Seducing the Governess (8 page)

“My lord,” she said, and if Nash was not entirely mistaken, she was actually tapping her foot. “This . . .
arrangement . . .
at mealtime is not suitable for your niece.”

“She is hungry, is she not?” he asked, intentionally misinterpreting her words. “I should think a growing child would—”

“I should like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.” Her color was high, her eyes flashing daggers in his direction.

He was about to tell her to go ahead and start talking, but noticed that the men were far quieter than usual. And Emmaline was there, sitting among them, no doubt listening carefully to every word. “Come with me, then. To the library.”

“But Lady Emmaline—”

“Is perfectly all right here with Henry Blue. Isn’t that so, Private Blue?” Nash asked rhetorically, looking forward to a few moments alone with Miss Franklin. He could feel waves of anger rolling off her, and every nerve in his body reacted. She would be a fiery one in bed.

“Yes, sir.”

He took the pretty governess’s arm and started to draw her out of the kitchen, but Philip Lowell came into the room just then and delivered news that changed Nash’s direction.

“There’s a carriage coming up the drive to the Hall, my lord.”

He was expecting no visitors, nor did he want any. “Tell them to go away, Lowell.”

“No, my lord.”

Nash shot Lowell a lethal glance. “That was a direct order, Mr. Lowell,” he said, even though direct orders were not quite the same anymore, and certainly did not apply to civilian stewards.

Lowell ignored him. “ ’Tis likely Mr. Carew, and he’s come to call in a bright new landau with a driver and two footmen. He is not a personage you ought to snub, my lord.”

Nash resented the intrusion, but he recognized the need to play the engaging host to his neighbors. He would have preferred they wait until he was ready for them.

“My lord,” said Lowell quietly, raising his brows expectantly. He said no more, though Nash knew what was on the tip of his tongue. Nash could not play the reclusive lord of the manor, not if he was going to make local alliances and perhaps even find a rich wife to finance Ashby’s restoration.

He held back a colorful word and gave the governess a curt nod of his head before abandoning her and starting for the door. “Miss Franklin, I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our chat.”

But not for long. After his hour-long gallop, Nash was in the mood to engage with the tidy little governess who most definitely had a burr under her saddle.

“Harper,” he said as he unbuttoned his dirt-speckled shirt and started to pull it from his trews, “go and find Sergeant Parker—he’s likely in my bedchamber. Tell him to bring a clean shirt and coat to me in the library.”

The sight of Miss Franklin’s blushing face stopped him cold. Her eyes seemed to be locked upon the triangle of flesh and hair he’d exposed with his unbuttoning, and he felt a wrench of arousal, a bold fullness that had been quite absent for the past year.

Chapter 10

T
he governess quickly turned away and Nash realized belatedly how indelicate their informal interchange must seem to her . . . Perhaps worse than their encounter outside her bedroom the night before.

Unless she felt it, too. A hot rush of awareness raced through him at the thought of her putting her hands upon his naked chest. Sliding her fingertips down to his most sensitive—

No. A vicar’s daughter would be immune from such fevered longings, and shocked to know she’d been the subject of his intensely carnal thoughts.

Not that she would ever find out. Emmaline was in dire need of Miss Franklin’s services, and Nash had no intention of seducing his niece’s governess. While it would solve one of his problems, such a liaison would raise a host of complications he did not need.

He left the kitchen and the issue Miss Franklin wanted to discuss, and started for the library alongside Philip Lowell. Perhaps he would send Lowell back to deal with whatever Miss Franklin wanted. Staying clear of her would be the most prudent thing.

But Nash couldn’t quite make himself form the words that would eliminate his reason to converse with Miss Franklin after the visitors were gone.

Parker was already coming down the steps, carrying a change of clothes. “In the library, Parker,” Nash said, putting his inappropriate thoughts of Miss Franklin from his mind.

From the privacy of the library, Nash heard Grainger open the door and greet the visitors, then admit them to the house.

Nash quickly changed clothes and Parker tied his neck cloth, with some difficulty, since Nash could not manage to stand still.

Lowell returned to the library. “Aye, ’tis Horace Carew, and his daughter, Miss Helene Carew.”

Nash did not remember meeting any Carew in years past, though the name was familiar. He glanced at Lowell. “
Carew
. He owns a number of acres that abut all that marshy land at the southern end of my estate. Right near the Ridge path. He owns Strathmore Pond.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Nash considered the details of the plat map he’d studied at length. The southernmost acres of the estate were rough with slate-laden crags and low-lying fields that flooded often, making them useless. Or, useless until he could afford to hire an engineer to come in and drain the land. Then he would have some ditches dug to channel the excess water that accumulated in that area during heavy rains.

“I wonder what he wants,” Nash said.

“He’s likely come merely to give you a proper greeting.”

