Seducing the Governess (16 page)

The elderly nurse frowned, giving a little nod of her head. “The saddest time I can ever recall.”

“Do you remember where the children were taken?”

Her frown deepened as a dark suspicion crept in. “No, Captain Briggs. I wasn’t told. The duke’s man came . . . What was his name? Wait, I’ll think of it.”

Gavin eased back in his chair and watched while the elderly nurse collected her thoughts and memories. After all, he’d given her no warning, no time to think back on those days after the drowning. It would take her a moment.

“Newcomb. That was it. He carried a writ of some sort from the duke. Brought a nursemaid with him, too, named Thornberry. I remember because her name was so similar to my own. But not her temperament,” Miss Thornton added with a grimace. “She was a severe character at best.”

“Where did they take the children?” Gavin repeated.

She gave him a puzzled expression. “To the duke, is what we were told. To their grandfather.”

“At Lake Windermere?”

“Yes. I was to pack up all their things and have them ready in just half an hour. They cried, poor little things. Cried for their mama every day after her death. I’ve taken comfort over the years in the knowledge that they had a home with their grandfather.” She frowned deeply. “Are you saying . . .”

Gavin considered his words carefully. “No, ma’am. I’ve just been asked to do a bit of an investigating into Mr. Newcomb’s actions twenty years ago. Do you know if Miss Thornberry returned to London?”

“No,” she replied. “I remember she was hired specifically to travel with the Hayes children all the way north.
I
would have gone with them, if only I’d been asked.”

But that would have been the last thing Windermere would have wanted. His intent had been to sever all connections to their old life. No doubt the duke had ordered Newcomb to be circumspect so as to avoid any talk of his decision to disown his orphaned grandchildren.

“Miss Thornberry was quite anxious to complete her journey with the children and return to her home in Oxfordshire. There was a position waiting for her there with a young couple expecting their first child.”

“Did you ever hear the name of the family with whom she would be employed?”

She pressed a parchment-pale hand to her chest. “No, sir. Now you have me worried. Those were the sweetest children I’ve ever nursed, and their parents some of the finest people. He was very rich, you know. But never put on any airs. Treated all of us in service very well. So did the missus. Gracious, she was. And very beautiful.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“Is this about their father’s estate? It had to have been substantial.”

Gavin puzzled over that statement for a moment. He had not thought about the possibility of a Hayes estate. “Ma’am, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.”

“I understand,” said Miss Thornton, although Gavin knew she could not possibly understand. Even he wasn’t privy to every detail—certainly nothing about a Hayes estate. It cast the Hayes daughters in quite a different light.

“Was there a solicitor involved when the children were taken from their home?” Gavin asked.

“Solicitor?” Miss Thornton repeated. “No. Fleming—the butler—read the directive from the duke and told us what we were to do. It was very official, the letter with its seal. Just like the one you carry, Captain Briggs.” She gestured toward the document on the table.

Gavin stood and bowed, considering this new twist. The duke had not mentioned anything about Daniel Hayes’s wealth. Surely a man as astute as Windermere would not have missed something so consequential. Gavin wondered whatever happened to their money.

Wherever it went, the key to finding out was their grandfather, the duke.

Gavin stood. “Miss Thornton, thank you very much for your time.” He glanced at the companion. “If anyone else comes round asking questions about the Hayes children, you’ll be sure to turn them away, won’t you?”

Miss Thornton gave a worried nod, and Gavin started for the door.

“Thank you again, ladies. I’ll see myself out.”

Perhaps when he found Sarah Hayes’s children, he would suggest that they write a few lines to their old nurse, just to reassure her.

Chapter 18

Ashby Hall

N
ash slept badly, and not because of the painful muscle stretches Parker had had him do. The massage and hot bath afterward should have relaxed him, but neither had done the trick. He dreaded his impending outing with Mercy, and yet craved it like nothing else in the world.

He was a ravening fool.

