by Sophia James
I believe I shall acquire it, he decided, quite surprising himself, since he had not yet seen the interior.
But this would not be just a paper transaction. It was something he would use. Live in for a substantial part of the year. He shrugged off the niggling emotions at the edge of his awareness. No, he was not buying it because of some absurd emotional response to the place. Of course not. He was buying it because logic told him it was the most suitable option.
Flinging his waistcoat on top of his jacket, he let his thoughts drift to his earlier encounter with the beautiful young woman in the woods nearby.
Nell.
Instantly a visceral response washed through him—mostly desire. Her hair autumnal auburn. Her skin pale with the fragility of winter light. Eyes hazel, flecked with green—the colours of the idyllic copse where he had first encountered her. Her figure svelte and elegant, with curves exactly where he liked them.
My, she was beautiful!
Her beauty was unquestionable, but he had also found himself intrigued by her character. She had not responded to his initial attempts at charm, and yet later in their walk, once he had been more straightforward with her, she had rewarded him with simple conversation unaffected by simpering flirtation or archness. She had been engaging, witty and intriguing. And he had been quite overcome when he had kissed her hand and heard her catch her breath.
Like most men of his age and status, Tom had had his fair share of liaisons. He tended to pursue women with the same single-minded dedication with which he pursued a business ambition, and then tire of them fairly quickly afterwards. He and his brother were alike in that regard. They were aware of their ability to charm, and used it ruthlessly, but both knew that succumbing to emotion was dangerous to their most important cause—that of financial security.
Having lost his mama—the person he had loved most in the world—at a tender age, he was determined to guard his heart. He was tempted by Miss Nell, but to be distracted right now might interfere with his aim of acquiring the house. He must be careful.
Who was she, though? She had indicated that she worked at the house, and yet there had been something in her demeanour that suggested she had not always been a servant. Her clothing had been of good quality, though rather faded and worn. Her voice had proclaimed her to be well-educated. And yet her simple dress and hairstyle implied she was a servant. A paid companion or governess, perhaps?
‘That has to be it!’ he said aloud, unfastening his cravat and flinging it onto the chair. She had to be governess for the Godwin child.
She thinks she will never see me again.
He had deliberately given her to understand that he was a random traveller, staying at the inn only briefly, knowing it would assist his chances of a kiss. His inner smile turned wolf-like as pride in his achievement suffused him. She had moved from her initial coldness to allow him to kiss her dainty hand.
There! That is better.
Treating it as a casual flirtation felt much more comfortable than examining the strange flutterings she had caused in him earlier.
He considered this further as he took to his bed. Oh, he was looking forward to encountering her again.
He grinned in the darkness, considering the mortification she would feel when she encountered him at Wyatt House. The beautiful Miss Nell, flirting with a stranger, only to find him a house guest for a full fortnight.
The possibilities were endless.
Yes, a light flirtation would do no harm, surely?
Chapter Three
Christmas Eve
‘Morning, miss.’
It was one of the housemaids.
Nell looked up from her embroidery. She had found refuge in the small parlour—a tiny room at the back of the house which no-one else wanted to use, and to which Beatrice had banished Mama’s portrait. It had used to hang in pride of place in the main salon, but Beatrice had persuaded Papa to replace it with a painting of herself.
It galled Nell every time she thought about it, but she had learned to bite her tongue. And she now spent much of her time here, in this small room, when she was not busy with household tasks. Today, between final Christmas preparations and the needs of their guests, she had had very little time to herself.
‘Well, Mary.’ She smiled at the girl. ‘Am I needed?’
Mary grimaced. ‘The mistress wants you to help entertain the children again.’
‘Very well.’ Nell set down the handkerchief—a gift intended for one of Beatrice’s guests—squared her shoulders, and made for the salon.
There she found a sizeable group of guests, chattering and flirting like a flock of exotic birds. They ranged in age from debutantes to middle-aged, but it was clear to Nell that the Marriage Mart was central to the thoughts of most of them.
There were numerous doting mamas or sets of parents with daughters to marry off, and a number of single and widowed gentlemen had been provided so they might all survey and measure one another.
None of the gentlemen, Nell had decided last night, were in any way engaging.
Some of the families had also brought their young children—three girls and a boy—who were permitted to join the adults only for brief periods, spending the rest of their time with their nannies and nursemaids. Last night Nell—who had always adored children—had taken the time to learn their names and help them feel at ease, and Beatrice had been uncharacteristically grateful.
‘Nell!’ she had proclaimed, as the last of her guests had departed for bed. ‘I am so glad you were here to entertain the brats earlier. Why anyone would wish to spend time in the company of children, I do not know! But everyone whined so much at being separated from their children last Christmas that I found myself forced to invite the little fiends!’
Beatrice herself was currently holding court at the far side of the room, and she indicated with a nod that Nell was to busy herself with the gaggle of children currently sitting stiffly near the fireplace, seemingly intimidated by the watchful eyes of their parents.
