Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  This bold, handsome man with a sense of humor wanted to be her husband. He valued her, and those childhood dreams of being loved, of being wanted, were about to come true.

  She shoved all doubts aside.

  Eight

  The sound of Mr. Oxley clearing his throat broke their kiss. He had tracked them down to their place in the garden.

  “Perhaps you’d best prepare to spend the night at the Bull and Crown,” he advised Michael. It was the best inn in the area, located two miles from Glaston. The Bull and Crown was also the post house.

  Isabel worried for Michael’s health. “I don’t think he is well enough,” she protested.

  “If he can kiss like that, he’ll manage until the morning and your wedding,” Mr. Oxley said.

  Michael laughed. “He’s right. I’ll be fine.” He took her hands. “I’ll see you tomorrow, at the church.”

  Isabel prayed it would be true. An hour later, as she watched Michael drive off in his yellow-and-green sporting vehicle, she struggled with the fear that he would not return.

  All her life, whenever she’d really wanted something, she couldn’t get it. Consequently, she’d taught herself not to expect too much in life.

  Now, she felt as if she wanted everything.

  Mrs. Oxley seemed aware of Isabel’s unease. And Isabel was aware of how quiet her benefactress had become since Squire Nolestone’s visit.

  It wasn’t until evening, when the fire burned low in the grate, and Mr. Oxley had gone to bed, that anything was said.

  Isabel was trying to take her mind off her worries by reading a book. Mrs. Oxley was pretending to be knitting. Neither woman was very good at her task.

  Finally, Mrs. Oxley lowered her knitting to her lap. “I admit I am rattled by the accusation of murder against Mr. Severson.” She looked at Isabel, her brow furrowed in concern. “Both Mr. Oxley and I have concerns. My dear, do you really know this man?”

  “I know him enough to trust him.”

  “No, you wish to take a chance on him. There is a difference.”

  Isabel closed the book. She hesitated, then spoke her deepest fear aloud. “Are you saying you don’t think he will be at the church on the morrow?”

  Mrs. Oxley appeared surprised. “Oh, no, he’ll be there. He wants to marry you, and I don’t mean this as a slight, but you haven’t known each other very long. If it weren’t for the fact he compromised you, I might wonder at such haste.”

  Her words went straight to Isabel’s insecurities. “He is everything I imagined a good man should be,” she reminded herself.

  “He has an unsavory history,” Mrs. Oxley said soberly. “I no longer know what to think. I’m not going to say whether the accusation is true or false. Certainly, before Squire Nolestone’s call, I thought well of him. Well enough to encourage you to accept his offer.” She leaned over in her chair, reaching out to cover Isabel’s hand with hers. “My dear, be careful. Be very, very careful.”

  “He won’t let any harm come to me,” Isabel answered. “If I know nothing else about him, I know that.”

  “I pray you are right,” her friend said.

  Isabel looked into those older, wiser eyes. “I am.”

  Mrs. Oxley released her hold and sat back. “Good.” She sounded as if she were attempting to convince herself. She put her knitting away. “I’d best go to my bed. Good night, Isabel. Sleep well.” She left the room.

  Sleep well. As Isabel took herself off to the bed Michael had been using while convalescing, she didn’t think she would be able to sleep at all. The apprehension she had seen in Mrs. Oxley’s eyes was a warning.

  In the end, the moment her head hit the pillow, she went right to sleep and didn’t wake until Mrs. Oxley roused her the next morning.

  Her wedding day.

  “I feared you were going to sleep right through the morning,” Mrs. Oxley said, opening the shutter on the room’s window. “Have you given any thought to how you will wear your hair?”

  No, Isabel hadn’t.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Oxley had a talent for hair. After Isabel had dressed in her finest green wool gown, the only one with lace at the collar, Mrs. Oxley swept her heavy hair up high on her head and pinned it into large curls, leaving some to dangle free down to her shoulders.

