A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  “And Mr. Blair?”

  He nodded knowingly. “He likes children and animals.”

  Olivia almost sighed in relief, not because the boy assessed Simon as safe, but because Aloysius did not really understand what his aunt was asking. She hoped she was misunderstanding, but it seemed more imperative than ever to offer a safe home to the people who had loved Owen and Bobby.

  “I agree with you. I think you can write to your aunt and tell her this is a good place to work. Would you like her to work here?” That might be awkward, she knew.

  He nodded. “She’s nice. She helped me with my letters when I was little.”

  The boy wasn’t putting on airs—he really didn’t grasp what it meant to be the son of a viscount. Olivia offered him a biscuit. “Do you need help writing the letter?”

  “I’ll just tell Joe, and he’ll pass it on. Can I have a biscuit to give Joe?”

  “May I meet Joe? Does he work at the Hall?” She handed him the plate of sweets.

  Aloysius nodded and carefully held the china in both hands. “His mam. . . his mother works at the Hall, and he’s working in the stable.”

  The Hall didn’t have a large staff and most were not married or of child-bearing age. Searching her memory, Olivia accompanied Aloysius downstairs, through the kitchen, and out to the bleak winter garden where a grubby young boy kicked his heels on the wall and munched an ancient windfall from the apple tree. He looked panicked at sight of Olivia, but Aloysius ran over with the sweets, and he couldn’t resist.

  “Hello, Joe, I’m Lady Hargreaves. Do you remember me? I used to live at the Hall. You must be Mrs. Susan’s son, right? Does she still take in mending?” The young seamstress had a tenant’s cottage where she raised her son after her husband died. The widow had managed her coins well and the boy had previously worn clothes as nice as Bobby’s.

  This grubby urchin smashed a whole biscuit in his mouth and shrugged.

  “Their cottage got rented out, so they live upstairs at the Hall now,” Aloysius offered.

  Thou shalt not judge, Olivia told herself sternly, but she had a bad feeling about this change in circumstance. “I remember your mother had a fine hand with a hem. Mr. Blair has a houseful of children who always need clothes. If she’d be interested in living here as a seamstress, we’d love to have her. And you,” she added. “But we’d expect you to go to school.”

  The boy looked wide-eyed and panicked again.

  “It’s awright,” Aloysius told him. “I’m to school too. The food is well good here.” He handed over the wrinkled note. “Tell my aunt they need more hands, and she’ll do fine.”

  The grubby lad jumped down, made a sketchy attempt at a bow, and with a biscuit in hand, fled.

  “Joe don’t talk much,” Aloysius offered in apology. Then he sent her a look much too adult for his tender years. “If I’d been your son, none of this would have happened.”

  He ran off, leaving Olivia bereft and cold in her despair.

  Twelve

  Simon found a barber. Letitia had once trimmed his hair, but if he was to go about in society, he could see that he needed to look like a gentleman. If Olivia—he loved the intimacy of her name instead of using her title—remained for long, he wondered if he would need a prissy valet.

  As he turned Thor toward home later that evening, he wondered how long Olivia might stay. Until she had the Hall back, surely. Would she even look at him after that?

  Did it matter? A few nights of pleasure to ease their differences, and they’d both be ready to greet the new year properly. He’d spent the day out of the house so he did not grow too restless, but it was time to discover the lady’s decision.

  He needed to send Maggie away, Simon decided as the interfering old woman bore down on him, nattering like an annoyed hen the instant he entered his own front door.

  “She’s hiring half the village!” seemed to be the gist of the tirade.

  An unfamiliar lad stood stiffly to one side of the door, wearing an ill-fitting coat and trousers too long for him. He held out his hand for Simon’s hat as if he were a moving hat rack. Amused, Simon handed over his old cap, took his aunt’s elbow, and led her away.

  “I hired half the village. This is my house, remember. I’m a gentleman now, and Letitia isn’t here to manage it all. I can’t ask you to do everything for me. Lady Hargreaves knows the people and their characters and what positions need filling, so she’s helping me.”