Nell did so, and her gentle conversation soon drew them out. After just a few minutes they had started to warm to her again, and were soon vying with each other to tell her their favourite things about Christmas.
‘Today,’ she confessed to them in a confidential tone, ‘we must green the house with sprigs of holly and mistletoe. The servants will help with the high boughs, which must be positioned with the use of ladders, while I shall make some for every room, and for the tables and mantels. But I do not know how I am to get it all done, for it is no little task!’
‘We can help!’ offered the girl called Alice, her eyes shining. At eight, she was the oldest of the group.
The others agreed enthusiastically, and Nell was just about to suggest they ask their parents for leave to come with her when the footman announced the arrival of the final guest.
‘Mr Thomas Beresford!’
Nell, who happened to be looking in her stepmother’s direction, was intrigued to see a slight flush appear on Beatrice’s cheek. At the same time Beatrice’s friend, the Dowager Lady Kingswood, gave her a knowing look.
What?
But the thought was forgotten as Mr Beresford entered. He was a handsome gentleman, slightly taller than average, and fashionably dressed. His hair was dark and coiffed à la Brutus, his figure was strong and lean, and his dark eyes held the wickedest delight Nell had ever seen.
Eyes that had gazed into hers just yesterday as he was kissing her hand.
Her heart lurched. What on earth...?
Mortification rushed through her and she bent her head lest anyone see her discomfort.
What was I thinking? I should never have been so familiar with a stranger. Oh, if anyone were to discover the truth about my behaviour... I was shockingly intimate with him. And what must he think of me?
She dared not contemplate all the ways in which
she had compromised a lifetime of good behaviour with one lapse. Already she had been anxious about surviving Beatrice’s Christmas gathering. With this added complication her anxiety had become anguish.
Tom bowed and said all that was proper as Mrs Godwin began introducing him to her other guests, many of whom he was already acquainted with. He had hoped Nell would be here, and so she was. As his gaze had swept around the room he had spotted her instantly, seated amid a cluster of young children.
Just so. A governess, clearly.
She was wearing the same green dress as the day before, and her confused blush on seeing him was just as delightful as when he had seen it yesterday, after that unforgettable moment between them.
This was a sizeable party, he thought. And he had barely made it around half the people in the room when there was a flurry of agitation among the children. The young boy had taken exception to something another child—possibly his sister—had said or done and was protesting in the strongest terms.
‘Mama!’ he appealed to one of the ladies seated with Mrs Godwin. ‘Alice says I am too little to help with the greening!’
Nell intervened. ‘Of course you are not too little! Alice, I shall need everyone to help—including John. Now, I think we should begin without delay, for there is much to be done.’ She stood, offering her hand to little John. He took it, smiling at her with something like adoration. ‘Thank you, Miss Nell. I knew I was big enough!’
She smiled back at him, and Tom’s breath caught in his throat. John looked to be about five—the age at which...
Had his mama, before she died, looked at him in such a way? It was too long ago. He could not remember.
You will never marry, he reminded himself. Never be a father.
‘And this is Mr and Mrs Bridgeton...’ Mrs Godwin, ignoring Nell and the children, was continuing with the introductions.
Tom replied automatically, conscious that the delightful Nell was even now making her escape, accompanied by the chattering children.
You may run now, he thought, but you will have to face me eventually.
He reassured himself briefly with flirtatious thoughts. But underneath them his attraction to her raged on, stronger than anything he had ever felt before. It was unsettling, and he did not like it.
He pushed thoughts of the governess away.
Nell accompanied the children to the red drawing room, where the servants had placed five large baskets of greenery—not just the mistletoe and holly that would form the core of the greening, but rosemary, laurel, and even bay leaves, which would be made into wreaths, boughs and garlands.
She gave each of the children one of the empty wreaths, their wicker twigs overlapping and intertwining to form a twisted diadem, ready to be adorned with greenery. As the children gradually fell silent, becoming absorbed in their task, she began to make up garlands, weaving boughs together and tying them with ribbon with practised efficiency.
While she worked diligently, replying appropriately to the children’s occasional comments, in truth Nell’s attention was elsewhere.
He tricked me!
She would never have flirted with The Honourable Thomas Beresford, nor allowed him to kiss her hand, had she known he was to be a house guest. Indeed, she had never done anything so daring in all her nineteen years. It was only because she had believed he was a passing stranger that she had done such a shocking thing.
And because I wanted to.
Honesty spoke in a small voice within her. Since Papa’s death she had dwindled into a housemaid, a timid companion for Beatrice and a sometime governess. In the process somehow she had lost sight of herself.
Yesterday, in the company of the unknown gentleman, Nell had been fully and gloriously Nell again. Just for a short time. Today the greyness of eternal sadness had settled around her again—the invisible cloak she had worn since Papa’s death.
No, she would never have done it had she known he would be a guest here. And he had probably known that. She had seen the keen intelligence in his eyes. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him. That and his handsome face, flashing dark eyes, well-formed figure...