  “Such beautiful hair,” Mrs. Oxley murmured. They sat in the sitting room, with Isabel holding a hand mirror so she could see what was being done. “It’s a pity we don’t have a bit of ornament for it. My tortoise combs are so small they would disappear, but you should have something. Hair like yours begs to be shown off.”

  “My mother had mother-of-pearl combs,” Isabel said, remembering. “Our hair was much alike.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “My stepfather must have them,” Isabel answered, the memory going sour. He’d kept them.

  “What’s he going to do with them?” Mrs. Oxley wondered.

  “Perhaps he is planning on another wife,” Isabel suggested.

  She’d said it lightly, but Mrs. Oxley was too shrewd to not pick up on the nuances behind the words. Her gaze met Isabel’s in the mirror as she rested her hands on Isabel’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. I should guard my tongue. Don’t think on anything negative. It doesn’t matter. We can’t use them now.”

  “It’s nothing you said. It was just, well, sometimes my mother’s loss stirs me more than at other times.”

  “A wedding is one of those times,” Mrs. Oxley said, understanding. She gave Isabel’s shoulders a squeeze. “I know she is looking down from heaven right this minute and is very pleased.”

  “Do you think so?” Isabel had never sensed her mother watching her, even though she’d always told the children in her charge tales of guardian angels.

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Oxley said, without hesitation. “Now, let us think of the future.” She took the mirror away from Isabel and set it on a side table. “Mr. Oxley went this morning to meet with your groom—”

  “Why did he do that?” Isabel asked, alarmed.

  “It’s what he does with all grooms, and he sent word back that Mr. Severson has arranged for a wedding breakfast. A very special one at the Bull and Crown. I’ve only eaten there once, and it was delicious. Mr. Oxley also sent word that he was quite impressed with your young man.”

  Isabel was a bit bemused by how Michael had gone from being a cause of concern to her “young man” overnight. He must be planning a very fine meal indeed…and he was doing it for her. His use of the word “we” the day before echoed in her ears.

  Mrs. Oxley turned her around and, smiling, gave a last touch to her hair. “You look lovely. Exactly as a bride should. We have a custom here, one you’ve never seen since you didn’t live in town, where the bride walks the length of the village to the church. But since we are already at the church, you will have to walk all the way to the end of the road and back. Everyone will come out and wish you well, and the children will give you flowers and branches of sweet myrtle.”

  “But few people know me,” Isabel said quickly. “I doubt if anyone will wish us well. This is short notice.” And it would be humbling to be snubbed, especially on her wedding day.

  “You are a member of this parish,” Mrs. Oxley countered. “You have worshiped with us, and everyone knows Mr. Severson’s misfortune. Why, it has been all the talk for a week. The ladies find your story romantic, and the men in the pub have been hashing out the mystery of who shot Mr. Severson. The road will be lined with well-wishers.”

  And probably more than a few people who would want to see the infamous couple—and yet, Isabel was pleased. Something should make this day special.

  Mrs. Oxley donned her own bonnet, pulled on her gloves, and opened the door. The sky was slightly overcast but held the promise of clearing. This would be a fine spring day. Isabel glanced toward the church. It didn’t appear as if anyone was there. Furthermore, the street ahead of her seemed very “everyday.” No one lined the road waiting to hand her flowers.

&n
bsp; Isabel stepped out the door, following Mrs. Oxley. Her feet felt like lead weights. All her life, she’d had people leave her. First, her real father. Then her mother, to death, her stepfather, to his pride…and what of Michael? Wouldn’t he be wise to run now before he found himself saddled with a wife? Especially one who had no dowry and offered nothing to a man of his station?

  She stopped. She hadn’t thought about the dowry, but now, it became a looming concern.

  Mrs. Oxley turned to her. “Come along.”

  Isabel couldn’t move.

  With a sympathetic sound, Mrs. Oxley walked the few steps back and took Isabel’s arm. “This is no time for cold feet.”

  “I thought the groom was the one to get cold feet.”

  “Anyone with half an ounce of sense should be nervous about marriage. But the moment has come, Miss Halloran. Trust us, my dear.”

  “Trust.” Such a short, simple word with the gigantic possibilities. A decision sealed by a kiss.

