doubts…all vanished.

  “I told you last night what I wanted,” he said, his voice low, hypnotic. “I haven’t changed my mind. I want you, Isabel, no matter the cost.”

  And she wanted him. He stirred her senses in a way she’d not known before.

  Isabel grasped the handle of her valise with both hands. It was everything she could do to not fall into his arms.

  “No,” she said, her voice so faint she doubted if he heard her, but she couldn’t speak louder. “I won’t marry you. I won’t marry anyone.” She turned and would have run for those pillars except he still had a hold on her arm.

  He pulled her back. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t believe in love,” she lashed out, wanting him to let her be. “And there is no reason to marry without it.”

  The words had just tumbled out of her mouth. She had no idea where they’d come from until she thought of her mother, who’d loved the marquis. Or her stepfather, who had worshiped a woman who could never love him even after he took in her bastard child. Better to be alone than expose herself to the possibility of making the same mistake.

  “Then why do poets sing of it?” Mr. Severson challenged.

  “Because unrequited love makes such delicious tragedy,” she answered. “And don’t be such a prig. I doubt if you believe in love either. You strike me as too pragmatic.”

  His quick smile made her knees weak. “Quite right, Miss Halloran. And yet every poet swears it must be worth the risk. I’ve taken more than my fair number of risks in my life. I’m not going to shy back from this one, especially when there is so much to gain.”

  They stood practically toe-to-toe. If she leaned forward, she would be able rest her head on his chest and hear the beat of his heart.

  Isabel feared she wasn’t as strong as her mother had been. She’d not recover losing in such a game.

  Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face because he asked, “What promise do you want from me? That I will never leave you? Very well. You have my word and my word is my bond. It’s had to be. Trust me, Isabel. Believe in me…”

  Those were heady words to a young woman who had nothing to her name and nowhere to go.

  “…Be my wife.”

  Isabel could not refuse.

  He took the valise from her fingers, not waiting for her answer. He turned her around toward his horses. “We’ll make arrangements in London.”

  She was conscious of walking beside him. He was strong and powerful, and she was safe.

  In some part of her mind, she wanted to retie the loose ribbons of her bonnet before she climbed up on the perch of that high-flying phaeton. She’d never been on one before, but her younger half brothers, the sons by her mother’s marriage, would think riding in such a sporting carriage all the thing. She used to race the boys around in the pony cart when they were little, before they went off to school and decided they were too old for games and too proud for their sister.

  Her stepfather would be shocked if she showed up married to such a wealthy man.

  In London, she might even cross paths with her real father.

  Mr. Severson placed her bag in the phaeton’s boot and came around to help her up onto the perch. She placed her hand in his. He gave her fingers a small, reassuring squeeze.

  Isabel looked at him and, for a moment, wanted to believe in love. His eyes weren’t as dark as she thought. This close to him, she could see the shades of brown and a hint of green as dark as the forest—

  A shot cracked the air. The horses, so well trained they had been standing in place while she and Mr. Severson had been talking, tossed their heads and took a prancing step away.

  Mr. Severson threw his arm around her, knocking her bonnet off her head as he pushed her to the ground.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Gunfire.” He scanned the trees lining the drive up to the house. She looked, too. Mr. Wardley and two of his friends had already started the hunt, but they’d stopped when they’d heard the shot. She saw their figures silhouetted against the tree line. Even the dogs had picked up their ears and sniffed the air.

  “I don’t see anyone,” Isabel said. “Are you certain it was a shot?” she asked.

  “Yes. It hit me. In the back.” He appeared startled by the knowledge and, for a second, she thought he jested until she looked behind him and saw the hole in his fine greatcoat.

  “I think I shall need help…quickly,” he murmured, reaching for the side of the phaeton to draw himself up.

  Isabel put her arm around him. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Richard running down the drive to them, followed by one of the stable lads. “Help,” she called. “We need help.” She started to remove his coat to see the wound and felt blood. Her mind scrambled for everything she’d ever learned about cuts and scrapes. She needed to stop the bleeding.

  “Can’t stay here,” Mr. Severson said, his voice low.

  “You can’t travel,” she countered. She got his coat off. The bullet hole went through the back of his coat and a rim of blood was spreading slowly seeping around it.

  “Must go.”

  Richard reached them. Isabel could see that Mr. Wardley and his other guests were now hurrying toward them.

  “It was a shot, wasn’t it?” Richard said.

  “Yes, it hit him,” Isabel answered.

  To her surprise, Mr. Severson straightened. “I’m fine,” he said.

  “The devil you are,” Richard responded. “Look at the blood. You need to lie down.”

  Mr. Wardley and his friends arrived then. “Severson’s been shot,” Richard told them. “We need to take him back to the house.”

  “Good heavens,” Mr. Wardley said. “Who would shoot him?”

  “Any number of people,” Riggs answered.

  “Bad luck it is,” Mr. Wardley muttered. “I say, did you see who fired the shot?”

  “We saw nothing,” Isabel said. “What of you?”

  Mr. Wardley snorted his answer. “Wasn’t even looking in this direction.”

  At that moment, Mr. Severson sagged against her.
Isabel almost dropped him to the ground. “Take me away from here,” he said in a voice so low only she could hear him. It wasn’t a request but a command.

  Isabel looked to the circle of men watching them and felt uneasy. They didn’t seem unduly surprised about the shooting, and whereas they might express concern, the cold way they appraised Mr. Severson belied their words of concern.

  Or perhaps, her disquiet stemmed from the fact that all of them, except Richard, carried guns—and Richard’s was held by the stable lad who had accompanied him down the drive.

  Isabel wondered if there was a way to find out which one of those had been fired.

  She didn’t dare ask. Instead, she looked to Jack Pickett, the hound master. “Mr. Pickett, will you help me lift Mr. Severson up onto the perch.”

  “Now see here, Isabel,” Richard said, upset enough to use her given name in company, “Severson will bleed to death if you go tearing off over the countryside with him.”

  Mr. Severson put his boot on the step, ready to hoist himself into the seat if he was able. Isabel pleaded, “Mr. Pickett, please.”

  “Oh go on, Pickett,” Mr. Wardley said. “You can see the man wants to leave. Let him.”

  The master of hounds stepped forward, nodding to the stable lad to help. The boy handed Richard his gun and, together with Isabel, lifted Mr. Severson up onto the seat. To their credit, the horses seemed to sense the seriousness of the situation and remained still. Then, with Mr. Pickett’s help, Isabel climbed up beside him. “Thank you,” she said to the servants. Mr. Pickett picked up her bonnet from the ground and handed it to her. It was a miracle a horse hadn’t stomped on it. She tied the ribbons to the bar around the seat and picked up the reins.

  “I want you to know, I won’t have his death on my conscience,” Mr. Wardley said. “If you leave, you do so without my blessing.”

  Mr. Severson spoke for himself. “We’re leaving.” He sat quiet and erect, one hand grasping the front edge of the hard leather seat, the other the back.

  Isabel raised the reins, and the horses started forward. She was conscious that everyone watched them.