The morning was overcast, but Nash did not think it would rain, which was fortunate. Since Ashby’s carriage had been destroyed in Arthur’s accident, there was only a small barouche for him to take all of them to Metcalf Farm. He had Harper get it ready, then sent Henry Blue to fetch Miss Franklin and her pupil.

To be sure, this would be a far easier trip on horseback, alone. But Nash had not been able to refrain from inviting Emmaline’s governess any more than he’d been able to resist taking that incredible taste of her while they stood together on the roof the previous evening.

As far as it had gone, it had been much too little.

Thinking of that kiss made him hard all over again. He could almost feel her fingers in his hair, and taste the sweet flavor of lilies on her skin. He’d wanted naught but to take her to his bed, and undress her slowly as he kissed every inch of her body.

She’d shown that she was no passive miss, neither submissive nor unresponsive. She would be as fiery as a thunderstorm, and just the mere thought of pulling her beneath him and sliding into her body sent a jolt of fire vaulting through his veins.

Nash did not think he was mistaken in believing their kiss had been her first. Her reaction had been ingenuous, as he should have anticipated. She was a vicar’s daughter, after all, and likely quite sheltered all her life. He ought to be horsewhipped for seducing such an innocent.

And yet he could not regret it, not when she looked at him without seeing the damage done to him at Hougoumont.

He glanced around the stable yard, reflecting that he hadn’t thought there could be anything new for him to experience. With a full and rich childhood growing up with his brothers and boyhood friends, and then his years at school and in the army, he’d led a life fuller than most. He’d flirted with death too many times to count, and taken a considerable number of beautiful women to his bed.

But none had been like Mercy. The breathless sounds she’d made, the weight of her breasts in his hands, the press of her feminine mound against his straining cock . . .

Bloody hell.
He felt the early twinge of a headache and tried to rub it away as Harper brought the small barouche from the stable. Nash knew that sitting next to Mercy Franklin was going to be torture. If she decided to brave his presence this morning, he was sure she’d make certain Emmaline sat between them all the way to Metcalf’s and back.

And it was just as well.

Soon his two traveling companions appeared, both wearing hats and warm clothes. Miss Franklin’s brown coat covered her fine form, as she’d no doubt intended, and Emmaline’s presence provided any number of reasons for her governess to avoid meeting his eyes.

He wondered if she would stammer again as she’d done during her retreat the previous evening. Her shy withdrawal had captivated him far more than it should.

“Good morning, Emmaline.” He did not wait for his niece’s response, but turned his gaze directly toward the governess, so completely prim now in her demeanor. So different from the siren he’d held in his arms the night before. “Good morning to you, Miss Franklin.”

She gave a little bow. “My lord,” she said quietly, then bent down to speak to Emmaline, who appeared surprisingly neat and clean, her shoes polished, and no holes in her stockings. Due to Mercy’s effort, no doubt.

“ ’Tis polite to say, ‘Good morning, Uncle,’ ” she said to the child.

Emmaline spoke softly, but at least her greeting was audible.

“Shall we get started?” he asked.

He opened the door to the barouche and lifted Emmaline in, then took Miss Franklin’s hand. She thanked him without really looking at him as she stepped up into the conveyance, settling herself on the far side of the seat, with Emmaline in the center, just as he’d predicted.

Nash, who was rarely disposed to small talk, started the conversation. “Do you know anything about dogs, Emmaline?”

“No,” she said.

“We’re looking for a particular type.”

Emmaline looked up at him then, but Mercy still didn’t meet his eyes. She fiddled with the buttons on her coat, then shifted in her seat in order to smooth the thick fabric of the coat securely beneath her.

Nash could not contain a small smile. He had gotten to her as deeply as she had affected him.

“Aye. We need a working dog. But not one we’ll keep in the house. This dog will help the shepherds herd the sheep when it’s time to bring them in for shearing. Sir William has always kept eye dogs. They’re very effective herders.”

“
Eye
dogs?” Mercy asked, her curiosity finally piqued.

