Seducing the Governess (19 page)

Mercy kept her distance from Lord Ashby as they walked around to the back of the house. She half listened to Lady Metcalf’s little anecdotes about Hoyt and his brothers until they reached the area where the infamous oak tree stood.

Of course Nash had rescued his older brother. He was brave and daring, and must have had a warrior’s soul, even then. But Mercy resented the wave of sympathy she felt over his terrible losses. The three Farris boys had had a life together, had shared a closeness Mercy could only imagine, having no sisters or brothers of her own.

Though perhaps she
did
have some siblings, somewhere. She felt a deep regret that she would never know them, wondering at the same time if perhaps there was a way. There could be a clue to her origins in her mother’s journal, but Mercy had stayed clear of it ever since Emmy had read the first disturbing entries.

The grassy area where they stopped was within sight of Sir William on his sofa, which was obviously Lady Metcalf’s intent. He was not well enough to come out, but his wife made certain to include him, despite his infirmity. The closeness of the older couple gave Mercy a wistful feeling that did not abate even when one of the grooms trotted out of a barn with three dogs running by his side. She and Mr. Vale would surely develop the same kind of closeness that Lady Metcalf and her husband obviously shared.

But Mercy did not think she would ever again experience the kind of passion she’d felt the night before, for anyone but Lord Ashby.

She swallowed her dismay and turned to observe the dogs. They had glossy black coats with white markings, and they followed the young boy’s whistled commands exactly.

“Oh look, the clouds have gone,” Lady Metcalf said, taking a seat on a chair near a heavy wooden table that had been set up by the oak tree. “Watch, Emmaline. See how they mind Davy. All he needs to do is whistle, or move his hand, and they understand what he wants them to do.”

“You thought I was having you on, didn’t you, Miss Franklin?” Lord Ashby asked quietly.

A burst of heat flooded her veins. “H-having me on?”

“About the eye dogs.” At least he had the grace to appear sheepish.
Having her on, indeed
. Right on the roof of his run-down old wreck of a hall. And she had let him.

“I have yet to see them control anything with their eyes, my lord.” Her voice was taut, uncompromising. She had to get through this visit, and afterward, she would see to it that there was no reason to find herself alone with him again. “So far, they’ve done naught but obey the lad who brought them.”

Lady Metcalf let out a good laugh. “Ashby did not jest, Miss Franklin. Our dogs are quite intimidating to our poor little lambs!”

“We’ll need a demonstration, Lady Metcalf, of course,” said the earl.

“Certainly, you rascal. And then you can choose.”

The dogs were enthusiastic but perfectly behaved as they approached with the boy. Emmaline edged close to Mercy when they came near, their tongues hanging out and their tails madly wagging. Obviously, they were also intimidating to shy little girls.

Lady Metcalf told them something of each dog—their names, ages, and personality quirks—while Lord Ashby knelt to study their hips and eyes, then look into their mouths. He had a natural facility with the animals, stroking and examining with a proficiency that was no surprise to Mercy. His hands were large and strong. Of course the dogs respected his touch. She had felt it and hadn’t been able to stop herself from yearning for more—

Realizing she was ogling the earl, she took in a gulp of air, and when she turned away from him, caught sight of Sir William watching them through the window. He was frowning fiercely, and an uncanny awareness brightened his eyes. Mercy hoped the man had not been able to sense the turmoil that roiled through her.

Embarrassed to have been caught with her raw emotions so tightly drawn on her face, she turned toward Lady Metcalf and Emmaline. Whatever she’d shown was fleeting, surely. Sir Will could have no idea what she felt.

Especially since Mercy herself did not really know.

“You must watch closely, Emmaline,” said Lord Ashby. He caught Mercy with his gaze, his hard gray eyes studying her as though she were some kind of complex puzzle he needed to solve.

“Miss Franklin, give me your hand.”

Mercy froze inside, unsure if she’d heard him right. He must know she could not have further contact with him.

She clasped her hands together. “I would rather not, my lord.”

“You are not afraid of him, are you, Miss Franklin?”

“Of course she isn’t,” Lady Metcalf said indignantly. “Miss Franklin, show the child there is naught to fear.”

Feeling cornered, Mercy reached out to the tail-wagging animal.

“Approach him where he can see you. You’ll want to pet him nicely. Give me your hand.”

The earl’s words seemed to mock Mercy, but they quaked through her nonetheless, making her knees feel slightly wobbly.
Pet him nicely?
Mercy told herself he was only engaging in a bit of callous teasing, but for what reason, she could not fathom.

Her eyes started to burn and she knelt to scratch the dog behind both ears.

“See Emmaline? Your governess has the right of it,” said Lady Metcalf. “Now ’tis your turn to try.”

Emmaline joined her, and after a moment, seemed quite comfortable. She cast Mercy and Lady Metcalf a pleased smile, then a bashful one toward her uncle. After a month of avoiding looking at him, it seemed the child was finally warming to her uncle.