Perhaps he wanted to begin a joint improvement of those waterlogged acres. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

Nash left the library and went into the drawing room, where a tall, distinguished man stood before the fire. The gentleman was well dressed and appeared old enough to be Nash’s father.

Seated nearby was a young woman in a vibrant pink coat with some frilly off-white trim on its edges and a perfectly matched hat with feathers. She sat straight in her chair with a benign smile on her utterly charming face, giving her an air of elegant sophistication. Nash needed no more than one good eye to see that she was a lovely blond. When he came into the room, the lady turned and gave him a brilliant smile, which faded only the slightest bit when she caught sight of his scars.

Nash had become so used to it, he barely noticed her reaction.

“Lord Ashby, ’tis very good to meet you!” the gentleman said, coming toward Nash with his long, narrow, outstretched hand. “I am Horace Carew.”

Nash grasped his hand and shook it. The silver-haired man was thin and angular, his chin long and pointed, his nose slightly hooked. He looked every inch the gentleman, but for the malformed finger on his left hand. It looked as though an accident had crushed the tip, and now there was no nail at its end.

It was naught compared to Nash’s scars.

“Allow me to present my daughter, Miss Helene Carew.” Since she remained seated, Nash could not be certain, but the lady seemed to have inherited her father’s height, but not the same unfortunate nose. She was quite stunning.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Nash took her hand and gave a short bow over it, catching a whiff of some exotic perfume.

“We’ve been remiss in welcoming you home, my lord,” said Carew. “I understand it’s been some time since you were last here.”

“Not since my eldest brother’s funeral.”

“Ah yes—we’d left for Edinburgh by then and were obliged to miss it.” A thoughtful frown creased his brow. “My condolences on that, and your more recent loss, as well.”

Nash gave a nod. It was an awkward moment, but there was no help for it. Speaking of deaths in one’s family was never easy. He’d had to miss Arthur’s funeral because he was in hospital at the time, apparently fighting for his life, if the army quacks were to be believed.

“Rumor has it that you were at Waterloo, my lord,” Carew said.

“Aye. I was there,” Nash replied simply.

“We read reports of the day, of course.” Carew took on the expression Nash had seen many times before. It was one of morbid curiosity—a thirst for details Nash had spent months struggling to forget. No one seemed to understand the personal agonies that had occurred that day. The taste of blood and fear, the loss of friends, the anguish of injuries to flesh and bone—all the things Nash wished he had never had to witness.

“ ’Tis said some of the bloodiest action was at a farmhouse—what did they call it, Helene? Oh yes, Hougoumont,” he said before she could reply. “That’s it.”

Nash chewed the inside of his cheek and tried to think of some answer that would not offend this potentially valuable neighbor. “Aye. I was at Hougoumont.” He changed the subject abruptly. “You must be fairly new to the district, Mr. Carew.”

“We came up from London about six or seven years ago. I bought the Hartfield property, down south of the Ridge path. We still call it Strathmore Pond, just as Mr. Hartfield did,” Carew said, accepting the change of subject while verifying what Nash had already deduced. “We’re enjoying the country life, running a few sheep.”

Nash guessed it was more than a few, judging by the cut of their clothes and air of wealth that seemed to swirl about them. He had no doubt that Mr. Carew had a few other business interests that kept him and his daughter in expensive clothes and perfumes.

“We thought it was time we came to pay our respects, isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Yes, Father,” Miss Carew said, keeping her eyes downcast. A demure pose, to be sure, but Nash was fairly certain her real reason was that she wasn’t quite sure where to look. His damaged countenance made a lot of people uncomfortable. “It’s been some time since we visited Ashby Hall.”

“The past few years have been rough on the place,” Carew said. He did not glance around the drawing room, so Nash took him to mean the estate itself, and not just the house.

Admittedly, Carew was right on all counts. The fields, the herd, and the house.

“Aye. I have a great deal of work to do. We’re still taking stock of the situation here before we institute a plan.”

“I believe there are a few Ashby sheep grazing down in your eastern quarter.”

Nash knew where every one of his remaining sheep were. He’d ordered his men to ride all through the fells to look for them and count them. It was too early to bring them in for shearing, but he wanted to know how many of Ashby’s Herdwicks remained on his lands. Their numbers would tell him how many he would need to purchase in order to build up the herd.

Besides hiring a head shepherd, Nash decided he would need at least one good sheepdog to help bring in the flock when it was time. As he recalled from his youth, sheepdogs could be more valuable than a human shepherd in the field.

“You may be right,” he said, still assessing his guest, wondering if there was some particular reason for his visit.

Carew sat down beside his daughter, and Nash took a seat across from them. Miss Carew glanced around the room, her eyes alighting upon every piece of dusty antique furniture, every vase, picture, and bauble, giving him a chance to appreciate her striking features.