She could have no idea the effect of her clear gaze, looking at him as though there were no facial defects to be seen. Her striking eyes were beautifully bordered by long black lashes, and Nash had a rushing desire to see those dark crescents resting upon her cheeks as she slept.

He would nestle her close, tucking her head beneath his chin as he wrapped his arms around her slumbering body.

“Eye dogs, yes.” He cleared his throat. “They can control the flock with a look in their eyes. They’re fast and agile, and so smart it seems as though they understand what you say to them.”

Mercy tossed a skeptical expression in his direction.

“Miss Franklin, have you ever had a dog?”

“No,” she said simply. She had turned away again, but was blushing quite charmingly at what she thought was his jest. How he longed to make her blush with his touch. Perhaps later, he would manage another little inadvertent rendezvous with her. Not that he’d planned last night’s encounter, but he relished it nonetheless.

“I believe we might need a demonstration once we get to Metcalf’s,” Nash said with a grin, feeling far different from the man who’d been thrown from his horse a few days before. Surprisingly enough, his headache had receded. And it was amazing to discover he could still smile. “What do you think, Emmaline?”

“Yes.”

As they rode, Mercy turned to a very effective avoidance technique of pointing out the various shrubs and trees they passed that were coming into bloom, telling Emmaline which ones she would like the child to draw for her “catalog.”

“What catalog would that be, Miss Franklin?” Nash asked. She could avoid him all she liked at the moment, but they would return to Ashby Hall together, and she could not elude him forever.

“As I once mentioned to you, I have an interest in plant life, my lord,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral and distant. “And I have started a directory of sorts—a catalog of the flora to be found here in the Lake District.”

“And my niece is to illustrate it for you?”

“Emmaline is a very good little artist,” Miss Franklin said, smiling down at the child. “I would very much appreciate her help in creating my catalog.”

Nash noticed the wording of Mercy’s request, giving Emmaline credit for her talent and asking for her expertise without being condescending, or mentioning any lessons. He’d never been quite sure how to converse with Emmaline, but now he took Mercy Franklin’s lead.

“It should be your decision, Emmaline,” Nash said. “Would you like to do the drawings?”

She glanced up at him in surprise.

“It’s your choice.”

Emmaline’s brows came together as though she’d never had a choice in anything. Nash feared that was probably true, and his admiration for his niece’s inexperienced governess increased yet again. Somehow, Mercy had known just how to draw Emmaline from her quiet little retreat from the world.

Riding in Lord Ashby’s barouche was the last thing Mercy wanted to do. Last night on the roof had been a breach beyond belief. Even now she blushed at the thought of what they had done, for she had been raised far better than that.

And yet her behavior proved she was no better than what the Franklins believed of her mother.

She’d been so rattled by her encounter with Lord Ashby on the roof that she’d been unable to write her letter to Andrew Vale. Thoughts of the earl’s touch had made logical, rational thought impossible, and she’d had to lay down her pen and postpone her writing until later. She would do it today. After they returned to Ashby Hall, she would suggest that Emmaline take a short nap, which would give Mercy the opportunity to compose her letter in private. Without Lord Ashby’s exceedingly potent influence.

Yet here she sat in the small barouche, not two feet away from him as he drove them over hills and dales, so much larger than life itself that Mercy could scarcely breathe. He wore casual attire, dun-colored trousers and dark blue coat—the same coat he’d wrapped around her shoulders before kissing her senseless on the roof.

The only way Mercy could distract herself from thinking of Lord Ashby’s kiss was by pointing out the fresh young shoots of the plants that were about to emerge, and talking to Emmaline about the catalog they would make together.

But still, her eyes wandered far too frequently to Lord Ashby’s muscular thighs, resting so casually beside Emmaline’s, and his large, heavily veined hands as they held the horse’s reins. Mercy could almost feel his blunt-tipped fingers on her breasts, stroking them until she’d moaned with desire. Even now, she could taste the spicy flavor of his mouth and smell the earthy scent of his soap.