Mercy looked up at him and noticed that his expression was as somber as she’d ever seen it. And as his gaze bored into hers, the persistent, unwelcome fever she’d felt with him on the roof returned to warm her blood.

There were decisions to be made. Once she wrote to Mr. Vale, she needed to be patient and wait for a reply before doing anything else—such as advertising for another post. Not that she’d had a great deal of luck with the first one. Mr. Lowell’s query was the only one she’d received.

Mercy took a deep breath and concentrated on Emmaline. That was her task at the moment, not worrying about her exit from Ashby Hall.

“Come around and look at Dexter’s eyes,” the earl said to his niece, and Emmaline actually did as she was told. “His are both clear and sound—not like mine.”

Emmaline looked up into her uncle’s eyes without recoiling at all. “Does it hurt you?”

“Not anymore,” he replied quietly, and Mercy’s heart clenched tightly in her chest.

“Will you part with Dex?” the earl asked Lady Metcalf, and Mercy knew he realized that Emmaline’s question was the most important thing that had occurred on their outing.

So did Lady Metcalf. “I’ll give you all three. On loan, of course,” she said.

But Lord Ashby refused her offer. “We need no more than one. Our herd is badly depleted, so I won’t need quite so many sheepdogs until I can build it back up.”

“I see. Davy, take Dex out to the field and show Lord Ashby what he can do.”

They watched the dog crouch low to the ground as he rounded up the sheep on the nearby hillside and started to drive them toward the stone wall. “See how he controls the sheep, Emmy?” Lord Ashby remarked.

“Perhaps what he is doing is protecting them, my lord,” Mercy said impulsively.

He gave her a curious look. “Are you suggesting the dog has some affection for the sheep, Miss Franklin?”

Mercy shrugged. “Maybe it is all just a game to him, and he doesn’t really care one way or the other.”

Chapter 21

N
ash would have enjoyed his morning spent with Emmaline’s governess a great deal more had Sir William not mentioned Helene Carew. It had spoiled Mercy’s mood, and rightly so.

Nash was a cad.

There was no denying it. And the only way he could make amends was by making sure she was introduced to a few likely bachelors at the ball in Keswick. She needed a suitor—someone appropriate and available.

“When will Dexter come to Ashby Hall?” Emmaline asked, and Nash realized the change in her attitude toward him was real. She was far less timid than before, her voice stronger, her speech more direct. Nash did not know what kind of magic Mercy and Edwina Metcalf had worked, but his niece was far more relaxed with him now.

Which was not the case with her governess.

“Later today, I think,” Nash replied to Emmy’s questions, casting a sidelong glance at Mercy. She kept her eyes on the road ahead. “He’ll come with the grooms Lady Metcalf is sending to help with the housework. I imagine they’ll bring him along with the nursery maid.” The housekeeper was unable to come to Ashby Hall until the morrow.

They had gone to Metcalf Farm just for a dog, and now he found that his haven was about to be invaded by servants—competent servants who would turn Ashby Hall into the kind of place he believed he wanted: a suitable setting for a house party.

Nash’s headache had flared back to life with Sir Will’s untimely announcement about Miss Carew, and he still felt Mercy’s fury.

He’d told them he hadn’t yet proposed to Helene Carew, but that did not make his offense any less galling. Mercy had every right to be incensed, for no honorable man would ever trifle with a woman—an innocent woman—as he’d done with Mercy.

But he had not been able to resist her. She’d been a force to be reckoned with from the moment he’d first encountered her in the road, and he knew he would always compare Helene—or any other prospective bride—to her. She was a fiery swallow of fine Scotch whisky to Helene’s bland draught of cow’s milk. One intense and passionate, the other chalky and dull.

“You and Lady Metcalf seemed to get on well, Miss Franklin,” he said. “I suppose you told her all about the dismal state of affairs at Ashby Hall.”

“Not at all, my lord.”

“No need to prevaricate.” He should not even try to engage her in conversation. What could he do but pursue a wealthy woman for his bride? It did not matter how wildly he might desire Mercy Franklin.

“Very well.” She turned and looked directly in his eyes without flinching. “Lady Metcalf asked some pointed questions, and I answered them truthfully. Far more truthfully than . . .”

Far more truthfully than he’d been with her.
But she stopped before voicing the words, in respect to Emmaline’s presence, no doubt, because Nash had not known her to mince words before.

“Lady Metcalf and my mother were very good friends,” he said.

Mercy nodded. “Yes, she spoke fondly of Lady Ashby.
Your mother
, I mean.”

“I know who you meant.”

There was color in her cheeks and her hat was not particularly effective at keeping her hair contained as neatly as she seemed to prefer. Nash could almost feel the silken strands whipping against his fingers.

He looked back to the road and tried to put his wayward thoughts into some semblance of order. Fate had decreed many abhorrent events in Nash’s life, and would soon force him to spend his life shackled to a beautiful but insipid source of capital.

