The Governess Was Wanton (11 page)

That night, however, he wanted a few uninterrupted hours in his bed when she was just his.

“You dozed off for a moment,” he murmured when she shifted to look up his body.

“I can't imagine why,” she said with a wry smile.

He searched her face, looking for any sign that she felt the monumental, earth-moving shift that he'd just experienced, but as always her expression was guarded. She could be so careful, this woman he loved. He'd spend a lifetime showing her that she didn't have to be cautious any longer.

“Will you stay?” he asked as he dropped a kiss to her forehead.

She shifted to her elbow to look up at him, her full lips open in an unasked question. He traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger, happy just to be able to touch her now. What he wouldn't give up to make sure he could touch her like that every day for the rest of his life.

“Please stay,” he said.

She paused before giving a little nod. “Just for a little while. You don't want to frighten the scullery maid when she comes in to light the fire.”

He leaned down to kiss her, her lips opening easily.

“I'll wake you before then,” he said as he pulled back and settled her against him. He watched her close her eyes, her hand on his chest, fingers splayed, grounding him.

This was what he wanted, he thought as he drifted off. If only he could hold on to this moment for the rest of his life, he'd be a happy man.

Mary slipped out from between the covers, careful not to disturb Eric while he slept. Even in the dim moonlight coming through a crack in the heavy velvet curtains, she could make out the handsome planes of his face and the soft curve of his smile. He looked so peaceful, so perfect, and she was about to walk away from him.

Her heart pounded as she forced herself to slip on her dressing gown. Putting on her night rail would take up too much time and risk waking him. She needed to leave his room this instant, because if she didn't, she might never work up the will to leave again.

Carefully, she let herself out and closed the door behind her with a quiet click. Taking the servants' stairs, she stole up to her own bedroom, shutting the door behind her with as much resolution as she could muster. Then she sagged against it.

“What have I done?” she asked the empty room.

She was a fool. For all of her speeches to herself about how she would never overstep the boundaries of her position, she had. She'd broken her own rules and now she was going to have to pay the consequences.

The affair stopped now. They wouldn't have an understanding or an arrangement. Just as she knew that she wasn't ever going to be any man's wife, she wasn't going to be any man's mistress either. Not even a man she wanted with such force that it almost laid her flat.

But just as she couldn't be with Eric, she also couldn't trust herself to stay away. She had to leave. Lord Blakeney's courtship of Lady Eleanora seemed secure, and if the man had any intelligence at all, he'd ask for the girl's hand in a matter of days rather than weeks. Her charge would be married by the end of the season. Mary wasn't needed any longer. It was time for her to move on or else she'd be left behind, forced out, forgotten.

It didn't take her long to pull her small trunk from under her bed and her valise from the top shelf of the cabinet and fill them. She stopped only a couple of times to tilt her head back and fight the tears that threatened. As a rule, Mary didn't cry, and she wouldn't start now. But no matter how she tried to stomp them down, the waves of emotion kept coming. Eric had made her feel special, different,
loved
. It had been too long since she believed anyone capable of loving her. The scars of her own mother's abandonment were too deep. Eric was an earl. One day he would decide he needed a legitimate heir. He would marry again, and Mary would be set aside. Giving him up for another woman—watching him walk away—would rend her heart in two. That was why she must leave now before he could hurt her.

And so she snapped the clasps closed on her trunk and her case and made her way downstairs. When she reached the first floor of the servants' staircase, Chaucer began to bark on the floor above her. Mary froze until the pup settled down again. Breathing a sigh of relief, she made her way to the silent kitchen and unlatched the door, hoping Warthing would forgive her for her leaving the house unsecured for a few hours.

She'd already managed to get her trunk out into the mews when a sound stopped her. She whirled around and saw her charge standing in the entrance to the kitchen in her night rail, watching her with open curiosity.

“Lady Eleanora, what are you doing awake?” she asked, her heart pounding.

“I woke an hour ago and have been unable to fall asleep again. I was reading in bed when Chaucer barked, so I thought I'd investigate,” Lady Eleanora said. “Are you making a quick getaway?”

