Gift-Wrapped Governess (5 page)

T
he evening drew on and still Trey had not come back to Blackhaven Castle; the children were tucked into their beds and the light had faded long past into darkness. Seraphina had made some ground with the boys today, yet they remained distant and suspicious of her, despite all that she had done to try to win them over. Terence had been a little more forthcoming but the others had made it plain that they should like her gone. Still, she was not a person to give up easily and tomorrow when they decorated the front parlour she would make certain to tell them all the stories she had read of Christmas cheer.

She had thought of the duke many times through the day, expecting to see him in the mid-afternoon. But he hadn't arrived even as the clock ticked on into midnight. Was he safe? Had the coach overturned? Did he freeze in the snow, waiting for aid that would not come? Cursing her vivid imagination, she shook away such doom-say and stood at her window, searching for a light. ‘Lord, let him be safe,' she prayed over and over again, the flames in the hearth burning down to embers before she saw movement.

A moment later there was a flurry of action beneath her window as people ran out, the horses lifting their heads and
prancing to try to keep the cold at bay. Packages were transferred into waiting hands and then Trey alighted, his cloak billowing as he mouthed instructions she could not hear.

When she changed her position to see him better he looked up and Seraphina knew that he saw her, but was unable to move. The force of his glance had left her shaking.

Why had she not met him three years ago on her first Season out when he might have seen her as she wanted him to, her father still solvent and a hundred suitors at her feet? Now, life bent her into a different woman, worry written in her eyes every time she looked in the mirror.

It was so ironic. When all seemed lost and hopeless she had arrived at the house of an honourable man who would help her as her own family had not, who would shelter her without question until the end of January. The truth of it made her frown.

‘Please God, do not let him have been my mother's lover.' The words tumbled into the dark, standing on the edge of it like arrows piercing a growing want that blossomed inside her. For him. For Trey Stanford, the sixth Duke of Blackhaven. Seraphina had known her mother had a suitor because Elizabeth had told her so, once late at night when she had come to her mama's room and found her crying. The ring on her finger had not been her father's, and her anguish was such that no amount of help could assuage it.

The following week they had buried her and her father had taken to the bottle in earnest.

Her parents, lost to death and to scandal. Biting at the nail on her thumb, she sat down again on her bed and listened as the noises below faded into silence.

 

Trey had seen her face at the window looking down, caught into stillness, her hair like a halo around her head, gold and wheat and pale pure flaxen. He would have liked to mount
the stairs and knock on her door to see her blue eyes widen as she heard the reason as to why he had returned so late.

Ralph Bonnington, the Earl of Cresswell, was telling the world that Lady Seraphina Moreton had attacked him, unprovoked and unexpected, her anger at the loss of Moreton Manor so acute she could not countenance his windfall. He had been found by two of his friends, almost unconscious, according to the paper, and now demanded she be brought to trial.

Running his hands across his face, Trey strode into his library, helping himself to a liberal brandy to chase away the cold. For now, the winter protected Seraphina, kept her safe away from others and all the gossip that had ensued. Each paragraph on the first two pages of
The Times
had speculated as to where Lady Seraphina had gone. Beneath the banter was another more dangerous thread. Trey imagined Cruikshank's caricatures in ‘The Scourge' depicting the fallen daughter of a bankrupt family engulfed in ignominy, ruined and exposed to the delight of those who exchanged tittle-tattle on the dance floor. A young woman's reputation would not recover from such a public drubbing and Seraphina Moreton looked too fragile to weather any of it.

Refilling his glass, he sat before the fire, thinking.

Margaret and her husband were due to arrive in two days' time and his sister was no fool. She would recognise Lady Seraphina and when she did…?

Small footsteps behind had him turning. Gareth stood in his nightwear, his hair tousled and his eyes sleepy.

‘I noticed your light from my window when I woke up, Papa, and I needed to ask you something.'

Trey already knew what was to come next. It was always the same question, every single time.

