Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  It would. “I don’t think it would be wise,” she responded primly.

  Even weak, the light of a thousand devils could light up his eyes. “After what you and I have been through since we’ve first met, sitting on the edge of my bed is a relatively chaste act.”

  “We haven’t been through anything,” she announced breezily.

  “My memory is hazy on some things that happened when I was shot, but I clearly recall the night before the incident—”

  Isabel shut him up by sticking the spoon in his mouth. “Keep your voice down,” she whispered. She went to pull the spoon out, but he clamped his lips around it, refusing to give it up.

  “What sort of game is this?” she asked.

  He smiled and patted the bed.

  “No,” she answered.

  He pulled the spoon out of his mouth, his good humor evaporating. “I can feed myself then.” He reached for the bowl. She held it beyond his reach.

  “It appears we are at an impasse,” she said.

  He patted the bed.

  She didn’t want to give in. She should leave. She didn’t.

  With a resigned sigh, Isabel moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He opened his mouth, and she ladled the broth into it. He had nice teeth, strong and white, and she realized that Mrs. Oxley had been right. She did want her own children.

  Funny that teeth would make her feel that way…or perhaps it was because, as she was feeding him a second spoonful, Mr. Severson had placed his arm across her lap. It was a protective gesture, one of comfortable familiarity.

  He watched her intently, as if waiting to see how long it would take her to bolt.

  She didn’t. Instead, she surprised him, and herself, by ladling another spoonful in his mouth. He looked tired.

  “Very good,” he murmured.

  “Mrs. Oxley made it.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve supped on broth.”

  “I trust you don’t get shot often.”

  He smiled. “I try not to.”

  She couldn’t help but like him. He was the most honest person she’d ever met. And there was that attraction between them that Mrs. Oxley claimed everyone could see.

  For a moment, she fed him in companionable silence. He was hungry and made quick work of the soup. She put the spoon in the empty bowl. “Perhaps I should fetch more,” she said, starting to rise.

  He applied pressure to his arm, holding her in place. “We must marry,” he said, quietly looking in her eyes. “I know there are those who would think you had lost your mind to marry me.”

  “I’m no catch either,” she said.

  “You are,” he answered without hesitation.

  His quick insistence touched her, but there was only one honorable thing for her to do.

  Isabel set the bowl and spoon back on the table before looking down at him. She’d best tell him now. “I’m not what you believe,” she confessed.

  “You are not a governess?” He was teasing; she wasn’t.

  “I’m a bastard,” she stated. She hated the word. She’d heard it all her life. Her half brothers, the village girls, the whispering women talking over their hedgerows had often used it about her.

  “My mother was a man’s mistress, and I am the result of their liaison.”

  “Do you know your father?” He didn’t appear upset by this information.

  “I know his name. We have nothing to do with each other.”

  He nodded. “And your mother?”

  “She passed away a little over two years ago. She was ill for several years. I nursed her.”

  “So I’m not your first patient?”

  “A bullet wound is different.” She looked down at his hand resting on her thigh. “She had a wasting illness. She lingered a long time.”

  “It must have been hard.”

  “It was, for all of us.”

  “Who else is there?”

  Isabel placed one hand on the edge of the bed, relaxing slightly. “I have a stepfather and two half brothers.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In Lancashire. My stepfather is headmaster of a small school.”

  “Ah, so that is where you gained your education.”

  “Yes, he did teach me. I was actually a better pupil than his sons. My mother was well-read, too. Her father had been a village vicar.”

  “The vicar’s daughter who became a man’s mistress?”

  Isabel shrugged. “He disowned her. I never met him though he didn’t live far from us. He would have nothing to do with my mother or me.”

  “What about your stepfather?”

  “He was genuinely in love with my mother. He could forgive her anything. He used to write the most atrocious poetry in her honor, but it all came from his heart. Even when she was sick, he’d write wondrous words to her as if she were whole and healthy.”

  “Perhaps he saw her that way.”

  “He wanted to see her that way,” Isabel amended. “When she died, he behaved as if her illness had come as a surprise. And he seemed to blame me.”

  “Grief can do that.”

  “Either grief or the fact I wasn’t his blood.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her words. Her stepfather’s rejection had hurt deeply. “What of you?” she asked, changing the subject. This was a personal conversation, but she didn’t want to delve into deeper, more intimate feelings.

  “What do you wish to know?”

  Isabel shrugged. “Tell me about your family.”

  “My parents are dead.” His bluntness surprised her. He frowned. “I didn’t mean to shock you. They’ve been gone for years.”

  “You don’t sound terribly unhappy about it.”

  Mr. Severson seemed to mull over her words a moment before agreeing with a small frown. “We rarely talked. I knew my nanny better than I did my mother. Furthermore, I was a disappointment to them. They died in a carriage accident shortly after I left England.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged, and she sensed he felt their loss more deeply than he wanted to reveal. She moved the topic to a safer subject. “Where did you grow up?”

  “My family seat is in Kent. My brother is the earl of Jemison.”

  “An earl?”

  “Finally, I have your interest,” he said with a grin. “Unfortunately, I’m not an heir. I understand he has two sons now.”