Mary straightened, more than aware that even if she were to drop her things and run, she wouldn't get far in her long skirt and thin boots. “Isn't that what all getaways should be?”

The young woman cocked her head to the side. “It depends on what you're escaping from. Have I done something wrong?”

The tears threatened to well up again and she lurched forward to grasp Lady Eleanora's hands. “Not at all. This has nothing to do with you, I promise.”

“Then why would you leave? Everything's been so much better with you here.”

The decision to leave Eric had been hard enough. Leaving his daughter, whom she'd come to love over their short weeks together, only made it sting more.

“The time has come,” Mary said. “You're already so much the young lady you're meant to be.”

Lady Eleanora fixed her with her wide, green eyes that mirrored her father's. “But how am I to do this without you?”

“You're more than capable of navigating your season. You didn't really need me at the masque. You captured Lord Blakeney's attention all on your own, and I believe he's quite smitten with you. You're clever and kind, and he'd be a dolt to let you go.”

Lady Eleanora dipped her head. “It isn't Lord Blakeney I worry about. It's us.”

“Us?” she asked.

“You don't know what this house was like before you came. It was quiet all the time. My father thinks that we were close, but we've barely seen each other since I've been old enough to be out of short dresses. Outside of our lessons, he spent all of his days in Parliament because I was a grown girl. And then Lady Laughlin came along and everything became so much worse. Having you in the house made him wake up.”

Mary's chest constricted. Her body and heart longed to stay, but her mind knew she couldn't. She must leave now or risk winding up abandoned once again.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered as she started to turn.

“At least tell me where you're going!”

Lady Eleanora's request made her stop. She shouldn't. The less her charge knew the better.

“I would like to write you if there's any news—” Lady Eleanora blushed. “Any news about Lord Blakeney.”

Her better judgment fell away. “I'm going to Chelsea to the home of my friends Dr. and Mrs. Fellows. They'll take me in until I find another position.”

This time it was her charge's turn to squeeze her hand. “You've been very kind to me, Miss Woodward. I wish you luck.”

Lady Eleanora stepped back over the threshold and shut the kitchen door, leaving Mary in the misting early morning. Refusing to look back, she gripped her valise and went to the street to hail a cab. The driver hopped down and fetched her trunk before helping her in and settling her luggage at her feet.

“Number 23 Hans Crescent, please,” she said to the driver.

As they rumbled off, she settled against the tufted leather seat, wrapping her wool coat a little tighter around herself. She wasn't sure whether it was the crisp air or what she'd just done that chilled her more. Either way, she couldn't stop her body from trembling during the short ride from Belgravia to Chelsea.

When the cab stopped at Hans Crescent, the driver helped her unload her things. As the cab rumbled off, Mary knocked hard on the door of No. 23, regretting only that she had to wake the home's residents. It took just two rounds of knocking before she heard the scrape of the lock's tumblers and the door swung open.

Edward Fellows stood there, bleary-eyed in his dressing gown and slippers. He took one look at her, and his weariness seemed to morph into worry. “Mary, what's wrong?”

“Why are you opening your own door?” she asked, not prepared for the sight of her friend yet.

“I couldn't sleep so I was writing in my surgery. Are you well?”

“I've—” Finally, the tears began to fall.

He hurried her inside, pulling her luggage in after her. With the firm hand of a man used to comforting patients in their most desperate times, he led her through to the kitchen where his cook was already bustling around, baking bread and readying the house for the day.

“Sit here and warm up by the fire,” he directed her. “I'll go get Elizabeth.”

Mary did as she was told, tears still rolling down her face.

After a moment, the cook slid a cup of tea across the table to her. “Here you are, miss. Tea makes everything better.”

She gave a choked half laugh. How could a cup of tea make this better? She'd fallen in love with her employer. She'd willingly gone to his bed, asking him to kiss her and encouraging him to love her. Then she'd left because, of the two futures she could see for herself, this was the less painful. But that didn't mean it was going to be easy.

But she was an Englishwoman through and through and she accepted the cup of tea because, in truth, it couldn't make things worse.