  Isabel started walking toward the gate.

  She and Mrs. Oxley had just passed the church when a young girl ran out of a cottage, and said, “She’s coming! She’s coming!”

  The bell in the church tower started ringing, and people came out of the cottages and shops that made up Gaston. Some of the faces Isabel recognized from those times she was allowed to attend Sunday service. Many she didn’t know at all. However, they all came out to welcome her.

  The first to hand her flowers was the girl who had alerted everyone. She held out a nosegay made of wild violets.

  Tears came to Isabel’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  The girl smiled, pleased that Isabel valued her gift.

  “This is Meg,” Mrs. Oxley said, introducing them. “She is always the first to give a flower to the bride.”

  The time of year was too early for many flowers, but the villagers were creative. Isabel was given many violets, trailing branches of sweet peas, wild daisies, someone’s prized tulip, yellow dandelions—these were given to her mostly by small boys—and branches of broom and evergreen myrtle.

  By the time they reached the church, her arms overflowed with flowers, and Isabel felt like the wealthiest of women. She felt like a bride.

  Mr. Oxley came out to meet her, wearing the white collar of his station. He smiled at her. “Are you ready?”

  “Is he here?” she asked, almost fearing the reply.

  “See for yourself,” Mr. Oxley replied.

  Isabel walked past him through the door and stopped. In the cool, candlelit atmosphere of the Norman church, Michael waited for her at the altar. He looked so handsome. He wore a jacket of dark blue superfine and tall boots, as seemed to befit a country marriage. The white of his shirt and neckcloth seemed dazzling in the church’s gloom. He smiled at her, and her knees went weak.

  It was everything she could do to stop herself from running to him.

  “Simon, you can stop ringing the bells,” Mr. Oxley told his bell ringer. He had to repeat himself until the man heard.

  Mr. Oxley took Isabel aside a step away from his wife. “I spoke to Mr. Severson this morning, and now I will tell you the same. Miss Halloran, you and your intended don’t know each other well, but I’ll tell you a secret—it’s rare a couple truly knows each other before they are married, even if they have been friends for years. Marriage changes everything. However, I want you to remember something.” He leaned closer. “I may be saying the words, but you and your husband are the celebrants of this sacrament. You aren’t saying these vows to me but to each other and in the eyes of God. Don’t hesitate to repeat them often over the years. You have only to look at each other with hearts full of love to make them sacred.”

  She nodded, her heart beating so rapidly in anticipation she wasn’t certain she understood everything he said—but she would sort that out later.

  Satisfied he’d made his point, Mr. Oxley offered Isabel his arm. “Shall we?”

  She took his arm, and they walked up the aisle toward Michael. Mrs. Oxley and the bell ringer followed behind to serve as witnesses.

  At the altar, Mr. Oxley stopped and placed her hand in Michael’s strong and capable one. She told herself she didn’t care if Michael loved her or not. It was enough that she was falling very much in love with him.

  But then, that was the way love came, wasn’t it?

  Her mother had loved a man who hadn’t loved her. In turn, she’d married Isabel’s stepfather.

  Life was never neat and tidy. Those had been her mother’s words and had proven to be true.

  However, standing beside Michael, listening to him repeat his vows, Isabel resolved to make the best of this marriage. She would be a good wife in every way.

  Michael surprised her by having a ring. It was a simple gold band. Its heaviness felt good on her finger.

  Mr. Oxley raised his hand over their heads. In a voice that rang off the stone walls, he said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  And that was it. She was married. Isabel Severson.

  Isabel braced herself, waiting to feel different.

  Nothing happened.

  The earth didn’t shake. Lightning didn’t strike. Not even a tingling certainty in her soul.

  She felt as she always had.

  And then, Michael’s fingers laced with hers…and a small, quiet voice inside her said, this is right.

  “You can kiss her now,” Simon, the bell ringer, said slyly.

  “I most certainly will,” Michael informed him, and bent over to do exactly that. It was a short kiss, but a meaningful one when he said quietly, “Your first kiss as my wife.”