‘Mama loved us a hundred thousand times over, didn't she?'

Settling his smallest son on his lap, he brought a blanket from the chair beside him to wrap away the cold.

‘A millions times over,' he replied in the same vein, the truth of Catherine in London caring not a jot for her three small boys nowhere near his words.

‘Terry thinks Miss Moorland likes us, too?'

Now this was new. He nodded and waited.

‘He thinks we should, maybe, keep her?'

God, sometimes his children almost broke his heart with their want for a mother, though the small pitter-patter of paws saved him an answer as Melusine's head poked around the corner.

‘Her dog wishes that you were in bed with him, Gareth,' he replied as he stood to carry his son back to the nursery.

22 December

The Duke of Blackhaven looked different this morning as Seraphina came to the breakfast table, for his hair was loose around his face, giving the impression of a pirate from the dangerous South Sea Islands. However, his jacket was double breasted and the beige superfine in his trousers well ironed.

Her own attire was unforgivably dowdy, the rips on her skirt repaired badly and her only pair of boots still damp from the deep snow.

‘Mrs Thomas says that you declined the use of the gowns she laid out on your bed?'

‘I did, sir, for the ones I own shall suffice.'

‘If it is because you do not wish to wear my wife's clothes, my housekeeper assures me she could fashion something from the many bolts of fabric that are stored in the attic. She is an expert seamstress by all accounts.'

Seraphina felt herself hesitate. A new gown that was neither too big nor badly torn for Christmas was tempting and she was so very tired of wearing what she had.

‘I could take the cost of the fabric from your wages.'

His suggestion made her blush because she knew that such
a thing would be far and above any money she was earning as a governess.

Yet temptation lingered. Reaching for her grandmother's single pearl on the chain around her neck, she slipped it off so that it lay in the palm of her hand. She had always worn this piece since Elizabeth had died and it was undeniably precious. Yet reality beckoned, too, in the shabby dress she had on, the seams beneath her left arm so frayed she could no longer repair them.

‘If I put this down as a surety for the sum of the fabric, I could accept your offer.'

He shook his head. ‘I have no need for it.'

Her gaze met his, amber-gold in the daylight, drawing her in. She felt her body respond to his glance, a throb of want dancing like flame warmth across her skin. When he stepped back the disappointment stung.

‘You look like your mother. Did you know that?'

Her heart thumped at the question, coming as if on the surge of desire. ‘Were you her lover, then?'

Discomfort shadowed his face. ‘How much did you comprehend about Elizabeth's life?' His voice was wary.

‘Enough to realise she was unhappy with my father. Enough to see her spend hours getting ready at night and not return until the morning.' She had never told anyone that before, but it did not feel disloyal here to speak of such things. The duke had known Mama, after all, and he had helped her when others had turned away. Besides, it might have been he who kept her occupied nightly.

‘People deal with an unhappy relationship in different ways and for Elizabeth it was through enjoying the company of my cousin before he died. Terence. His name was Terence.'

Relief allowed the breath she hadn't realised she was holding to escape. ‘The same as your son?'

‘Aye, he was named after him. We were brought up together
like brothers and the last thing he said to me was “look after Lizzy”.'

‘So you gave her money when Papa would not?'

‘The bills were piling up and your father had refused to pay them, but in the end it was not such largesse she needed at all…'

Seraphina understood what he was saying. Her mother had gone to Moreton and raced her horse fast across the track above the cliffs. Fast enough for it to lose its footing and for Elizabeth to be transported to the place her lover had already been taken to? Other things became explained as well: her father's lack of grief, an escalating gambling habit and his anger.

‘Thank you for telling me the truth.'

He smiled and held her gaze, just the two of them here in the breakfast room, the day drawing into coldness and the new snow falling outside. Buffered by nature and locked in by the forces of winter as it laid its arms about the countryside in a white blanket of cold, Seraphina felt…altered.