She was just raising it to her lips for her first sip when Elizabeth swept into the kitchen. Her friend—wearing only a plain blue dress—took one look at her and gathered her into a hug.

“What happened?” Elizabeth asked.

The tears began with renewed strength. “I love him.”

“Oh, my dearest,” her friend said, putting her hand on Mary's head as she held her to her breast like a sick child.

“I love him, and I left him,” she sobbed. “I know that doesn't make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” said Elizabeth. “Now why don't you tell me what happened from the beginning?”

Chapter Eleven

Asten couldn't stop fidgeting as he sat in his library, a book abandoned next to him on the worn leather sofa. First it was his leg that wouldn't stop bouncing. When he controlled that, his fingers began drumming on the sofa's arm. Catching himself again, he stretched and scrubbed a hand over his face. It was time for him to admit that he was waiting with the worst sort of impatience for the woman who had altered his world's axis to appear.

He'd woken up reaching for Mary in the warm fog of the morning, but the other side of his bed had been cold. He'd bolted up, only just stopping himself from throwing off the covers. Of course she wasn't there. She'd said that she would steal away before the maids arrived. He wouldn't have cared if they'd seen them in bed—what did a few days really matter if he intended to make her his wife?—but he respected that her position was a delicate one. She would face scrutiny and perhaps even accusations that she'd intentionally seduced him. If anything, it couldn't be further from the truth. She'd simply been her brilliant self and he'd fallen right there at her feet. Now if she'd just appear he could continue worshipping her.

He'd just caught himself fiddling with his pocket watch chain when the library door opened. He jumped to his feet, ready to greet Mary with all the joy that threatened to burst from him, but it wasn't her standing in the doorway. It was his daughter.

“Hello, Papa,” Eleanora said, gliding into the room with a serenity and sense of purpose she hadn't shown in months. The change that had come over her in just the few weeks since Mary had joined their home was remarkable, although Mary would no doubt tell him that it had more to do with Eleanora's own confidence than with anything else. Asten was prepared to keep his own counsel with just a smile to concede that he believed she was being far too modest.

“Good morning,” he said. “Aren't you usually in lessons at this time of day?”

Not much longer if I have anything to say about it.
He fully intended to make sure that Mary never had to worry about teaching another day in her life if she didn't wish to.

“That's the thing, Papa. I can't seem to find Miss Woodward anywhere,” his daughter said.

All of his cheeriness rushed away at once. “What do you mean you can't find her?”

She shrugged. “I went up to the schoolroom but she's not there. It's unlike Miss Woodward. She's always so prompt.”

Not there. The words reverberated through his entire body as he tried to stave off the dread that was now filling him. Mary wouldn't have shirked her responsibilities. It wasn't in her nature. Not when she was devoted to his daughter in every way.

But what if I scared her off?

“Perhaps she stayed in bed late,” he said, doubting his own words.

It wasn't until then that Asten realized his daughter was watching his every move carefully. There was no reason for it, but all at once it was as though she'd been able to look straight into his soul and what she found was disappointing.

“It's unlike Miss Woodward to spend the day lazing around,” said Eleanora.

The memory of Mary spread out on his bed under him, long legs a delicious contrast to the stark white of his linens, flooded his mind. An ache shook his body, and he gripped the arm of his chair to resist the urge to press his hand hard to his heart. She couldn't be gone. It would be too deep a wound for him to bear if she was.

“Papa, are you quite all right?” asked Eleanora.

Before he could answer, the front door bell sounded through the house. Eleanora's brows rose, and she crossed the library to peer out the window into the street.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Would you like to hazard a guess?” Eleanora asked.

Only one woman would call this early and elicit that sort of dry, unamused tone from his usually generous daughter. Lady Laughlin.

Asten's head pounded. Everything was wrong. Mary was nowhere to be seen, his daughter was once again distant, and the baroness was on his doorstep. He needed to think. He needed to restore the balance in his life before anything else spun out of control, and the fastest way to do that was to find Mary. Everything else was inconsequential.

“Warthing will tell her we're not at home,” said Asten.