  “You understand?” Isabel repeated. She shook her head. “You don’t know?”

  “I believe we aren’t talking.”

  “You aren’t close?”

  The humor left his eyes. “He wants nothing to do with me. I’m an unconvicted murderer, you know.”

  “I’ve heard,” she observed dryly. He met her gaze with an appreciative one of his own.

  “Thank you for that,” he said. “I grow tired of living with Aletta’s ghost. It grows heavy.”

  “Is she a ghost?” Isabel asked carefully.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, equally as thoughtful.

  Isabel lowered her voice, not wanting to give any hint of the jealousy she had felt, and yet, she needed to know. “Did she mean a great deal to you?”

  Mr. Severson’s hand curved around the outside of her thigh. “Did she change my life? Yes.” His frustration was obvious. Nor did he shy from the topic. “Was I devoted to her at the time of her death? No. Aletta had many lovers. Any number of men could have had reason and opportunity to kill her. I was just the last to be seen with her that night and too drunk to remember any of it. It was my word against the witnesses.”

  “There were witnesses?”

  “To my being at her apartment, and a woman living next to her claimed to have heard us arguing. I don’t recall.”

  It was riveting to hear him discuss this so matter-of-factly. “You don’t seem to be whitewashing anything.”

  “How can I? I was a fool, Isabel. A selfish young man with nothing to do with his time except drink. I paid a high price for my laziness. I want you to know
, I’ve changed my course. The man I am right now is what I made of myself in Canada. And I shouldn’t be bitter about my family. My brother didn’t stand beside me during the days of the trial. I’m the foolish one for insisting he see me now. He has the right to do as he wishes.”

  “Are you certain he knows you have returned?”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned toward him, earlier misgivings gone. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she said. “Family should be a refuge.”

  “It rarely is.”

  “I wanted it to be,” she admitted quietly. “Everyone in Higham seemed to belong to someone but me. I was always the outsider…and I had to pretend I didn’t care.”

  His hand curled around her leg, pulled her closer. She didn’t mind.

  “And it was still that way even after I left home,” she continued. “I had difficulty finding a governess position. It was always that I was too young or too pretty—”

  “I believe that,” he said.

  His compliment pleased her, but she pulled a face and made him laugh. However, when she was with him, she did feel pretty.

  She could also see he was growing tired. He needed to sleep and still he hung on—for her.

  Isabel was all too aware of the weight of the hand he’d placed possessively on her leg and the body heat that drew her closer. He pulled her to him as no other had before.

  “I don’t want you to think you must marry me,” she said.

  “I don’t. I need a wife.”

  “You didn’t need one before you came to Wardley Park.”

  “I need one now,” he corrected.

  Isabel searched his eyes, discovering that, in spite of everything she’d claimed, there was a part deep within her that wanted to believe he could love her.

  His gaze lowered to her lips. His hand moved up toward her waist. “How do you know I would make you a good wife?” she asked, her breathing suddenly difficult.

  “I imagine you do everything well.”

  The quiet, seductive baritone of his voice seemed to flow right through her. “I would try and make you a good wife, but perhaps you would prefer someone with a better background.”

  His lips twisted into a knowing smile. He knew exactly the power he had over her. “No one has ever made me do anything. I make my own decisions and my own choices.” His hand stroked up her side, close to her breast.

  Isabel’s heart beat rapidly. It took all of her control to say, “What a blessing it must be to be so confident.”

  “What misery it must be never to make a decision at all,” he returned, and slid his hand up behind her neck and pulled her down to kiss him.

  They kissed very well together. It even seemed right and natural.

  When he did break the kiss, she experienced a touch of disappointment.

  His dark gaze met hers. “I want you to marry me, Isabel. I’ve never said those words before. I do not take them lightly.”

  And marriage to such a man would solve so many of her problems. “We don’t know each other well,” she pressed, arguing with her own doubts.

  “Do any of us have the luxury of really knowing each other?” he asked, unconsciously echoing Mrs. Oxley’s own thoughts. “I’ve lived a hard life these last ten years. I’ve witnessed things that would curdle your blood. A life can be ended in the space of time it takes to snuff a candle. We reach for what we can today, Isabel, and let the future take care of itself.”

  He was right. She’d tried planning her life, and it hadn’t been very successful.

  “Risk it,” he urged. “Risk it all.”

  “On lust?”

  “Is there anything better?”

  Certainly not love.

  “I suppose we should marry, Mr. Severson,” she heard herself answer, as if in a dream.

  He took her hand and kissed it. Something stirred deep within, that old yearning for the “more” she couldn’t quite define.

  “I suppose we should marry, Michael,” he amended. “That’s my given name.”

  “Michael,” she repeated. A strong name. She smiled. “The guardian angel of God.”

  “The avenging angel of God,” he corrected, and without waiting for her response, he raised his voice and called for Mr. Oxley who was, as expected, standing close to the door.

  Within the hour, a messenger was on his way to the bishop to purchase a special license. A friend of Mr. Oxley’s was traveling to London, and Michael wrote a quick letter to be delivered to his London office and a man named Fitzhugh, who Michael said was his solicitor. “I’m sending for my coach,” he explained to Isabel. “It will make our return more comfortable.”

