Seducing the Governess (14 page)

He wanted to sidle closer and touch his mouth to the point in her neck where the scent of lilies was strongest. He wanted to take down that pure white bib and slowly untie the strings at her waist.

But he knew better.

He was expected to dine with Mr. Carew and his daughter at Strathmore Pond that night, and would begin his courtship in earnest. He could not attend Helene Carew properly while thoughts of Mercy Franklin pervaded his entire being.

Nash supposed he should mention that he intended to entertain his future bride at Ashby Hall when it was ready for guests, but he had a feeling such information would hinder the lively exchanges he shared with Miss Franklin. Once she became aware that he had already begun to court Miss Carew, he was fairly certain she would find a way to curb her tongue. She would become distant and respectful, an attitude he was not going to enjoy when it happened.

And it would happen soon.

At least he had all day to enjoy her comings and goings, and the way she delegated housekeeping chores to his men. And while Mercy strode between the great hall and the various receiving rooms, Emmaline sat with paper and pencils on her lap, quietly drawing.

Soundly dismissed by the general whom he’d put in charge, Nash retreated to the library, where he gathered up the ledgers and notes he intended to finish that afternoon.

Mercy’s heart swelled at the sight of Lord Ashby hovering near Emmaline as she drew. She wondered if there was something else she could do to ease his awkwardness with his niece, or Emmaline’s shyness with him.

Her urge to leave Ashby Hall had diminished over the past few days, and she had lost some of her impetus to write to Mr. Vale. Keeping busy with Emmy had sidetracked her . . . as had Lord Ashby himself. It was difficult to focus her attention on Andrew Vale when she knew the earl was in his bedchamber, just down the hall.

Emmaline’s uncle was annoying. No, he was not merely annoying, but maddening, and yet Mercy could not control the purely visceral response he provoked in her. When he was near, there did not seem to be enough air to breathe. Her heart pounded and sparks skittered wildly across her ragged nerves.

She did not need to wonder how his kiss would have felt, for she knew. It would have been amazing.

It
would be
amazing, if she allowed it. Which she could not. Writing to Reverend Vale was a far more practical, as well as safer, bet. The young vicar was a man within Mercy’s reach, and even though he did not create in her the kind of maelstrom that Lord Ashby did, he’d been a perfectly satisfactory suitor eight months ago. Of course he was still acceptable now.

If he remained unmarried.

Mercy focused her attention on the housekeeping tasks being performed under her direction. The neglect she saw in every corner of the Hall was palpable, and she could only wonder how the rest of the estate fared. She had not seen many sheep on the hillsides, though there was at least one milk cow housed in the barn near the stable. One of the younger men—usually Henry Blue or Roddy Roarke—did the milking and made sure there was plenty available for Emmaline.

But they needed butter, cheese, and eggs. The fruits and vegetables that were brought up from town were far from fresh, and hardly palatable. Their diet at Ashby was dull and monotonous.

That would change in the coming months. Mercy had been surprised by how quickly Mr. Lowell had obtained the seeds she requested. When she had a few moments’ leisure time, she would look for an appropriate plot in which to plant them. Not that she intended to be there long enough to see her crop harvested. If all went as she hoped . . .

Well, she would not count her chickens before they were hatched.

When she saw Mr. Vale again, her fondness for him would turn into something rather more compelling, more exciting, than it had been when he’d asked for her hand. When he gave her a kiss to seal their marriage vows, it would be pure bliss—not the dark promise of sweet savage pleasures she could not even imagine.

Mercy felt a blush creep up from her neck to her forehead and put aside her lascivious thoughts. Something must be fundamentally wrong with her to entertain such wild imaginings. She had chores to do, and there was no time for such nonsense.

Luckily, Mercy was not expected to do the work of putting the house to rights. Lord Ashby had told the men to follow her instructions, and Mr. Lowell was usually nearby in case of any disagreement.

There had been some grumbling. Childers and Bassett were not pleased with having to do housework, but they did as they were told, albeit begrudgingly. They did, at least, until Mr. Lowell stepped out and Lord Ashby disappeared, and Mercy asked Mr. Bassett to help Henry Blue carry out the carpet.

“I’m not a flippin’ footman, missy,” he growled. “Get Roarke to do your carrying for you.”

“Mr. Roarke has gone to fetch a bucket of water.” She wondered where Mr. Lowell had gone. “I would appreciate it if you would just help Mr. Blue now so we can get this chore over and done.”

“Well, nobody bloody well cares what you appreciate.” He faced Mercy squarely, his face close enough that she could see flecks of brown in his black eyes.

