Seducing the Governess (15 page)

And as he rode, he pondered the possibility that it was Philip Lowell who had somehow arranged his brothers’ fatal accidents. Nash knew it was a weak suspicion, for what reason would Philip Lowell possibly have for wanting to eliminate the Ashby earls?

* * *

While Emmy drifted off to sleep, Mercy stayed in the nursery, sorting through the little girl’s clothes, looking for something suitable for her to wear on their outing the next day. She chose an acceptable dress and a pair of stockings, which she took down to wash in the laundry room.

She felt a swell of anticipation for the morrow’s outing, and spending several hours in Lord Ashby’s company. She told herself not to make much of it. He could more readily choose a shepherd dog alone, but seemed to have decided it was a good opportunity to spend time with his niece. And not have to do it alone, for he was not yet comfortable with her.

Emmaline was not exactly comfortable with him, either, and Mercy hoped their excursion would help to assuage some of her unease. The earl’s scars were barely noticeable, and Mercy had not given them much more than a passing thought when she’d first met him. Now, she hardly noticed them at all.

Mercy thought that once Emmy accustomed herself to her uncle’s appearance, the scars would no longer bother her. And the sooner Lord Ashby and his niece developed some rapport, the sooner Mercy would be able to leave Ashby Hall.

The laundry was obviously a rarely used room, and she met no one there as she washed some of her own laundry as well as Emmaline’s, which was a relief, especially after her confrontation with Mr. Bassett earlier. He and the cook, Mr. Childers, were clearly put out by having to take orders from her. Not that any of the housekeeping chores were terribly onerous. None of the other men seemed to mind them.

On the contrary, Harper, Blue, and Roarke had seemed happy enough to do what she asked of them. They even seemed to enjoy the occasional short visit in the nursery when they brought up the meals, passing on their excitement about an assembly ball they’d heard would soon be held in Keswick. Though they had yet to receive Lord Ashby’s permission to attend, they were certain he would give it. Eventually.

Mercy’s friends had taught her to dance, although she had never been allowed to attend a dance of any kind, much less a ball. Her father had not approved of such frivolity. For Henry’s and Roddy’s sakes, she hoped Lord Ashby allowed them to go to the event they so anticipated.

Once Emmaline was settled in for the night, Mercy returned to gather the clean laundry from the clotheslines. She took the front staircase in order to avoid any of Lord Ashby’s men who might be lurking about, and slipped into the back corridor that led to the servants’ hall and laundry room.

Just as she was gathering the dry laundry into her basket, Mr. Lowell came in.

“Ah, Miss Franklin, here you are.” He gave her a polite bow. “I understand there was some difficulty in the drawing room this afternoon. I do hope all is well now.”

In spite of his smile and his overtly friendly attitude toward her, Mercy felt no spark of attraction to him. The ground did not shift under her feet the way it did when she stood near Lord Ashby.

Which was absolutely absurd. Ground did not shift, but even if it did, she was not in the league of women like the one wearing pink who’d visited Ashby Hall soon after Mercy’s arrival. Mercy had no wealth, no dowry, and only one highly nebulous prospect in her future.

“All is well as can be, Mr. Lowell, for a house without proper servants.” She folded Emmaline’s dress and placed it in the basket.

“Right you are,” he said, giving her a sheepish smile, then allowing his gaze to wander down to her collar, then to her bodice. Mercy turned away and gathered the last of the laundry, unnerved by his scrutiny.

She did not understand him. At times, he was the epitome of gentlemanly courtesy. But sometimes, he played the gentleman rake. Servants were vulnerable and counted on their employers to behave honorably. And yet Ashby Hall was nothing like other houses Mercy had ever heard of. So many men about, and none of them had any true notion of propriety.

“I apologize for not being closer to hand at that moment,” he continued. “I might have been able to keep Mr. Bassett in line.”

“No harm done.”
Thanks to Lord Ashby
. At least he seemed to have decent control over his men, even the obstinate Bassett and Childers. Mercy could not help but wish the earl were present now, for Mr. Lowell was making her uncomfortable in an entirely different way than Mr. Bassett had done.