He could not fathom why she was unwed. She appeared older than Miss Franklin, by a few years at least, long past the age most young women married. Based on her father’s apparent prosperity, she would have a better than average dowry, which should have made her very appealing as a wife. Nash would have to make some inquiries to see if he could determine exactly what Carew’s finances were, and what his daughter’s dowry would actually be.

He wondered if Carew would have any interest in marrying his daughter to a destitute nobleman.

It was not unheard of. There were many instances of wealthy gentlemen’s daughters marrying impoverished noblemen for their titles. Perhaps this was what the Carews had in mind, although Nash could see that his rough visage was not particularly appealing to the young lady.

Miss Carew was flawless, and would surely have drawn the attentions of every young bachelor in London. Nash wondered why her prosperous father had decided to remove her from London society to rusticate here in Cumbria. A scandal, perhaps?

Her beauty, along with a good reputation, might be preferable in a wife, but both were completely unnecessary to Nash’s purpose—unlike the dowry, which was essential.

Nash decided to foster his acquaintance with these people, for both father and daughter were likely to be of great value to him. He relaxed in his chair as he considered the possibilities. “Ashby is in need of some careful husbandry, Mr. Carew. I’d be interested in getting your advice on a few of the issues we’re facing here.”

Carew laughed good-naturedly. “No doubt you can use some good counsel, my lord. Ashby lands have been slowly declining especially since your brother—since Arthur—inherited it.”

“Arthur was smart as a whip, but never much of a manager,” Nash said, resenting Carew’s assessment of his brother, honest though it might be. It was well enough for Nash to admit his late brother’s shortcomings, but he didn’t appreciate hearing it from an arrogant stranger.

But he tempered his annoyance. Horace Carew was obviously very successful, and Nash decided he wanted the man’s goodwill. He might even court the man’s daughter.

“I’m pleased to find you willing to ask for advice. Intelligent as the last Lord Ashby might have been, advice was something to which your brother had a severe—and quite detrimental—aversion.”

Nash rubbed his forehead as the early twinges of a headache daggered through his skull. “Do you know of anyone in the district who has a good dog or two he’d be willing to part with?”

“Hmm,” said Carew, his formidable brows coming together in thoughts. “Metcalf Farm, down east of Keswick. You probably know Sir William.”

“Oh, aye. I once knew them well.”

“I would not be surprised if he had a few spare dogs.”

Nash reminded himself it was past time for a visit to the old squire who’d been a friend of his father all those many years ago. Perhaps the older man even had some opinion on what had occurred the day Hoyt had died.

Carew turned to his daughter. “My dear, you were going to ask Lord Ashby . . .”

“Oh yes.” She faced Nash, but he could sense her reluctance to do so. “Are you planning on joining the social circuit here in the Lake District?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, Miss Carew.” He took in her graceful posture and perfect manners. She would make an ideal wife—if she could ever become accustomed to his face.

He ought to court her. Ought to see if he could charm her beyond her aversion to his appearance. Nash had an unholy urge to inform her that all his important parts were in good working order. If he hadn’t been certain before, his interactions with Mercy Franklin had proven it was true.

He returned his attention to the conversation. “Hasn’t everyone already gone to London for the season?”

“Not everyone goes south, my lord,” said Carew when his daughter did not immediately reply. “There will be some folderol at the assembly hall in Keswick next week, and after that, I’m sure there will be house parties and whatnot. Plenty to do. There always is. Am I right, Helene?”

The young lady nodded.

“That’s good to know. I was thinking of hosting a house party here, to reacquaint myself with my neighbors.”

“I’m sure that will be a very welcome event, my lord,” said Miss Carew. Her skin was as clear as white porcelain, and her golden hair framed her face in intricate ringlets. Nash could not imagine a more beautiful woman . . .

And then his thoughts turned again to Mercy Franklin, whose quiet beauty would turn heads if she ever loosened her hair and donned something less severe. Showed a bit more skin, as Miss Carew did.

Nash could easily imagine her delicate collarbones and the sweet hollow at her throat, and he could not stop himself from thinking about touching it with his tongue. A fancy ball gown would display her enticing curves far better than any frock he’d seen on her thus far, although the color of today’s gown set off her magnificent eyes to perf—

Carew cleared his throat and gave his daughter a pointed look, just as Mercy Franklin walked past the door with her young charge. Nash could still feel the anger radiating from her skin. It seemed not so very different from the heat he’d felt as she stood so close to him in the middle of the night, wearing only her thin night rail.

His mouth went dry and his body reacted just as it had the night before. Miss Franklin was nothing like the cool, practiced socialite who sat before him now, with her eyes trained on a spot somewhere behind him. He had an implacable desire to take Mercy to his bedchamber and remove her clothes, piece by piece while he kissed her.

“Would . . . would you like some assistance, Lord Ashby?” Miss Carew said, and Nash wondered if she had lost her mind.

Then he realized that he was the one whose hold on sanity was compromised.