Seducing the Governess (17 page)

She felt her heart thud in her breast in anticipation of his touch. He placed his hands upon her waist and hesitated for an instant, probably not long enough for Lady Metcalf to take note, but Mercy could not have been more aware of every moment his hands were upon her.

He swung her down to the ground and released her, turning to face Lady Metcalf. “With us is Miss Mercy Franklin, Emmaline’s new governess.”

Mercy bowed properly, although she did not feel even slightly respectable at the moment, not when a rash of utterly carnal thoughts and objectionable yearnings were coursing through her, entirely against her wishes.

But Lady Metcalf welcomed Mercy warmly in spite of it, then turned to Lord Ashby, taking hold of his arm and looking directly into his scarred face. Her expression was one of deep concern. “What happened to you, lad?”

Mercy was surprised by the direct question. She’d heard no one else speak so candidly to the earl. Except perhaps herself, and she was determined to curb her unruly speech.

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A wall exploded and caught me by surprise.”

A wave of horror flowed through Mercy at the thought of such a violent attack and the earl being in the thick of it. Her throat tightened at the thought that he might have been killed.

“It was that last horrible battle, wasn’t it? Waterloo.” Lady Metcalf reached up and patted his face as a mother might do to an ailing child.

The earl shrugged and took her hand gently away from his face. Mercy did not think Lady Metcalf had caused him any pain, but it seemed he was uncomfortable with the attention given his scars. “Aye.”

“We were so fearful for you when we heard that nasty little Frenchman had the brass neck to leave his island prison and start up again,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, come in and say hello to William before he drags himself up off the sofa to see for himself who’s here.”

Lord Ashby seemed to forget their purpose of acquiring a dog when Lady Metcalf took Emmaline’s hand again and started for the house, warmly enveloping the little girl into her motherly warmth. “William took ill last June,” Lady Metcalf said, “only a week before Arthur’s accident, or we’d have been up at Ashby Hall, doing what we could . . .”

“What happened? What ails him?” the earl asked with obvious, deep concern.

“He suffered a stroke. Lost the power of speech for a time, and he’s still got some weakness on one side.” Lady Metcalf sighed. “He’s not been the same since that day.”

“Are you sure our visit won’t affect him adversely?”

“Heavens, no. He’ll be like my old Will again when he sees you.”

Mercy could not imagine Nash’s frown growing any darker. It was clear he hadn’t known of Sir William’s illness, and it troubled him.

Lady Metcalf spoke to Emmaline. “Did your uncle regale you with tales of the times he and your father caused havoc with my son here at Metcalf Farm? No? Well, we’ll just have ourselves some tea and I’ll see what I can remember about those scoundrels. I’ll tell you all their secrets,” she added with a wink.

Emmaline was clearly overpowered by the warm and wonderful lady, and found herself unable to withdraw, as was her wont. Mercy gave her an encouraging smile when she looked back for reassurance.

“Lady Metcalf will help loosen her up,” Lord Ashby murmured close to Mercy’s ear, and shivers of awareness coursed through her nerves. “No one can keep their reserve in the old girl’s presence.”

“Not even you?”

“Ah, I stand corrected. I believe there might be two ladies who can cause me to lose my reserve, Miss Franklin.”

Mercy’s eyes shot forward, and she was hardly able to trust her ears. He was flirting with her!

“Thank you for making my niece presentable,” Lord Ashby said quietly, setting Mercy off balance once again.

“It was nothing, my lord.”

“Aye, it was. Laundry is no simple affair, and we both know it.”

Mercy could always count upon Lord Ashby to say or do the most outrageous things, and she dearly hoped he would not make reference to her lapse with him on the roof. She would die of embarrassment if he mentioned it.

She knew she should have found some excuse to avoid this outing. Riding so close to him in the barouche had been difficult enough, and now they were to behave as though naught had passed between them the night before. She had to pretend she was unaffected by his proximity and his simple thanks for seeing to Emmaline’s clothes.

And yet Mercy hadn’t had any choice but to accompany Emmaline on this trek with her uncle to visit the Metcalfs. Emmy would likely have resisted going if her governess had not come along. And since Mercy had not known what the situation would be at Metcalf Farm, she’d thought she ought to be there in case Emmy needed her.

Having met Lady Metcalf, Mercy now knew that her presence was unnecessary. Lady Metcalf radiated the kind of warmth and kindliness Mercy had always wished her mother had possessed, and she saw that Emmy could not resist the older woman’s genuine affection.

“William, my dear!” Lady Metcalf called as they entered the house. “We’ve company. You will never guess who has come to call!”