She’d never been kissed before, not even by Mr. Vale, the man who’d asked her to marry him. Mr. Vale put his lips to the back of her hand, of course, but never anything more. And none of his touches had caused a melting sensation, the way Lord Ashby’s slightest glance could do.

Mercy hadn’t known a kiss could make her feel so alive. The earl had a way of making her feel as though her blood was on fire, without even touching her. And now that he
had
touched her, she knew a deep tension, a coiling of yearning for something she could not name. It was an intense sensation of physical craving that had kept her from being able to sleep for much of the night.

She had been right to stop the interlude on the roof, and yet she would dearly love to feel more of Lord Ashby’s caresses. She was a fool to allow herself such longings, and fully aware that she could never compete with fine ladies like the one who had come to visit Lord Ashby in all her pink finery. No doubt the woman had some favored social standing in the community, not to mention a substantial dowry.

If Lord Ashby gave any thought to marriage, Mercy knew it was not with her. And any other sort of liaison would be entirely unacceptable.

The earl clucked his tongue and their horse took them across a pretty stone bridge over a noisy little beck. On the other side of the bridge stood Metcalf Farm. Mercy found it a pleasant, pastoral setting with a large, stone manor house with its gray slate roof, nestled at the foot of the tall fell they’d just descended. There were a barn and a stable, and one other outbuilding, all enclosed within a low stone wall. Geese pecked for food at the ground near the beck, and two swans floated nearby. The house itself was surrounded by tall deciduous trees—some oak and maple, and a stand of lovely old birches.

“When your father was a boy,” Lord Ashby said to Emmaline, and Mercy discerned a slight wistfulness in his voice, “we frequently came to Metcalf’s to play knights and villains with Sir William’s son, Jacob.”

“My papa?” Emmaline asked, the first thing Mercy had heard the little girl say to him without being prompted. She looked up at him with more curiosity than fear.

“Aye. And a serious young boy was he.”

“Am I . . . am I like him, Uncle?”

The earl gave a contemplative smile, and Mercy’s heart contracted tightly at his melancholic tone. He did not often appear vulnerable, but Mercy knew it must be very painful for him to think of the brothers he’d lost. “Aye, I believe you are.”

Lord Ashby appeared weary, as though he had not slept in a fortnight. And yet, for some reason Mercy did not understand, his demeanor was far less stilted when he talked to his niece now. And Emmaline was not quite as stiff with him as she’d been before. Perhaps it was the mention of Emmaline’s father, which brought back fond memories for both of them. Clearly, this outing had been a very good idea for the two of them, in spite of Mercy’s misgivings.

A well-dressed, silver-haired lady came out of the house when they pulled into the drive, and hurried toward the barouche with two footmen behind her. The woman smiled broadly when she saw Lord Ashby, and bighearted warmth seemed to spill from her deep brown eyes and plump bosom.

“Nash Farris, you rascal!” she called out as she approached the barouche. “ ’Tis been a full month at least since your return to Ashby Hall, and only now do you come to visit!”

“Scold me all you want, Lady Metcalf,” Nash replied with a pleased smile, “for I truly deserve it. Though I might ask why you and Sir William have not come and graced my hall with your presence.”

The lady sobered. “If you must know, my Will is not in the best of health of late.”

“I regret to hear it,” Lord Ashby said gravely. “Perhaps our visit is not—”

“Here now! Of course it is! He’ll be so happy to see you, lad.”

Mercy smiled at the lady’s obvious affection, but could not think of Nash Farris as a lad at all, not with those shoulders, that hard chest, or the rasp of whiskers she’d felt during his kiss.

Before a groom was able to come over and assist, Lord Ashby opened the door of the barouche and jumped down, then lifted Emmaline to the ground. “This is Emmaline, Hoyt’s daughter. Emmy, say hello to Lady Metcalf.”

Emmy cast a surprised glance toward her uncle at the use of her pet name, then quickly greeted Lady Metcalf in her usual shy manner. The dame took Emmaline’s hand and chattered about Nash having such a lovely little niece.

But Lord Ashby had already turned to Mercy.