“Lord Ashby has hopes of ushering in a number of improvements here in the weeks to come,” he said, and Mercy heard an edge of something vaguely unpleasant in his words. It might have been sarcasm, but Mercy was not sure.

“I hope that means a housekeeper and some housemaids. And a nurse for Emmaline,” Mercy remarked as she started scouring the shelves and various storage boxes for an iron.

“He is not exactly . . .”

She stopped and looked over at him. “
Who
is not exactly
what
, Mr. Lowell?”

The man found several irons in a cupboard and pointed them out to her. “ ’Tis naught. Only . . . it will be some time before Ashby can afford any servants.”

Mercy gathered the clean laundry into the basket, discomfited by Lowell’s disparaging tone and inappropriate conversation. She did not believe a steward ought to be speaking of Lord Ashby’s finances to her—a governess—and wondered if he spoke so frankly to the other men in the earl’s employ.

She stood looking at him for a moment, wondering why Lord Ashby seemed to trust him so implicitly, for Mercy did not care for him in the least.

“Mr. Lowell, I found the linen cabinets today,” she said, ignoring the implications of his pessimistic assertion. “If Lord Ashby intends to entertain overnight guests, then perhaps you ought to assign some of the men to wash and iron the linens you find inside the cabinets. The beds will need to be made up fresh.”

She looked forward to a day away from the Hall, away from Mr. Lowell, as well as Mr. Bassett and the others. And far from the housekeeping duties that had been assigned her.

“I will do so, Miss Franklin.”

“Mr. Lowell, I am puzzled.” As long as Mr. Lowell seemed willing to divulge secrets . . . “There was some gap between the last Lord Ashby’s death and the arrival of the current earl. Was there no one here to supervise the estate during all that time?”

He shook his head. “Just me, and I was entirely without resources, but for old Grainger and an elderly cook who came in daily. And Miss Butterfield, the nurse. You did not meet her, because Lord Ashby dismissed her on his arrival.”

Mercy felt her heart clench in her chest and wondered why Mr. Lowell had not dealt with the nurse himself. “That’s terrible.”

“Lord Ashby decided Henry Blue would be good for the child. But he’s a rather large fellow, and rather exuberant. I think she was a little bit afraid of him.”

Mercy considered it and thought Mr. Lowell might be correct. For Henry was not only a giant of a boy, he was definitely enthusiastic. He was well-meaning, but seemed to have little sense of restraint. Even so, Emmy seemed fond of him.

Mercy lifted the basket into her arms and left the room.

“Please allow me, Miss Franklin.”

He followed Mercy closely, down a dimly lit corridor to a servants’ back staircase. No one else was nearby, and the isolation of the setting gave her pause, and she decided it might be prudent to give Mr. Lowell something to do with his hands.

“That will be lovely,” Mercy replied.

She climbed the steps at a natural pace, although she felt inclined to hurry. It was ridiculous, she knew, for there was no solid reason that Mr. Lowell should make her feel unsettled. She reminded herself that, although he might not feel quite optimistic about Ashby at the moment, he was an ally, and she had need of one for as long as she was responsible for assigning chores to Mr. Bassett and Mr. Childers.

She took the laundry basket from the steward when they reached the nursery, and she went inside, closing the door behind her. Emmaline was still asleep.

The house was quiet and the hallways in shadows. Mercy did not relish the thought of going back to the laundry room to iron Emmy’s dress, so she decided to do it early the following morning. She crouched down and selected a volume of Mr. Wordsworth’s ballads from the bookcase before returning to her own bedchamber.

Mercy had resolved to read through the rest of Susanna’s journal, as well as write to Mr. Vale. But not tonight. It had been a thoroughly trying day, and she was too tired.

Lowell was gone when she opened the door, and she met no one else as she returned to her own bedchamber. But she noticed a chilly draft coming from the far end of the hall that concerned her. Thinking there must be a window left open, she used the light of her lamp to guide her to the source of the breeze, and found a door standing open.