  Her doubts evaporated.

  Mrs. Oxley offered her heartfelt congratulations and handed Isabel back the flowers she had been holding for her. Their small party went outside and waited for Simon to bring around a pony wagon for him to drive the Oxleys to the Bull and Crown. Michael’s phaeton and horses had been tied to a post on the other side of the church. That was why Isabel had not seen it earlier.

  He helped her up onto the perch before going around to the other side and taking the seat next to her. The pony cart and phaeton made a happy little parade as they rolled out of the village. The children chased them, and Isabel had never felt more lighthearted.

  The Bull and Crown was located at the crossroads. The innkeeper, Mr. Graves, fell all over himself greeting them. Isabel found out why when they entered the establishment. Michael had ordered a table set in the inn’s best private room. Its mullioned windows overlooked a running stream and the road. The food laid out was enough for a feast. There was roast beef and pheasant, numerous puddings, every imaginable delicacy, and the best of wines. The Oxleys were impressed, and Simon was beside himself.

  Isabel overheard Mr. Graves confide to Mrs. Oxley that the last person to order up such a spread had been the duke of Rutland himself.

  Michael sat Isabel beside him. He placed her bouquet from the villagers in the middle of the table as the centerpiece. The wine was poured, and he raised his glass. “To my wife. May she never regret marrying me.”

  Mr. Graves, who hovered by the door, couldn’t help saying, “There’s not a one of them that don’t regret their choice sooner or later,” and everyone laughed as he’d meant for them to.

  “To your marriage,” Mr. Oxley echoed and everyone—even the innkeeper—drank.

  Isabel discovered she was hungry as they fell upon the food. Michael had just passed her the plate of pheasant when they heard the sound of an approaching coach. The vehicle of burled wood and ebony, pulled by a team of high-stepping grays and escorted by a party of well-armed riders, drew up in front of the inn.

  Her reaction was curiosity; his was more succinct.

  “Damn.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Do you know them?”

  “I’m afraid I do.”

  Mr. Graves had hurried out to meet these new guests, leaving the door open. Michael set aside the p
late of pheasant and sat back as if waiting.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Within minutes, they heard Mr. Graves arguing that the men couldn’t disturb Michael’s party. A beat later, a lean, broad-shouldered man marched into the room, his pistol drawn. The hair beneath the rakish angle of his low-crowned hat was black as a crow’s wing. He wore it pulled back in a neat queue that went past his shoulders. His gray eyes appeared ready for a fight, and he was flanked by the four others carrying muskets.

  But what was really unusual to Isabel was that he didn’t wear a stock. Instead, his shirt was open, and there was a flash of silver from the collar around his neck. He also had a silver bracelet on each wrist.

  The man scowled at everyone before looking right at Michael. “Are you all right?” he demanded. He was much the same age as her husband.

  “Perfectly fine,” Michael said in greeting. He seemed the only relaxed person in the room. “Isabel, this renegade is my business partner, Alex Haddon.”

  “I received word you were shot,” Mr. Haddon said, ignoring the introduction. “I expected you to be at death’s door.”

  “He was,” Mr. Oxley spoke up. He nodded to Isabel. “She saved his life.”

  Haddon swung his sharp gaze toward her, and Isabel sensed he missed nothing, including how close Michael sat to her.

  Michael covered her hand resting on the table with his own. “I’m fine, Haddon,” he said. “Now, would you care to join us? Or are you going to stand there frightening my guests?”

  “Your guests?” Haddon gave another frowning look around the room as if to verify the truth of Michael’s words before lowering his hand holding the pistol. The other men followed suit. “What exactly is going on here?” he asked without moving.

  Instead of answering, Michael said, “Mr. Graves, will you see to my men? Give them whatever food and drink they wish. They’ve obviously had a long ride.”

  The outriders relaxed, nodded, and murmured, “Thank you, sir. Very kind of you,” as they willingly followed Mr. Graves out into the common room. At a signal from Michael, the serving girl shut the door behind them.