The servants took their coats, and they all retired to a small sitting room at the back of the house. There were three wide windows across the far wall, with a view of the sheep-dappled fells beyond. Facing the windows was a frail-looking man—little more than a skeleton, Mercy thought—half reclining on a divan. His white hair was thin and mussed, but his muddy brown eyes brightened when he caught sight of Emmaline. He looked up at Lady Metcalf, and Mercy noticed that one side of his face sagged slightly.

“What have we here, Edwina?” His voice was not strong, but Mercy could see that he had once been a force to be reckoned with.

“ ’Tis Hoyt Farris’s girl. Is she not the image of her lovely mother?”

“Aye, that she is. Joanna was a beautiful lady—just like her daughter, it seems.”

“And bringing her to visit is Nash. The pretty young lady with them is Miss Franklin.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Franklin.” He turned to Lord Ashby. “Nash Farris, you young bounder—so you’ve finally decided to take a wife!”

Chapter 19

M
ercy felt her face burn with mortification. She started to deny it, but Nash—Lord Ashby—laughed aloud and prevented her from speaking. He went to Sir William and went down on one knee beside him, taking his hand in a firm grip. “It is going to take far more than a beautiful face to get me to the altar, Will.”

A ball of emotion welled in Mercy’s chest and she felt it might explode then and there. She’d been perfectly aware that she was not a woman he would ever consider taking to wife. And yet his advances had unlocked the most improbable of yearnings within her.

Oblivious to the emotions rushing through Mercy, Sir William smiled at Nash, nodding weakly. “You were always the worst of the lot, lad.”

“No, I wasn’t. That was Arthur.” Lord Ashby’s expression turned boyish as he spoke, and Mercy realized he was speaking fondly of his late brother. He’d suffered so many losses in his family, and then the horrors of battle. Even though she’d recently lost her parents, Mercy could not imagine the kinds of sorrows Lord Ashby had endured.

Sir William chuckled at the earl’s quip. “Aye, but only if the criteria were for being a fussbudget. I was speaking of foolhardy, brash, impudent, overconfident—”

The earl laughed out loud. “Never say I was foolhardy!”

“Ha!”

They enjoyed the joke for a minute or two, then Lord Ashby spoke of the reason for their visit. “We’ve come for a dog, Sir Will.”

“What dog?” Lady Metcalf asked.

“A herding dog. You’ve got a few of those, haven’t you?” he asked facetiously.

“Of course we have. More than enough, truth be told. You can have your pick.”

“I thought Emmaline might like to choose,” Lord Ashby said as he stood.

“Well, let’s have our tea first,” said Lady Metcalf with a happy smile. “You stay here with Will, my dear Nash, while we ladies get things ready.”

Nash should have anticipated that the house would seem horribly empty without Jacob Metcalf. He’d been killed at Salamanca in ’12, and Nash had seen Sir William and Lady Edwina only once since then. They might have gone on living, but the sorrow hadn’t gone out of their eyes.

He wondered how Horace Carew could have neglected to mention William’s ill health. They’d spoken of Metcalf Farm—it would have been appropriate for him to speak of it then.

He almost wished he hadn’t come here, hadn’t seen their lingering pain. He sat down on a cushioned stool beside Will and looked closely at him. It was unlikely the man had much time left. He was hardly more than skin and bones, his hands and neck mottled with a purple discoloration. Nash was no physician, but he knew such a symptom could not be good, and it saddened him. He and his brothers had spent many a day and night at Metcalf Farm, running wild with Jacob, who’d become like a fourth brother to them. Jake had been Arthur’s age, but closer in temperament to Nash.

Nash knew Jacob’s parents had been sorely disappointed when he’d bought his commission and gone to war. They’d had only one child and heir, and he’d died without issue.

“You could do worse, you know,” said Will.

Nash raised a questioning brow.

“Miss Franklin. She’s a lovely thing. Don’t think I cannot see those pretty dimples on either side of her mouth. Or that deep blush that crosses her cheeks. Only the most passionate of women can pink up that way.”

Nash’s discomfort grew. Passion was the last thing he ought to be pursuing now, though looking at Mercy made him forget his intentions of marrying a fortune and restoring the Ashby estate. Almost.

She was a serious threat to his plans. He supposed he could dismiss her from her post and send her back to Underdale. But that would be grossly unfair. Mercy had done nothing wrong but to succumb to his formidable desire for her.