  He then fell back into the healing sleep his body needed…and Isabel found herself sitting by his side, wondering what she’d done. She was marrying a man who owned ships and coaches. Who thought nothing of giving a draft of five hundred pounds to a parish and made decisions at the snap of his fingers and expected them to be carried out.

  A man whose kisses had caused her to toss aside all modesty and propriety.

  But marriage would make it acceptable, would make her respectable—wouldn’t it?

  The next day, when she met the magistrate, she started to have an inkling of the answer to that question.

  Seven

  Isabel was outside helping Mrs. Oxley hang the laundry late the next morning when Mr. Oxley came out to inform them the magistrate had arrived and wanted to speak to her.

  “Me? What of Mr. Severson?” Isabel asked, untying the strings of the work apron she had borrowed from Mrs. Oxley from around her waist.

  “He’s asleep,” the rector answered. “I offered to wake him, but the squire prefers to discuss the shooting with you first.”

  Isabel nodded. Michael had slept the night peacefully and woken hungry. Broth was no longer enough to sustain him. He had wanted meat, and he was sitting up by himself. She and Mrs. Oxley had cooked a big breakfast. He’d polished off everything, including three-quarters of a loaf of bread, then gone right back into a deep sleep.

  Unlike Michael, Isabel had experienced a restless night. Her doubts were intensified when neither of them had mentioned their marriage to the other.

  It was all so platonic—but that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

  Not when she thought about Michael’s kisses.

  While Mrs. Oxley went ahead of them to greet their guest, Mr. Oxley took her arm and drew her aside before she walked into the cottage. “Squire Nolestone takes on many responsibilities, including that of local Magistrate, and he relishes each of them.”

  “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “He’s more than a bit officious, but generally harmless. Be patient with him.”

  Isabel nodded, uncertain what to expect. She was also anxious to hear what the squire had learned about who might have shot Michael.

  Mrs. Oxley and Squire Nolestone were in the sitting room, teasing each other with the affection of a long friendship. Isabel knew the squire on sight but had never met him. He was obviously a man who enjoyed his puddings, roasts, hams, and anything else his wife put on his plate before him. He had a head full of curly, graying red hair and tiny brown eyes that reminded Isabel of buttons.

  “I’ll fetch tea,” Mrs. Oxley offered. “I’ve already got it brewing. Miss Halloran and I were going to enjoy a cup after we finished our laundry.”

  “There, now,” the squire said in a gruff, booming voice. “You don’t, by any chance, have a spot of that mulberry liqueur you make so well? A little something to flavor the tea?” He gave his hostess a conspirator’s wink.

  Mrs. Oxley giggled, pleased he liked her homemade brew. “I imagine I can find some,” she answered, and went into the kitchen.

  Her husband made the introductions. “Squire, this is Miss Halloran.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the squire said. “My, you are pretty. No one quibbled on that point. If everyone agrees on everything else, then my job will be easy.”

  “You spoke to M
r. Wardley?” she asked.

  “Aye, and a Lord Riggs. Please, sit down. Let us make ourselves comfortable, heh, now? We’ll talk a bit, have tea and mulberry elixir”— he raised his voice on the last two words to include Mrs. Oxley in the kitchen—“and finish good friends.”

  He waved Isabel toward a straight-backed wood chair while he settled himself in Mr. Oxley’s favorite upholstered chair before the fire. Mr. Oxley sat in his wife’s rocker and picked up his cold pipe.

  “I like this weather,” the squire said. “It promises a fair spring.”

  “Yes,” Isabel murmured, conscious that the squire’s small talk was more than pleasant chitchat. His button eyes seemed to be constantly assessing—and she wondered why he was suspicious of her?

  She decided to take the initiative. “What have you learned?” she asked.

  The squire’s eyebrows rose at her audacity in taking control of the interview, and she could feel him mentally putting a black check beside her name: governess, pushy. “Ah, here is Mrs. Oxley with that mulberry elixir.”

  “And the tea,” Mrs. Oxley reminded him, setting the tray she carried on the table beside his chair.

  The two of them would have happily chortled on about tea and liquors, but Isabel wanted information. “What have you learned about who shot Michael?”

  “Michael?” the squire echoed, holding his teacup out for Mrs. Oxley to pour.

  “Mr. Severson,” Isabel corrected.

  “I understand you and Mr. Severson were found in what we would call rather compromising circumstances,” the squire said as easily as if he discussed the weather.

  His directness in front of the rector and his wife stunned Isabel. She didn’t know what to say and felt foolish because, of course, such a matter would be brought up. The Wardleys probably carried on to anyone who would listen about Isabel’s disgraceful behavior. She had no defense and was painfully aware of her friends’ presence in the room.

  Mr. Oxley came to her rescue. “Miss Halloran and Mr. Severson are not guilty parties here,” he gently reminded the squire. “They are the victims. Furthermore, the couple is pledged to each other.”

  The squire had not heard that piece of information, and his reaction was immediate. “You’ve promised yourself to a murderer?”