In her peripheral vision, Mercy saw Henry Blue on his knees where he’d rolled up the carpet, and Emmaline on a chair beyond him. Henry gaped up at them, seemingly paralyzed.

Mercy swallowed as Bassett stepped even closer. The dome of his bald head was slightly damp, and his cheeks red. He towered over her, his anger out of proportion to the request. “Mr. Bassett . . .”

Mercy found herself trembling. Mr. Bassett had been threatening on that first morning here, but this was far worse. She felt he might actually do her some harm.

“Stay where you are, Blue!” Bassett barked when Henry got up and started for the door. “No need to summon Lowell for this.”

“Mr. Bassett, sir, I think you should—”

“Shut it, Blue.” He did not take his eyes from Mercy as he spoke, and his harsh command achieved the result he’d intended. Henry stood still and silent. Emmaline did not move, but seemed to shrink into her chair, her eyes closed tightly.

And Mercy’s fear turned to anger. How dare he frighten the little girl in this way?

“You are out of line, Mr. Bassett.” She spoke firmly, putting her hands on her hips and leaning toward him, rising on her toes to gain a bit of height. “I gave you a perfectly civil, perfectly legitimate request.”

“I’ll be damned if I—”

Mercy jabbed one finger into Bassett’s chest. “Your language is offensive, and your attitude is even worse. Either you give Mr. Blue your assistance, or you can leave the house. Now.”

“Right,” he drawled derisively. “You don’t have the authority—”

“Yes, she does, Bassett,” came a growling voice at the other side of the room.

Chapter 16

M
ercy did not know how long Lord Ashby had been standing in the doorway observing the interchange, but when he walked into the room, Bassett retreated a pace or two. Clearly, the former sergeant had not been aware of his presence, either.

“I’m a soldier, sir,” he said. “Not a housemaid.”

“And what you
will
be—is without a place to rest your head if you ever again speak to Miss Franklin in that tone.”

Bassett’s face twisted harshly. “But sir—”

“You all know the importance of making the house ready,” the earl said, his tone unyielding. “Miss Franklin is our best resource for accomplishing that task. I expect you and the others to do as she instructs. Without question.”

Mercy pressed a hand against her chest and walked over to Emmaline. She took the little girl’s hand and led her from the room. “I believe it’s time for our lessons, Emmy.”

Nash had never felt such a virulent anger. If not for the fact that Bassett had dragged him out from under the burning beams at Hougoumont Farm after the explosion, he’d have tossed him out of Ashby Hall on his arse without a second thought.

But Nash owed him.

“I’ve already spoken to you once about Miss Franklin, Bassett. You know what I expect of you. I don’t want to find you giving her any trouble again.”

Clearly agitated by Nash’s dressing-down, Bassett looked away, smoothing down his thick mustache. He turned back and pinned Nash with his fierce, dark gaze. “I don’t take orders from a woman, sir.”

“Miss Franklin did not order you, Bassett, she made a request. A very reasonable request that I was able to hear quite distinctly from the entrance hall.”

Bassett grumbled something under his breath.

Nash ignored it. “I need this house put to rights, and I need you and the rest of the men to do whatever it takes to accomplish that. If it means taking direction from a woman, then so be it. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Bassett grumbled his agreement, and Nash knew the man still wasn’t happy about the situation. But he refrained from reminding him that
he
owed Nash, too. Because the conclusion of the war meant there was very little employment available for a former sergeant with no skills but those he’d learned in the army.

Before returning to Arthur’s ledgers, Nash took the stairs and walked down the hallway toward the schoolroom, where he assumed he would find his niece and her governess. He needed to reassure himself that Mercy was unscathed by her clash with Bassett.

He stopped at his niece’s open door and saw Miss Franklin and Emmaline sitting together on the divan, discussing the confrontation. Mercy had her arm about Emmaline’s shoulders, and was twirling a lock of the girl’s hair in her fingers. On the table nearby, he noticed a bookmarked volume of
Robinson Crusoe
that had been read and reread by Nash and his brothers years ago.

No wilting violet was this governess—she’d borrowed from his library one of the most daring, adventurous stories ever written, to share with his niece.

He could not help but admire her bold choice in reading. It echoed her boldness in handling Bassett, a daunting opponent if ever there was one.

Neither Mercy nor Emmaline noticed him in the doorway.

“Mr. Bassett was mean,” said his niece.

“Probably not mean . . . but just harsh, Emmy. My father was a harsh man, too,” she said to the child, “not too terribly different from Mr. Bassett.”