But his quickness of mind, along with every other of his attributes, had been used against her. She bunched her hands into fists, wishing she, like the children, could voice unfairness as soon as she felt it.
In truth, unfairness had been her portion these past three years. First on her father’s remarriage—what a catastrophe that had been! On being informed by his London doctor that the growth in his throat would prove fatal in the not too distant future, Nell’s papa had courted and married Beatrice in a two-month whirl—without ever telling Nell.
‘I wanted you to be looked after,’ he had told her afterwards, ill and frail, and she, swallowing her hurt and concern, had thanked him. Well, what else could she have done?
Losing Papa had been the hardest thing in Nell’s life, and her grief had not been eased by Beatrice’s presence. The young widow, mourning a man she had barely known, had sighed with relief on putting away her black gloves and, lacking all sensitivity to Nell’s suffering, declared what a relief it was that she could go out in Society again. Her lack of concern for Nell came not from any studied or deliberate coldness: rather, she was entirely unaware of Nell’s feelings.
Nell’s papa had left his widow with a generous portion, the exact terms of which had been agreed as part of the marriage settlement. And Beatrice seemed determined to spend every last guinea of it as rapidly as possible.
When Nell talked to her of economies, Beatrice simply looked at her blankly, before brushing away any suggestion of parsimony saying, ‘Stuff!’ or similar utterances. She continued to spend as much as she wanted on dresses, hats and slippers, while telling the housekeeper there were too many staff. It had been left to Nell to make the housekeeping budget stretch to cover the regular entertaining Beatrice insisted on—with the Christmas party last year causing the greatest expense.
This year, in anticipation, Nell had worked with the female staff to harvest every last morsel of food from the Wyatt House gardens. The horses had got fewer carrots and turnips, for the excess had been sold to the village store, while Cook and her remaining scullery maids—with Nell’s assistance—had made as much bramble and rhubarb jam as they could manage, generating extra pennies to help buy wines and meat for Beatrice’s guests.
And now Nell was expected to behave naturally with a man she had allowed to be quite outrageously familiar! For the next fortnight she would have no option other than to be in his company.
Oh, how mortifying!
Thankfully, the children had provided her with a means of escape today.
I foresee myself spending a lot of time with the children in the next two weeks, she thought wryly.
She ordered lemonade for her charges after an hour, and helped John with some of the holly twigs that were refusing to stay where he wanted them. By late morning the children’s wreaths were ready, and Nell herself had created a sizeable pile of garlands and mistletoe boughs, complete with the red ribbon with which they would be suspended.
But even with all their efforts, three of the baskets remained full to the brim with uncompleted work. So it was with mixed feelings that Nell responded to an offer of help from two of the guests as the party gathered in the dining room for nuncheon.
Lady Cecily was a young lady around her own age with whom she had become friends over the past two years. Cecily was the daughter of Beatrice’s close friend the Dowager Lady Kingswood, who was just as flighty and bird-witted as Beatrice. Nell had often wondered if Lady Cecily suffered the indignity of having more wit and common sense than her mama.
Like me with Beatrice.
To her right, she heard Beatrice laugh out loud at something Lady Cecily’s mama had said. ‘My dear Fanny,’ Beatrice declared, ‘I have never met anyone so amusing as you are!’
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Amusing? Nell thought uncharitably. Lady Fanny is about as amusing as a severe dose of the flux!
She realised that Lady Cecily was still eyeing her evenly. ‘Of course!’ Nell said in a rush. ‘I shall welcome the assistance, for there is much to be done!’
‘Wonderful!’ gushed the other young lady, Miss Bridgeton. ‘I recall as a child there was nothing more exciting than the thrill of Christmas Eve. Don’t you agree, Mr Beresford?’
Nell’s heart skipped as she realised Mr Beresford had joined them in the dining room. She stole a quick glance at him. Same handsome features. Same air of confidence. Same wicked gaze. She looked away, ignoring the inconvenient increase in her pulse.
‘Oh, I cannot agree, Miss Bridgeton,’ he drawled, ‘for I can think of many more exciting things than Christmas. What is it, anyway, save forced gaiety and wasted food?’
Miss Bridgeton looked uncertain for a moment, and then her brow cleared. ‘You are roasting me!’ She laid a playful slap on his arm. ‘Why, everyone loves Christmas!’
Nell, who had decidedly fallen out with Christmas over the past few years, said nothing. She no longer allowed herself to think of her happy childhood Christmases. The thoughts only made her sadness worse. However, it did not sit well with her to be in agreement with the deceiving Mr Beresford, so she remained silent.
‘After nuncheon we are to help with the greening. You should join us, Mr Beresford!’ Miss Bridgeton was all charm.
‘I should like nothing better!’ declared Mr Beresford.
Nell’s heart sank. As they moved towards the side tables, where a cold collation had been laid out for them, she took the opportunity to go to a different part of the room than that favoured by Mr Beresford and the two young ladies. It was best to stay as far away as possible from him—and from his unwelcome effect on her.