  With a liberal hand, perhaps, Simon noted as a new maid skittered around the corner and out of sight. How many others had accepted his invitation? Still, servants worked cheaply. His blunt wasn’t so short that he couldn’t manage a few more.

  “I am perfectly capable of running a household,” his aunt exclaimed. “She’s casting a spell on you, just like the other. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but it’s not proper, nephew. You need to look to the church if it’s a wife you need.”

  Simon recalled why he hadn’t invited his aunt earlier. His whole family was a hidebound lot.

  “Yer heid’s full o’ mince, Mags. Letitia’s family minds the kirk more than I do,” Simon reminded her. “And if I hear any more complaint aboot Lady Hargreaves, I’ll send you home, see if I don’t.”

  He’d eaten his dinner at the tavern again, talking with other mine owners, and was probably in the lady’s bad graces already. It had been a long time since he’d had to woo a woman. He hoped he hadn’t forgotten how.

  Shaking off Maggie’s nagging, he retreated to his rooms and ordered a bath so he didn’t smell like horse. Afterward, he donned a dressing gown over his clean shirt and trousers and took the stairs to check on the nursery.

  He hoped he’d find the lady there, but it was late. A cold draft followed him along the upper corridor. When he peered into the schoolroom, the lamps were out and the fire banked. The rocker rocked as if someone had just left it.

  In his slippers, he quietly crossed to the nursery. Before he could reach the door, a short figure in white materialized and wrapped its arms around his leg.

  He had no difficulty recognizing his fey youngest. He lifted her to his shoulder and returned to the rocker with her. “What is it, dearheart? Did you have a bad dream?”

  “Mama is sad,” she whispered. “And angry. Why is she angry?”

  If Letitia were really here and capable of reading minds, she’d have a right to anger at his lusty thoughts. But Simon refused to believe either. He rocked Clare. “Sometimes, dearheart, we put our own thoughts on others. Are you angry?”

  That stumped her for a minute. “I’m angry because Enoch said my kitty is ugly. And Loys said I’m a baby.”

  “Well, they’re boys. They have to say things like that. Ask Lady Olivia. She’ll tell you it’s written in the contract that boys and girls see things differently.”

  Clare sleepily pondered that, then yawned. “Mama says to tell Miss Liv that you like her hair down. Ladies don’t wear their hair down like mine, do they?”

  Simon shivered and stood up rather than wonder where that had come from. “Your mama wore her hair in a braid at night, remember?” He carried her back to bed. “Tell your mama to sing you good-night.”

  He kissed her downy cheek, tucked her in, and she was asleep before he checked the others.

  How would he deal with spooky children like his without Letitia? Maggie was no help. And he didn’t want them to be spooky. That way lay danger. He needed them to be normal. He’d have to talk to the governess. . . after.

  That impending talk was more worrisome than wondering if the ghost of his wife was following him down the corridor.

  The icy pall lifted as he took the stairs down. Verifying no strange servants roamed this hall, he carried his lamp to the lady’s suite. The housekeeper had properly given Olivia rooms in the far wing from him, but that didn’t deter him.

  He didn’t test the latch but knocked lightly, praying Maggie and Emma were sleeping. Or deaf.

  The door opened quickly, as if
she’d been waiting for him, and he took a deep gulp of relief.

  Except the woman letting him in wasn’t Olivia. It was a dark-haired waif wearing a maid’s cap and a drab brown gown.

  The scent of lilacs drew him toward the grate, where the annoying female he was here to see worked with thread and needle on a stiff black fabric. He’d say to hell with the lot and stalk off, but she gave him a beatific smile that nearly knocked him to his knees.

  “There you are, Mr. Blair. Thank you so much for sending my staff to me. This is Mrs. Susan. She used to mend my gowns. We’ll be needing quite a few new uniforms, so we’re starting with hers and one for Aloysius’s Aunt Sally. Hargreaves gives them no budget for fabric, and their clothes are a disgrace. I hope you do not mind, but I’ve sent for a cobbler. Good shoes are absolutely necessary for people who spend most of the day on their feet.”