Nash wondered how harsh. And whether her father had ever raised his hand to her. If he’d been like Bassett . . . The thought of anyone doing violence to Emmaline’s governess had him balling his fists at his sides.

Even Emmaline expressed some dismay. From Nash’s oblique angle at the door, he could see a dark frown cross her brow. “He should not speak to you as he did. He said—”

“I know what he said, sweet. And it was not very nice,” Mercy remarked. “But your uncle managed him rather well, did he not?”

No, Nash thought. Mercy had had matters well in hand ever since her arrival at Ashby Hall, and he’d been impressed with her resolute stance. She had not cowered in the least, and had attempted to minimize the confrontation—for Emmaline’s sake, he supposed. She had stood valiantly before Goliath, small and feminine, but powerful in her determination. Even so, Nash knew it was a wonder Bassett had not knocked her over merely with his breath.

He walked into the schoolroom. Mercy and Emmaline appeared startled at his entrance, and Nash found himself at a sudden loss for words. Though he’d just seen the governess in the drawing room wearing this very same apron, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, the sight of her now jolted his heart into a rapid rhythm.

“My lord,” Mercy said. Silky filaments of her black hair had escaped her once-tidy coiffeur to curl about her ears and temples. “I— Thank you for interceding just now. I’m not sure how it would have ended had you not arrived.”

“You’ll have no further trouble from Mr. Bassett.”

She had a softer, far more vulnerable appearance now than what she’d displayed to Bassett. And Nash found that his protective instincts had only increased since his exit from the burly sergeant in the drawing room.

Which was absurd.

“All is well then, Miss Franklin?” He put a wry tone into his voice so he would not sound like a total idiot. “You are unscathed?”

“Yes, my lord. But we will remain here in the schoolroom for the rest of the day. Mr. Roarke and Mr. Blue know what is to be done. I daresay they can be the ones to deal with Mr. Bassett if he proves difficult again.”

Emmaline slipped her hand into Mercy Franklin’s and looked at him, and he thought perhaps it was the first time she’d looked directly at him without glancing away awkwardly. He knew his scars were difficult to look at, and his cloudy eye made it that much worse. But it seemed that Miss Franklin’s reassuring touch gave his niece the fortitude to face him.

Nash thought even
he
might be able to face his own fate with the pretty governess’s hand in his, then dismissed such a foolish notion. He’d been an army officer for the past thirteen years, in battles that had made grown men consider desertion. He had no “fate” to face—he did not believe in curses or that he would be the next Farris to meet an untimely end.

The only fate he had to face was marriage—to Helene Carew, if his courtship went as planned. Or someone just like her. He could deal with that.

As absurd as it was, he was loath to leave the schoolroom. He could not take his eyes from the neckerchief that crossed the front of Mercy’s body, hugging her breasts before tucking tidily into the waist of her apron.

Never before had he found a maid’s attire even remotely alluring. Bland colors and high collars had not been especially tempting, either, and yet Nash’s eyes were drawn again to Mercy’s flushed cheeks, her delicate throat, and the satiny tumble of curls that had escaped her chignon.

He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “I am going to a neighboring farm tomorrow morning to look at some dogs. I’d like Emmaline—and you—to accompany me, Miss Franklin.”

“But we have our lessons, my lord. And the house—”

“Are you refusing, Miss Franklin?”

Her throat moved as she swallowed thickly, clearly undecided.

“I am not asking you to”—he glanced at Emmaline and tempered his next words—“to climb up there and take down the draperies, as you have already demonstrated some incompetence in that area.”

She tipped her head slightly in a gesture that could only be construed as annoyance. But Nash could not keep himself from provoking her. He supposed it kept him from taking her into his arms and doing what his body had been demanding since their first meeting on the road when she’d taken his foot in her hands and presented him with her lovely derriere.

She gave him a nod. “Whatever you wish, my lord.”

Her acquiescence was just that. A surrender, and nothing more. The governess had indicated no particular desire to accompany him, but agreed to it because he’d essentially ordered her to come with him.

Nash was accustomed to giving orders, but this was one he wished had been taken as an invitation.

Mercy knew she should not feel quite so eager for the proposed outing with Lord Ashby. Her ridiculous attraction to the earl bordered on becoming an infatuation that could only bring her heartache. He was her employer and nothing more.

But he could seduce her so easily; Mercy had to guard against the potent longing he roused in her. Naught could ever come of it.

“What are you working on, Emmy?”

The child handed over her neat folder of drawings, and Mercy saw that they were quite skilled, even though they had been done with a childish hand. There were pictures of the fireplace in the great hall, and a few of Henry Blue, and one of Mr. Bassett and his angry face. There were pictures of birds and other fauna . . . With encouragement and perhaps some lessons, Emmaline would become an accomplished artist. “These are very good,” Mercy said.