Behind it appeared to be an attic staircase.

Mercy considered closing the door and going back to her room, but knew it would be most prudent to go up and close whatever window had been left open. Her candle was protected from the draft, so she lifted her skirts with one hand and climbed the narrow flight.

At the top was a long, broad room, with wide wood planks on the walls and floors. The rafters were exposed and there were several dusty trunks lying haphazardly about. Two windows—one of which was wide open—faced into the darkness, but Mercy assumed they opened up onto a roof. She went to the open one and, after setting her lamp and book on a nearby table, she reached for the window and started pulling it down.

“You’ll lock me out if you do that,” came a masculine voice from the other side of the glass.

Mercy startled. It was fortunate she’d set down her lamp, else she might have dropped it. That surely would have been a disaster.

“Lord Ashby.”

“Aye, lass. Come out.”

“I-I do not think I—”

“You are not afraid, are you?”

“Of course not. I merely—”

“Then step out. The night is fine and there is a view of the lake from up here.”

Mercy wondered how well he could see it in the dark. And whether he was safe out there. Someone should talk him into returning to the
interior
of the house.

She took a deep breath and stepped out, somehow managing to sit down and skim her legs across the windowsill. It was awkward, getting outside with her skirts in one hand, but Lord Ashby took her other hand and helped her to step out. The height was dizzying, but he was right—the sight was incomparable.

Mercy did not think she’d ever seen such a view, even in the darkness. The stars were out and the moon was more than half full, which made it possible to see the skeletons of trees dotting the fells, and a silver crescent of light reflected on the surface of a distant lake. The panorama took her breath away.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Quite.” She avoided looking at him, but felt his gaze upon her. He must have had his fill of the excellent view already to bother with the sight of her.

“I used to climb up here as a boy. Among various other high places.”

“You must have frightened the wits out of your parents.”

“My mother, yes. My father only laughed.”

“I cannot imagine,” she replied, keeping a stern tone that she hoped was reflective of a staid, responsible governess.

She felt his low chuckle as much as heard it, and it echoed all through her limbs, making her shiver.

“Are you cold? Here.” He removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders, the silk of its lining warming her with his heat. Then he turned her to face him, drawing his lapels close together across her breast.

Mercy held her breath. The warmth of the coat felt like an embrace, and she suddenly felt as though she was being swallowed whole, into a lush, velvety heat that flashed through her veins. The earl stood very close, his knuckles still against her chest. Mercy could feel his breath on her face. She fancied that she could hear his heart beating in his chest, perhaps as rapidly as her own.

He gazed at her intently, and Mercy resisted the temptation to reach up and touch the lock of hair that had fallen haphazardly across his forehead in the chilly breeze. He leaned toward her, and Mercy felt as though they were swathed together in some invisible cocoon. He dipped his head slightly, and Mercy knew he intended to steal that kiss he’d wanted the other day in the library.

She knew better than to allow it.

She took one step back and he let his hands drop to his sides, leaving her feeling not only abandoned, but far too wobbly. “Thank you for the coat, but don’t you think you ought to return inside? Like your mother, I have no doubt it is dangerous to stand up here. The roof is probably not in very good condition, is it?”

“Do you fear for my safety, Miss Franklin?” His voice was low and seductive, and she realized she had not moved anywhere near far enough away from him.

Nor, to her chagrin, did she want to. She wanted to feel the rush of sensations she’d experienced during their encounter in the library. She wanted him to fill the gaping well of desire that surged so powerfully through her.

“Of course I do, my lord,” she said, her voice just a whisper on the breeze. She could not look away from his intense gaze. “I wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t want . . .”

He lifted one hand and touched the side of her face. He tangled his fingers in a loose strand of her hair, brushing her ear with his knuckles.

“You haven’t any idea how exquisite you are, Miss Franklin, do you?”

Mercy swallowed. “You have a talent for hyperbole, my lord.”

He ran his thumb across her cheek. “Not in this instance.” He lowered his head and brushed her mouth with his own, causing sparks to skitter across her nerve endings.