The sound of the door shutting and the trill of Lady Laughlin's voice drifted up the stairs and through the heavy oaken door of the library to them.

“Are you certain about that?” asked Eleanora.

Asten frowned. “Did she just let herself in?”

“Warthing can only be so forceful,” his daughter reminded him, smiling to herself as though she was getting a certain amount of satisfaction out of the situation unfolding before them.

And then it struck him. Mary had warned him about this. She'd told him that Lady Laughlin was presumptuous, forcing her way into his home and imposing her will on Eleanora. He'd watched Lady Laughlin spar with Mary with steel-sharpened words. This, however, he hadn't been able to bring himself to believe. It was too much, a gross violation of decorum that couldn't be tolerated. Eleanora was the mistress of this house and would be until Mary agreed to be his wife. Lady Laughlin had no power here.

“Right,” said Asten as he shot to his feet. “I'll handle this.”

The rustle of his daughter's skirts behind him was unmistakable as he traversed the library, yanked the door open, and stormed out into the hall. The carpet masked the clatter of his shoes against the stairs, but he made enough noise to announce himself, and when he reached the first-floor landing, Warthing and Lady Laughlin were both peering up at him.

“Lord Asten!” the woman cried. “There's been some sort of mistake. Your butler tells me that you and Lady Eleanora are not at home to visitors, but I keep telling him that I'm not a visitor. Why, I'm practically family!”

That she most certainly was
not
.

“Lady Laughlin was quite insistent, my lord,” said Warthing with a look that told Asten exactly what the butler thought of the woman.

Asten crossed his arms and fixed the splendidly dressed woman with a searing look. “What is it that you require, madam?”

Lady Laughlin's smile wavered. “Aren't you going to invite me in for tea?”

“No.” His voice cut through the entryway, and he didn't miss the sharp intake of breath from his daughter. Mary had been right. He'd needed to rid himself of the baroness for a long time. He regretted not seeing the signs before, but he'd fix this. He would fix
all
of it.

“Eric . . .” Lady Laughlin started.

“I understand that you were once friends with my wife, and I'm grateful that she had someone in this world who cared for her, but it has come to my attention that you and your daughters have been too free with my hospitality for too long, madam. You are not to enter my home when Warthing tells you that we are not at home. You are not to order my daughter around as though she's a servant. And you are most certainly not to use my Christian name without my invitation. An invitation I have no intention of extending to you.”

Lady Laughlin gasped. “I've never been so insulted in my life! The things that I've done for you and your daughter—”

“Remind me what those things are. As far as I can tell, all you've done is belittle Eleanora to promote your own daughters' marriage chances. I was blind to your bullying in the past, and I accept my part in that.” He turned to Eleanora. “I should have been a better father, and there will never be enough apologies.”

His daughter's lip wobbled, but she hitched her chin up, proud and steadfast. “You're the very best father, Papa.”

He shook his head. “You deserve more, and I intend to make sure that you get it.”

“I can't believe this,” Lady Laughlin huffed. “I presented your daughter to the queen!”

He inclined his head to award a point to her. “A fact I am grateful for, but Eleanora is not a young lady without resources. She no long requires your assistance as a chaperone.”

Lady Laughlin's mouth worked as though she was chewing on words she dared not say. Finally she spat, “If that fool of a girl can snag a man like Lord Blakeney, I'll be damned.”

There it was, the admission that he'd been looking for to confirm everything he knew to be true.

“That governess has put you up to this,” Lady Laughlin continued to rail. “You heard her say herself that not even her own mother wanted her!”

“Out!”

The word had been on his lips, but it was Eleanora who said it. He looked at his daughter, but in place of the sweet seventeen-year-old girl was an empress, a woman so sure of her convictions that she seemed to radiate with power.

“You are no longer welcome in this home, Lady Laughlin,” said Eleanora in a clear, commanding voice. “I will no longer recognize you socially. If you wish to test me, you may try, but you'll find yourself cut in the most public way.”

Lady Laughlin gasped and looked to him, but he shrugged. “As I said, my daughter is the mistress of this house. Her word is rule.”