A deep blush appeared on Emmaline’s hollow cheeks.

“I wonder . . .” Mercy said, paging through the pictures.

“What, miss?” Emmaline asked quietly, and Mercy was pleased that she’d managed to pique Emmaline’s interest.

“You’re obviously quite an artist,” she said. “Destined to become as good as your mother, at least.”

“Me?” Emmaline squeaked.

“I think so, Emmy. Look here.” She pointed to the detail and shading of the wings of a dragonfly. “And here.” She shifted to a picture of a sheep and the horns she’d drawn on it. “So accurate.”

Emmaline gave a timid smile.

“Perhaps you would like to help me with my plant catalog,” Mercy said.

“What is a catalog?”

“It’s a registry of sorts. I have always wanted to make a list of plants and their characteristics—but I have no artistic ability at all. Perhaps you would draw the plants for me, and I can write about them?”

Emmaline looked toward the windows. “There are no plants now.”

“Of course there are.” Mercy went to the window and beckoned Emmaline to join her. “Look at those buds on the plane trees here.”

“Plane trees?” Emmaline asked, and Mercy was pleased to have a way to engage the child in conversation. The young girl had started warming to her, and did not seem quite as leery of her uncle.

“Aye. In Underdale, we call them plane trees. You’ve probably heard them called sycamores. See the rough bark on their trunks?”

Emmaline nodded.

“Perhaps you can draw some of these trees for me. For my catalog.”

“Will it be like a journal? Your mother’s journal?”

Emmaline’s question took Mercy aback. “Yes, perhaps a little,” she replied, recovering herself. She’d managed to avoid reading the journal so far, though she knew she ought to rouse the courage to do so.

As they stood looking out the window, Lord Ashby came into view far below, banishing all thoughts of Susanna’s journal from Mercy’s mind.

She could not recall ever seeing anyone move with such strength of purpose. He had changed clothes again, and was wearing far more formal attire than he’d worn before in her presence, and Mercy could not help but wonder at his destination. He walked to the edge of the drive and mounted the horse that Mr. Harper held for him.

And then he rode out of sight.

* * *

Nash knew he should not waste his money this way, but he took a detour into Keswick on his way to supper with the Carews at Strathmore Pond. In town, he purchased tickets for everyone at Ashby Hall to attend the ball that was to be held in the large assembly rooms at the Market Street Inn. The men needed a break from their daily routines. After Bassett’s confrontation with Miss Franklin that afternoon, Nash realized he had kept the men isolated far too long. They needed to realize they were no longer in the army.

He included a ticket for Miss Franklin, although he was not sure she would agree to attend. Did vicars’ daughters dance? Drink punch? Socialize the way the rest of society did?

Nash intended to find out.

Not that it could possibly matter to him. Except that Mercy Franklin could stand in a corner and attract the attention of every young gentleman at the ball. How could she not? With her alluring eyes and her captivatingly feminine form that tempted him beyond reason every moment of every day, all the bachelors in the district would fall over one another to dance with her, court her.

Nash ground his teeth together at the thought of it, but . . .

Dash it all, if he had to attend the ball at the Market Inn, he wanted her there. He
wanted
her to be courted by every marriageable man in the Lake District. He wanted her to notice his flawed face and compare it to the faces of all the other men who danced with her.

Maybe when she looked at him and really
saw
him, he could get her out of his thoughts.

With a long, low sigh of resignation, he pocketed the tickets and started for the bridle path to Strathmore Pond, only to notice Philip Lowell coming from the Ridge path and into the main street, riding toward the Moot Hall.

Lowell appeared surprised to see him, and spoke as though he’d been caught doing something untoward. Nash glanced toward the bridle path behind his steward, but saw nothing. “My lord, I thought you had an evening planned at Strathmore Pond.”

Nash tipped his head toward the Moot Hall. “You are on your way to see Mr. Wardlow?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “No, my lord.”

Nash waited.

“There is, er . . . a young lady in Lake Road . . .” Lowell indicated a narrow lane entering the main street just past the Moot Hall.

“I see,” Nash replied. He guessed the woman in Lake Road could account for the steward’s occasional absences from the Hall. But a vague suspicion of something altogether different crept into his mind.

“So, if you’ll excuse me, my lord . . .”

Nash moved aside. “By all means, Lowell.”

Lowell tipped his hat and rode past, while Nash started for the Ridge path to Strathmore Pond, to his own courtship dance with Miss Helene Carew.