Chapter 17

T
he sensation made her more light-headed than the height could ever do. She took a fistful of his shirt in her hand to steady herself, and he seemed to take it as her approval of the kiss.

Perhaps it was.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I first saw you on the road.”

Her unsteadiness only increased as he slid his free hand around her waist and pulled her closer, fully capturing her lips. Heat seemed to roil off his chest into her hand as he angled his head down, maximizing the fit of their lips.

He smelled of shaving soap—but not the harsh kind her father had always used. Lord Ashby’s was something spicy and warm, and made Mercy want to fall into a vat of it. She loosened her clench upon his shirt and pressed her hand against the hard plane of his chest, and as he slid both his hands down her back, she felt the earth shift beneath her.

He coaxed her lips open and seduced her mouth with his tongue. Mercy’s knees wobbled and her pelvis grew heavy with desire. The only force holding her up was the strength of his arms and the magnetic affinity that raged between them. The height of the roof was far less dizzying than the sensation of his mouth upon hers. She felt absurdly boneless, her will separated from her intellect.

He shifted one powerful leg into a highly intimate position between hers, and Mercy was lost. The merging pressure melted any resistance she might have shown as the shock of his body tightly pressed against hers promised unimaginable pleasures.

Mercy heard a strange little whimper and realized it had come from her own throat. But as he continued devouring her mouth, torturing her body, sliding his hands down to her hips to coax her against him so intimately, she engaged fully in his seduction. She held him tightly, as though letting go would cause her to fall into an unimaginable chasm of emptiness.

Mercy hugged him to her, arrowing her fingers into the hair at his nape, pulling his head down to hers. She hadn’t known a kiss could make her feel so alive. All her senses were heightened, her body exquisitely aware of his slightest touch. The vague rasp of his whiskers on her cheek, the press of his hands against her bottom, the weight of his thigh against the core of her body—they all created a maelstrom of sensation that made her crave more. So much more.

He pressed her back against the stone turret wall, taking possession of her heart with his mind-stealing kisses. The feeling of being so completely enveloped in sensation intoxicated her. And when she felt his hands slide up to the buttons of her bodice, she did naught to prevent what he intended. With only a few deft moves, her gown fell open.

His mouth left hers, and Mercy struggled for breath as he trailed kisses down her throat to the swells of her breasts. She felt his hands cup them, then his fingers brushed her nipples, creating a frisson of sensation that shot directly from her breasts to her womb.

His breath seemed to whoosh out of him. “Mercy . . .”

He tugged on her chemise and bared her breasts, then bent to take one pebbling nipple into his mouth.

Mercy’s knees buckled.

It was sheer heaven, the only thing missing was his own chest bared. She craved the feel of their bodies touching each other, skin to skin.

But she whimpered when his tongue swirled around the tip of her other breast, and held his head in place as desire spiraled completely out of control.

He stopped suddenly and spoke, his voice a mere rasp. “Mercy . . .”

She didn’t know if he was murmuring her name or pleading for lenience.

The cold air touched her bared breast and caused her to shiver. It shocked her back to earth, to where she was and what she was doing. She caught her breath when she met Lord Ashby’s gaze, his eyes full of potent male appreciation as well as a sudden reserve.

Lord above. What could she have been thinking?

He pulled the edges of her bodice together over her bare breasts, and bent so that his forehead touched hers as their hearts slowed and their breathing became normal again.

Mercy knew better than to allow such drugging caresses. She could not put together a single cohesive thought, but somehow knew she had to retreat. Had to get away before she dug her fingers into his shoulders to hold him there. Before she demanded he continue his all-absorbing kisses.

“No.”

He could barely have heard her, because her voice was weak, her throat thick with need.

It was not her body that denied him, but her years of training in Reverend Franklin’s house. For Mercy still wanted far more of his kisses and his intimate touches than was at all suitable. She swallowed the thick taste of regret and blinked away her tears of frustration and remorse.

She was not a loose woman in any way. She wanted Andrew Vale to marry her, and not succumb to the heat of desire in the arms of a nobleman who was only toying with her.