  Simon opened his mouth, but nothing sensible emerged. The lady had that effect on him. He nodded agreement and wondered if he should back out.

  “I think we’ve done enough for one evening. Why don’t you take this with you, Susan? You can pin up the hem tomorrow, and we’ll finish later.” Olivia handed the cloth to the maid.

  The maid bobbed a curtsy, eyed him distrustfully, and scurried away.

  “How many have we hired then?” he asked pragmatically, uncertain how to approach what he wanted while the lady sat there looking like untouchable royalty in the silk gown she must have worn to dinner—a dinner he hadn’t attended.

  He was a great buffoon.

  “So far, two scullery maids—one who is Aloysius’s Aunt Sally, a footman, and Susan, the seamstress. Apparently, all the Hall’s upstairs maids quit the last time Hargreaves had company and have found employment elsewhere, so trained maids are not available. Sally Cargill should learn quickly. Mrs. Susan was never a maid though. She was wife of one of the tenants and did sewing for the Hall and others.” She rose and drifted to the mantel, where lo and behold, a decanter and two glasses waited. “I think she’ll save you more than you pay her.”

  Simon appreciated that she did not deny him his favorite libation, despite her objections. He took the glass she offered and tapped it to hers. “Mrs. Susan? Is that her first or last name?”

  “Both actually.”

  She gave him one of those smiles that spun his head backward. He waited for explanation.

  “She’s a widow now, but her husband was English and his name was Susan. Her name is actually Susannah, but Mrs. Susan covers both. She has a son, Joe. You’ll see him about too. I told him he’ll have to go to school with the boys after the new year.”

  Another time, he might be interested. Right now, his mind was only on the soft, scented female filling his senses. He tried to follow her clues and resisted reaching for her as if he had a right. Which he didn’t. “Must I return them all to you once you have the Hall again?”

  “Let us not count our chickens just yet,” she said seriously, sipping the whisky and only grimacing a little. “Lawrence is apparently a very lax host. I need to drive off his guests before they cause any more harm than they’ve already done.”

  She said that with such finality that his gut ground. He didn’t want to be distracted by the outside world, but he’d brought her here to help him gain that strip of land. He couldn’t object when she offered him insights on how to attain his objective.

  But he really had other things on his mind this evening.

  “Do I want to know what his guests have done or what you intend to do about it?” Simon asked cautiously, savoring the burn of the alcohol cutting through the night chill.

  “No, probably not yet, but I’ve learned that the Hall has a new estate agent, sent by the earl to assist Hargreaves’ steward. They might be the stumbling blocks to your attempts to reach the viscount.” She set aside her glass, then let her hand drift to his waistcoat buttons. “This day has been a disillusioning one. I don’t deserve comfort when so many have suffered.”

  “None of the suffering is at your hands,” he reminded her, reaching for the pins in her hair before he remembered what Clare had said. He hesitated, then turned the subject to that more personal one. “Clare said I’m to tell you that I like your hair down.”

  She tilted her head and regarded him with an interest that burned through him better than whisky. “Do you? It is rather drab hair. I should like a little red or curl so it does not look so thin and plain when it’s down.”

  “It’s fine corn silk, gossamer gold from the fairies. And I do not want to know how Clare recognizes my lust for you.” He set the handful of pins on the mantel with the glasses, then drew the waist-length strands through his fingers, watching the gleams from the firelight.

  She shivered and stepped back a little. “Letitia watches over them still. I do not know if I can do this.”

  “No rabbits allowed,” he said firmly. “We have already established we’re adults, man and woman, and we both want this. Any specters aboot must turn their backs, unless they’re prurient perverts.”

  She huffed a small laugh and reached for his buttons again. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this. I may be a wee bit afraid.”

  “Aye right, ye have the power to bewitch me into a horny lad, and you tell me you’re the one who’s afraid? Ye have me by my short and curlies, mo leannan. I’ll not do aught without your permission.”

  She laughed more boldly then, and Simon enveloped her in his embrace, loving the sound and feel of her too much for his own good.