When she met the district’s eligible young men at the subscription ball and started collecting suitors, Nash would be able to put her from his mind and focus on wooing Helene and her handsome dowry. As quickly as possible, he would sire an heir or two and focus his full attention on the estate. “Sir William—”

“And you wouldn’t be the first lord to make off with the governess.”

Unfortunately, the very same thought had occurred to him last night while he lay awake in an agony of lust. “Aye. But I have need of a wife with a substantial dowry. Not to put too fine a point on it, Sir Will, but Ashby is in ruins. Arthur’s investments were calamitous, so there are no funds for improvements. A large number of our herd has died off, and I can’t say that we’ll have more than a handful of lambs this spring. If I’m to make anything of the place, I’m going to need money.”

“You’re right, I suppose, lad. The wealthiest man in the district is Horace Carew. And he has a daughter.”

“I know. I had supper at Strathmore Pond last night. With Carew and his daughter.”

A twinkle lit the old man’s eyes. “She’ll do, eh, my boy? She’s a comely lass.”

Yes, she was. But Nash knew she would never be able to set his blood on fire as Mercy Franklin did. He steeled himself against falling prey to thoughts of what could never be. “Her father is in favor of a match between us. He gave me his blessing to court her.”

Sir William chuckled.

“What is it?”

“Hoyt once mentioned that Carew suggested
he
marry the daughter. But your brother couldn’t even consider remarrying after he lost Joanna. He politely declined the offer.”

Nash rubbed his forehead. “He did?”

“Aye. Seems the man is determined to make his daughter a countess.”

“Well, she could do worse, eh?” But it bothered Nash that the Carews didn’t seem to care which brother Helene wed. It was the title they wanted, and the face of the man who owned it did not seem to matter.

Sir William allowed his gaze to drift to the scene outside the window. The sky was beginning to clear, and the hills rose up in all their early spring glory. Metcalf Farm had always been a jewel in the district.

And Nash was fairly certain Sir William would soon be leaving it. He rubbed the dull ache that rose up in his chest and wished he had not come here today. He needed a dog. And some advice.

But not another loss.

“If I wed Miss Carew . . . it won’t be . . .” He nearly choked on the words. “It won’t be anything like my parents’ marriage.”

It had been years since Nash had thought of the glow that enveloped his mother and father when they were together. Hoyt and Joanna had shared it, too. They’d had something that went far beyond mere satisfaction or contentment with their spouses.

Even if Nash wanted a similar bond with the wife he settled on, he could not afford it. Neither his finances nor his heart could take it.

“No. Few marriages are like theirs,” Sir William agreed. “Only the lucky ones.”

The inevitable weighed heavily on Nash’s heart. He stood and walked to the window. “Miss Carew cannot abide my scars. Or my clouded eye.”

“She’ll accustom herself, will she not? Becoming a countess will likely trump such a minor drawback.”

Nash doubted it. But finding himself loath to expend any more energy on thoughts of Miss Carew when the memory of Mercy Franklin’s kiss was fresh in his mind, he changed the subject. “I need someone to manage the estate, Sir Will.” Lowell might be good with numbers in ledgers, but he didn’t know anything about sheep farming.

William pursed his lips. “Are you asking for my advice?”

“Aye.”

“Is old Grainger still up at Ashby?”

Nash cast Will a questioning glance. “Hoyt’s old butler? Aye, he is. Why?”

“He has a brother, George. A widower. One of the best sheep men at Windermere, though I’ve heard he’s moved into his son’s house. He’d likely come up to Ashby if only to get away from his daughter-in-law and be closer to his brother.”

“I can’t pay—”

“That’s what I’m saying, lad. George and Giles were always close. Giles has no other family. George knows everything about running a farm like Ashby. He will likely steer you back onto your two feet for the mere pleasure of escaping his son’s house to live on the same farm as his brother. He did very well for himself down Windermere way.”

“Where is he now?”

“His son’s house is down near Ambleside. Ask Giles Grainger. He’ll have George’s direction.”

“I’ll do that.”

“George knows every sheep man in and about Keswick. He might know of a few who will come work for you for naught but their keep until Ashby’s put back to rights.”

Nash nodded, thinking of the valuable resource he’d had under his roof and not even known it. And then he wondered how Lowell would take to having his position usurped by a country sheep herder.

Maybe the reason for his brothers’ demise had had something to do with the management of the herd. But Nash could not think what it could possibly have been. A healthy, plentiful herd meant a substantial income, and a steward would only profit from such a situation.

He was grasping at straws.

Nash decided to deal with Lowell later, after he learned whether George Grainger would actually come to Ashby. “I’ll need shearers come summer, Sir William. Will you lend me yours when it’s time?”