“My lord . . .” She had no idea what to say. Or how she would ever face him again.

He eased away, though it seemed not easily. He brought his hands up to her shoulders and spoke, his voice gravelly and deeper than she’d ever heard it. “My apologies, Miss Franklin. I am not in the habit of accosting young ladies in such a way.”

Mercy licked her lip, still savoring the taste of him, her desire warring with good sense. She could not dally with this obviously unattainable peer of the realm, for it would be far too easy to care for him. She already felt much too strong an attraction for this lord who struggled with his injuries and his terrible losses every day. She could easily come to love the man who’d dismissed Emmaline’s nurse for being unkind to his little niece.

Mercy needed to try to regain her senses. She had to keep her position at Ashby Hall, at least until she could get a letter to the far more appropriate suitor Mr. Vale—and receive his response. The urgency to write her note to Whitehaven took a massive leap.

She took a step toward the window. “I-I-I will just . . . er, leave you now.” She felt like a fool for stammering like a child as she moved away from him. Her legs felt shaky and her heart still pounded as though she’d just run up one of the fells that surrounded the lakes.

“Allow me to assist you, Miss Franklin.”

“No! No, please.”
Do not touch me, else I might do something completely unconscionable.
“I can manage just fine on my own.”

Although she could not. She stumbled slightly and he grabbed her arm, steadying her as she made her way back to the window. She could not look up at him as she sat on the sill and attempted to swing her legs inside without seeming too clumsy. Not that she should even care.

She slipped into the attic and removed his jacket, then turned and handed it to him through the window. “I nearly forgot.”

Nearly forgot her wits
, and they seemed far too sluggish in returning to her. She would like nothing better than to remain there and explore the heady sensations he wrought in her.

He put both hands on the sill and leaned toward her. “Miss Franklin . . .”

Mercy held her bodice together with one hand, aware that it was far too inadequate a covering. “I accept your apology, my lord.”

“That isn’t— I . . . want you to know . . .”

“I must go, my lord.”

“Aye.”

“Emmaline w-will be ready to go with you to the neighbors’ farm whenever you wish to go.” But Mercy did not know how she would endure a long outing in his presence. Not after . . .

How could she ever face a man who had actually taken the tips of her breasts into his mouth and swirled his tongue around them?

Lord Ashby gave a quick nod, his expression unreadable in the shadows. Mercy hesitated for another moment, even though she knew it was vital that she leave him now, before she abandoned the last of her principles entirely.

But she was loath to go. Loath to give him back his coat. Loath to abandon the pleasures promised in his touch.

Nash must be losing his mind. He’d definitely lost control of his body. He wanted Mercy Franklin with an intensity that was unparalleled in his experience. He knew he should never have touched the alluring governess, not after he’d officially begun his courtship of Carew’s daughter during his visit to Strathmore Pond earlier that evening.

Helene had worn an ice-blue gown, designed to seduce a man. It had ridden low on her bosom, exposing her delicate collarbones and the modest swells of her breasts. Her skin was as perfect as porcelain, and she’d worn her shimmering, silvery blond hair in an intricate, artful arrangement of gravity-defying curls that lay in perfect symmetry beside her ears.

And yet she’d had far less allure than the plainly dressed governess who’d captured far more of his attention than was prudent. Nash needed Helene’s dowry, needed the exorbitant sum of money that Horace Carew had hinted at—no doubt to whet Nash’s appetite for his daughter.

And yet Nash knew his interest in Helene would not increase any time soon, even though he had an immense attraction to her marriage portion.

He didn’t understand how the girl could have so little fire in her. She was as bland as the frocks Mercy Franklin wore, and as cold as the icy color of her gown. He’d gotten Helene to smile a few times, and she’d even managed to look him in the eye once or twice. Unfortunately, he had not been able to keep from thinking of Emmaline’s governess all through the meal, of her fine green eyes and delicate floral scent. He’d had to force away images of beautiful Mercy lying under him, responding fiercely as he made love to her in a field of fragrant lilies.