Life at Moreton had been fraught and uncertain, the arguments and anger constant. She had always been frightened. She knew this absolutely because here, at the castle, she wasn't, the disquietude of her home life replaced by hopes and promises drawing her in as she anticipated what was to come.

But there was something today in his gaze that was hidden, and when he began to speak she knew that the details of the past few weeks had caught up with her.

‘Yesterday in Maldon I saw a copy of
The Times.
The man you mentioned, Ralph Bonnington, is telling the world that you struck him when he offered you all the assistance and support that your father had not.'

‘Assistance? My God.' She stood as she said it, a sick feeling of horror slicing into disbelief. ‘He said that?' Anger
darkened her vision. ‘I hit him on the head with a silver ewer because he was trying to…' She could not go on.

Trey came closer and reached out, putting her hand into his, the gentleness felt in the action making her heart ache. ‘The man is a charlatan and a cheat—as no one knows where you are yet it seems you are safe.'

Relief flooded through her and her fingers clutched his. She wished he might bring her closer and kiss her hard on the lips, like the men in the romances she sometimes read at night, no choice in it but need and want and taking.

But his fingers stayed still, a light pressure denoting only comfort and consolation. She wanted to push up against him and demand so much more, a breathless hunger nearly undoing her. Instead, she moved back, smoothing out her rumpled skirt for something to do before she had to look at him.

‘He is a large man with a lot of money. If he comes here to make trouble…?'

‘He won't.'

The certainty in Trey's voice was so comforting. There were, after all, many other things he could have said and to have someone watching out for her was a new experience. A wonderful one! When her glance finally met his she reddened and looked away, his integrity and decency stealing into her bones as delight. She wanted to thank him for such belief, wanted to bring him into the joy of the Christmas preparation that she had spent much time in planning.

‘We are dressing the tree this afternoon, my lord. The children would be happy if you might come and help us.'

‘And you, Miss Moorland. Would you be happy, too?'

Confusion made her stammer. ‘Your h-h-height would be a great aid in placing the angel on the very top of the tree.'

When he smiled she felt her world turn and hated all the hopes that rose unbidden.

Her reputation was lost and she was without a dowry. Her wealth consisted of what she wore, which was far less than
satisfactory, a single pearl that did have some worth and a dog who was only now learning to sit still. A hundred pounds, she reasoned, the few notes she owned tucked into her pocket after pawning all her rings and a bracelet—the sum total that stood between her and ruin.

Resolution swept through her. Trey Stanford, the Duke of Blackhaven, could not possibly be interested in her and she could not jeopardise this posting by imagining that he might be. Regaining her lost composure, she smiled at him in the way of an employee who was both professional and distant and excused herself from his company.

 

Three hours later the smell of pine filled the room as Mrs Thomas brought in a plate of Christmas pies.

‘Baked in the dozens to strengthen their charm,' she said, ‘and good luck for the twelve months of the New Year, sir.'

Surrounded by red-and-green ribbon, a pile of gold-and-silver paper and balls made from the dry branches of last year's climbing wisteria, Trey was knee-deep in spangle as he looked at the tree.

Ginger-and-butter shortbread had been strung with twine, the delicacies embellishing an already over-embellished greenery.

Seraphina Moreton had no pattern of demanding the fir dressed in a particular way as Catherine had been wont to on the few times she had bothered. Everything went, according to the governess's philosophy, so that even the broken offerings the boys had put their hearts into creating took their place alongside the expensive and irreplaceable heirlooms collected by the Blackhaven ancestors for generations.

There was hardly a pine needle still on show and the angel on the top that he had had the task of securing looked down on a hotchpotch of colour.

His children loved it.

‘Have you ever seen such a tree, Papa?' David asked him and his father shook his head in honesty.

‘Never.'

Seraphina Moreton laughed as he looked over to find her watching him, Melusine jumping at the foil on a lower branch, then nestling in a pile of paper.