The baroness paled. In a weak voice, she managed to murmur, “You'll regret this.”

“No, Lady Laughlin, we won't,” he said, placing a protective hand on his daughter's shoulder.

The woman swallowed and turned on her heel for the door, pausing only while Warthing twisted the knob and expelled her onto the street.

When they were alone again, Asten looked on his daughter with admiration. “That was well done, my dear.”

Eleanora raised a brow, reached into her pocket, and withdrew a scrap of cloth to hand to him.

“I don't need a handkerchief,” he said, frowning in confusion.

“Look at it, Papa.”

He unfolded the scrap of cloth, and shock hit him square in the chest. It was edged in ivy and topped with a single pink geranium.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his hand flying to his waistcoat pocket. But the handkerchief he'd carried on him for a week wasn't there. He hadn't picked it up off of his dressing table that morning. It hadn't seemed necessary to have the reminder of Miss Falsum in the garden and his desperation to wipe out his passion for Mary any longer. He wasn't ashamed that he wanted Mary and everything that the future could be with her.

“It's not the same as the one you have, but you can check if you like,” Eleanora said.

He didn't want to think this meant she knew about his illicit activities in the garden. “How did you come to have this?”

She cocked her head as though wondering why her father was being a dolt. “It's Miss Woodward's. She's my friend from the ball, Miss Falsum. That's why I couldn't tell you about her.”

His heart skipped a full two beats. The masked lady in the garden was Mary. His Mary.

He scrunched the cloth in his hand. “She must think—”

She must think the worst, most wretched things about him. That he went around seducing any woman who met his fancy. That he lifted a skirt wherever he could.

He needed to tell her that he'd fallen under her spell—and only her spell—twice. He'd sought solace from her the night of the masque, but he'd managed to find her in a crowd of anonymous revelers nonetheless.

“I have to find her,” he declared. “I have to explain.”

His daughter rolled her eyes. “Oh, Papa. You don't have to explain. You have to tell her you love her.”

He looked up sharply. “I thought you wanted things to remain just the two of us.”

“When I thought that you were going to walk right into Lady Laughlin's trap, I did,” said Eleanora, clearly no longer caring to hide her disgust for the baroness. “Do you know that when you weren't looking she would tell men that my ankle was turned so that I couldn't dance? If I did manage to have a conversation with anyone, she would talk about my deficiencies. I read too much. I was too interested in science. My hair is coarse and my skin is sallow. She would push her daughters in front of me at balls when you weren't looking or send me on endless errands to fetch punch.”

It was everything Mary had warned him of, he'd just been too wrapped up in his own ideas of duty and honor to see it. “I'm so sorry, my dear.”

“I know, Papa. Besides . . .” She blushed and started picking at the fabric of her skirt. “Lord Blakeney intends to call on you today to ask if he might court me, so it may not be just the two of us for much longer.”

It was happening. His daughter was no longer a little girl but a woman with a prospective fiancé ready to bang down the door. “Is he good enough for you?” he asked, trying to choke down the emotion that had settled like a lump of India rubber behind his Adam's apple.

His daughter beamed. “He is. But we can talk about that later. First you need to find Miss Woodward.”

And how the hell was he going to do that? London was a vast city and he didn't have even the slightest idea of where she might be.

“She ran,” he said lamely. “I can't blame her if she thought I was enamored of both her and Miss Falsum.”

“Good Lord, Papa. Are all men so self-centered?” She laughed when his brow furrowed. “I assume that you and Miss Woodward showed some sort of affection to one another?”

His cheeks burned with embarrassment hearing his daughter of seventeen allude to what he'd done with Mary behind his closed bedroom door.

“There was some exchange of sentiments,” he said, trying hard not to fidget in his awkwardness.

“She's a governess,” she said as though explaining things to a child.

“I know that.” And if Mary had just waited a little longer she would have been a countess. She would have been
his
countess, his wife, the woman he wanted the entire world to know he loved.

His daughter shook her head. “Think about it from her perspective. Governesses aren't supposed to fall in love with their employers. You're an earl.”