It was probably the reason he’d lost his head with her on the roof. He’d used up all his powers of resistance while dining at Strathmore Pond, and when faced with Mercy in the flesh . . .

He swallowed hard and forced some control into his wayward body. Thinking about Helene helped.

Nash wondered if there was something intrinsically wrong with her for her father to be so very intent upon the match. He could easily take his daughter to London for a season and snag an influential earl or marquess for her.

Then Nash recalled Horace mentioning they’d already tried that route. And there had been no acceptable offers forthcoming. For whatever reason, the Carews had moved away from London to Cumbria to rusticate in the hilly country of the Lake District.

Not that the fells weren’t beautiful and appealing in their own way, but Nash could not help but wonder what had gone wrong in London. He decided to have Lowell write to his solicitor in Town and find out.

Or perhaps not. Nash decided a bit of prudent reserve was in order. He did not fully trust Lowell, especially after seeing him chatting with Carew in Keswick. Nash doubted Lowell had been interested in Carew’s landau, but he could not imagine why the older man would lie about their conversation.

Nash decided to write his solicitor himself, and see what he could discover about Carew’s reasons for leaving London.

He exited the roof, closing the window behind him. Mercy’s scent lingered in the attic room, and Nash inhaled deeply. He shuddered, aware that he’d never wanted a woman more than he wanted Mercy Franklin.

She had slid her hand up the side of his face, not even slowing when it met the rough skin of his scars. From the beginning, she had not flinched from the sight of him.

Nash did not know how it could be possible, but his heart gave a strange tug at the thought of Mercy Franklin being unaffected by the damage to his face.

Descending the stairs, he decided to have Parker increase the intensity of his massage tonight. Nash knew only the pain his valet could inflict would give him any respite from the intensity of his arousal. He only wished the man could magically eradicate the taste of Mercy Franklin from his tongue.

And the notion that his damaged visage made no difference to her.

London, England

Once Gavin Briggs located the man tailing him, he took a back way out of the hotel and hailed a hackney cab to take him to the Payton house. From the Payton housekeeper, he acquired the address of the nurse who’d taken care of Windermere’s grandchildren all those years ago. Quickly returning to his cab, he gave the driver the woman’s address in Cheapside.

He was fairly certain there was no one following him this time, but he ordered the cab to stop well before he reached Miss Thornton’s neighborhood, and walked, taking a roundabout route to the river’s edge. He strolled down Old Church Street, turned into the embankment, losing himself in the crowd of pedestrians that walked along the riverside. He continued with them for several blocks, then took a quick turn into Flood Street and back toward Miss Thornton’s house.

It was nearly dark, and not the best time to call on an elderly lady. But fate had taken him there at this moment, so he proceeded to the address given him. He arrived at the neat little house, knocked on her door, and hoped for the best.

A modestly dressed dowager came to the door, carrying a lamp. She pushed aside the curtain and looked at him through the glass. “Who’s calling?”

“I am Captain Gavin Briggs, ma’am. I’m here on behalf of the Duke of Windermere to speak to Miss Thornton.” He held out the duke’s letter, even though the old woman would not be able to read it through the glass.

“Just a moment.” She let the curtain fall, and Gavin heard her footsteps as she retreated into the house. A moment later, she returned and unlocked the door.

“Miss Thornton is not well, Captain Briggs. If you will make your visit brief and to the point?”

“Of course.”

He followed the woman into an unassuming sitting room and saw a very frail-looking lady sitting in a cushioned chair. Her hair was a dull gray, pulled back into a tidy little bun, but her hands shook and her eyes were glassy. She was clearly not well. “Miss Thornton, thank you for seeing me.”

He took a seat across from her, while his escort, the woman with the lamp, waited impatiently.

“You wished to speak with me, Captain Briggs?” Miss Thornton asked, her tone one of puzzlement.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m trying to discover what happened to the Hayes children.” He got up and set the duke’s letter on the low table between them. “I understand their grandfather, the Duke of Windermere, sent a man to collect them and remove them to the Lake District. Is that correct?”