“Aye. Of course. Or . . .” He looked away. “Edwina will see to it. I’ll speak to her.”

Nash did not want to acknowledge what Will was saying—that he might not be there to make sure the Metcalf shearers were sent to Ashby Hall.

The kitchen was a warm and bustling place that reminded Mercy of Lady Metcalf herself—cozy and comfortable, though she was clearly in charge. The cook gave them a sociable smile, then reached into a hot oven to pull out a pan of hot, savory cake, which she turned out onto a wooden block.

“ ’Tis my husband’s favorite treat—Cook’s gingerbread.” The lady’s features sobered slightly. “ ’Tis about all we can get him to eat these days, is it not, Cook?”

“Aye, m’lady, he likes my gingerbread, all right,” said the woman. “Soothes the stomach, it does.” She pinched off a small piece from the corner of the loaf and gave it to Emmaline, whose eyes brightened at the treat. It was quite clear the child had not received any such coddling—at least, not in a very long time.

“Has your uncle told you of his antics here at Metcalf Farm, Emmaline?” Lady Metcalf petted Emmaline’s head.

Emmaline shook her head, and some of the bashfulness left her demeanor as she chewed the ginger cake.

It was a novelty for Mercy, too, who was unused to so such casual conversation and pleasant female company. The Franklin household was usually quiet, bordering on austere. Her father had required silence in the house in order to concentrate on his studies and his sermons. But even when the family came together at mealtimes, there was little discourse, other than the lessons Reverend Franklin chose to impart.

“Ah, your uncle was a wild one. The youngest of the bunch. I believe the worst was the time he set a wager to see which of the lads could climb the highest in that tree there.” She pointed out the window at a tall, thick oak that was only just budding. Emmaline’s shoulders seemed to loosen as she listened to the older woman talk.

Lady Metcalf’s eyes crinkled with amusement at the memory. “Nash was the first one up, of course. He was always the first to climb to the top of something—the barn roof, the highest fell.”
Or a rooftop
, Mercy reflected. “On that particular morning, Arthur managed to climb higher than anyone—even Nash.”

“What happened?” Emmy asked, forgetting to be bashful.

“Even a well-practiced climber like Nash knew when to stop, but Arthur was out to prove something that day. Which he did.” Lady Metcalf chuckled while the cook shook her head and clucked her tongue.

“He proved what a pigeon egg he could be.”

Emmaline let out a tiny giggle that brought a smile to Mercy’s lips.

“Arthur went into a panic when he realized how high he’d gone. Nash and my Jacob knew when to stop, and they were far below him.”

Emmaline’s eyes grew wide as she waited for Lady Metcalf’s next words, and even Mercy found herself hungry to hear more of Nash’s boyhood antics. She could easily imagine him as a carefree lad, his face clear and unscarred, his sculpted lips smiling widely.

“Your father—the sensible one—came into the house to get help. But your uncle . . .” She shook her head. “Always too impatient for his own good. Leaving good sense behind, he scrambled up and perched himself right next to Arthur to reassure him and talk him into climbing down.”

“Did Uncle Arthur climb down?” Emmaline asked, so engrossed in the tale she lost her shyness for the moment.

Lady Metcalf gave a nod. “Oh, aye. With Nash talking to him quite calmly, giving instructions and even encouragement, Arthur managed to get his two feet back on the ground.” She put one hand against her heart and looked up at Mercy. “We’d all come out of the house in a panic by then, certain that one of them would fall. But that Nash—he was as surefooted as one of those African monkeys.”

“How old were they?” Mercy asked.

“Hmm. Nash was about ten, and Arthur twelve.” Lady Metcalf looked at Emmaline. “Your papa was only thirteen, but he had more good sense than the other three altogether.”

Emmaline’s smile broadened, and Mercy’s heart clenched tightly in her chest. She knew what it was to be alone, but at least she was an adult, not a vulnerable little child like Emmaline, who seemed to have been an afterthought in the years since her father’s death. That had been two years ago. A very long time in Emmaline’s life. It was far too long since she’d had anyone who cared anything about her.

“Did Papa scold Uncle Arthur?”

Lady Metcalf laughed. “He did a great deal of scolding that day. Even
his
papa—your grandfather—hardly needed to say a word more. Arthur never climbed again. At least not that I ever heard.”

And yet Nash still liked heights, Mercy thought, if his presence on the roof last night was any indication.

“Your poor uncle, lass,” Lady Metcalf said, turning to speak directly to Emmy. “You must be very kind to him now that he’s home. I cannot imagine the suffering he must have endured with those injuries.”