  He’d called her mo leannan, his sweetheart. In return, Olivia had worn her best silk to dinner—for him. And the careless beast hadn’t bothered to show up or even let anyone know where he was.

  Until he’d arrived at her door, freshly shaven and newly barbered, smelling of exotic soap, wearing an elegant dressing gown as if he were a duke, she’d really wanted to take a cricket bat to his head. She had spent the evening furious and worried and grateful for his aid and hungry for his presence, and now she was just confused.

  His words eased her into his embrace, but she didn’t know what to do with this power he claimed she had. She leaned against his strength and absorbed the heat of him, the smoothness of his satiny coat, the sight of his large, well-made feet in his slippers. She was definitely overdressed.

  The careless beast took care of that problem with the same efficiency as he addressed everything else. Simon’s kisses left her breathless while her bodice fell open under his swift fingers. The ties on her skirt and petticoat came undone while he carried those kisses down her throat, taunting her begging nipples.

  She tried to be bold and daring and apply the same efficiency to his various buttons, but she fumbled and got lost in the pleasure of his mouth and hands. He shrugged out of the dressing gown as he backed her toward the bed.

  Two years. It had been two years since she’d had a man in her bed.

  Shaking with need and the thrill of his masculinity, Olivia stood in only her frilly undergarments, trapped between Simon’s big body and the bed. She crossed her bare arms over her chemise, feeling naked despite being fully covered, and watched as he dropped his waistcoat on the floor.

  A vague worry about the maid entering and finding their clothes entwined fled when Simon stepped forward, trapping her against the bed frame. Her bottom settled abruptly on the high mattress, leaving her legs splayed around him. He looked so triumphant standing there, discarding his shirt, baring his brawny, hard chest, that she daringly ran one stockinged toe up his thigh and backside.

  “I like the naughty look of frills,” he informed her with a broad grin and an admiring study of her corset and garters. “And this first time will be quick. It’s been far too long, and I’m as hard as a stallion just looking at you. So forgive me if I’m not polite this time. I’ll do better next.”

  Next? Olivia didn’t have time to consider how many more times he meant to do this. His big hands undid the top of her corset, allowing him to pull aside hampering cloth and apply hi
s rough palms to her aching breasts. Desire pooled deep below her belly. She had to close her eyes to his magnificent physique in order to stop him with her much smaller hands. “I’m not prepared,” she whispered. “I need to. . .”

  “I came prepared. Although I appreciate the thought.” He pulled an envelope from his trousers, then began unfastening his placket.

  She had to open her eyes to be certain she understood, and she feared she stared rudely at his size as he sheathed himself.

  And then he leaned over and suckled at her breast, and she was helpless to do more than give herself into his care. As desire burned straight from her breasts to her womb, she instinctively curled her legs around his hips. She savored the carved planes of his chest beneath her hands, and she moaned so loudly, she feared the servants would come running.

  “That’s it, mo leannan. Want me the way I want you.” He ran his thick fingers into the slit of her drawers, caressing her there, touching her as she hadn’t been touched in so long. . .

  He merely had to address her breast with his tongue and curl his finger into the hidden nub and rub, and Olivia lost control. He covered her cries with his kisses, encouraged her until she rolled her hips frantically beneath his heavy weight—and then he spread her wider and plunged in.

  He was huge. He filled her so completely that she thought no more was possible. Then he moved, and she had to shove covers between her teeth to keep from crying out. And once again he took her to heaven while he claimed his own pleasure, pumping and muffling cries that rang sweetly in her ears.

  She was well and truly ravished. And might never move again.

  The shutters rattled against a winter storm, and the fire flamed and fell low as they lay there, catching their breath.

  In the walls, she heard weeping.

  Thirteen

  With regret, Simon slipped away from his naked sleeping beauty in the wee hours before dawn. He felt replete and well satisfied until he reached his cold, empty bed, but there was naught to be done about that. The lady would be off to the Hall in a few weeks, and he may as well become used to warming bricks on his sheets.