Facing the reality of his future caused him no end of frustration, and he turned to Miss Franklin and spoke bluntly. “There is to be a subscription ball in Keswick on Sunday. The whole district will attend. I’ve bought you a ticket.”

Nash kept his eyes on the road, but felt Mercy turn to look at him.

“I have no interest in going to any ball, my lord.”

“Everyone from Ashby is going.” His tone left no room for refusal.

“But not I.”

“You are not going to defy me, are you, Miss Franklin?”

He turned and cast a glance at her. If sparks could have burst from her eyes, they would have done so then. But she held back, apparently unwilling to engage in a contest of wills with Emmaline as a witness.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Nash didn’t know if he could force Mercy to attend the ball, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to go. He envisioned every bachelor in attendance swarming around her, bringing her refreshments and asking to be her dancing partner.

And Nash had no interest in witnessing it.

But then, it was not necessary for him to go—not unless Helene and her father would be in attendance.

He swore silently but viciously. Nothing about his return to Ashby had been simple. Perhaps he should just forget about the estate and go back to Lord Wellington. Surely the victor of Waterloo could use an adjutant who had battle experience.

A storm was threatening when they returned to the Hall. But it was no worse than the fury Mercy felt within.

How dare Lord Ashby order her to attend the Keswick ball. She had absolutely no interest in socializing with anyone in Keswick. In fact, the sooner she was able to leave Ashby Hall and this district, the better.

Tears welled in her eyes when she thought of Nash going to the ball, dancing with Miss Carew. What did he think she would do? Welcome the chance to watch him court someone else after he’d seduced her so thoroughly the night before?

She curbed her anger. Emmaline was not at fault here, and Mercy had a duty to deal fairly with the child. Just because her uncle was a scoundrel—and because Mercy had allowed herself to succumb to her attraction for him—was no reason to take out her temper on his niece.

Mercy and Emmaline went up to the nursery, and while Mercy sharpened a pen tip and took out a clean sheet of foolscap, Emmaline sat down with a book on her lap, but did not open it.

“May we read more of your mother’s journal now?” she asked, yawning.

The question knocked the wind from Mercy’s lungs. “Not now, Emmy,” she managed to reply. “I have a letter to write, and you need to read a few pages of
Pilgrim’s Progress
. Then perhaps Ruthie will have arrived and you can show her around the nursery.”

Emmy nodded. “I like Lady Metcalf.”

“Yes, I could see that. She is very kind, isn’t she?” Mercy remarked. “And she has a very winning manner.”

Emmaline toyed with the edge of the book, then looked up at Mercy. “Why won’t you go to the ball, miss? My uncle . . . He wants you to go.”

Mercy clenched her teeth. She did not know what Emmaline’s uncle wanted, other than to court another woman while he made improper advances toward her.

And she had succumbed, mightily. She could not go to a ball where she would be subjected to the sight of Lord Ashby dancing with Miss Carew and every other eligible lady in the Keswick district. His duty to the earldom had become quite clear with Sir William’s words. He needed a wealthy wife.

“I haven’t a ball gown,” she finally said. Even Emmaline would understand that she could not attend a ball wearing any of her plain day dresses.

Emmaline’s expression turned thoughtful. “May I show you something?”

“What is it?”

The child stood and reached for Mercy’s hand. “Will you come with me?”

They left the nursery and went to the attic door. Emmaline opened it and started up the same staircase Mercy had climbed—much to her detriment—the previous night.

“Emmy . . . I don’t think we ought—”

“No, please. There’s something . . .” she said quietly.

Mercy followed Emmaline up the stairs and into the large attic room. The little girl went right to one of the trunks and opened it, pushing the heavy top over the side.

She looked up at Mercy. “See? You can go to the ball with my uncle.”

“What do you mean?”

“My aunt’s dresses. They’re here.”

It took a moment for Mercy to understand. “Emmy . . .”

In the shadowy light of the attic, Mercy could see a froth of silks and satins neatly folded in the trunk.

“There will be dancing,” Emmy said. “My papa used to dance with me.”

Mercy slid an arm around Emmaline’s shoulders and tried to think of a way to explain her true reason for declining to go to the Keswick ball. She could not. At least, not to a child.

“I like this one,” Emmy said. She peeled back a few gowns on top and revealed a gown made of deep scarlet satin and trimmed in gold thread. “Will you take it out?”

“Emmy.” There was no point in it, because she was not going to any ball.

“Please?” Emmaline asked, sounding more timid than Mercy liked. The little girl had come a long way today, and Mercy did not want her to lose any ground.

“All right, but just to look. I’m not going to the ball, Emmy.”

She carefully slipped the gown out from under the ones on top and held it up for Emmaline to see. Mercy knew little of current fashion, but this was a beautiful dress. Its sleeves were short, and gathered at the shoulder. The waist was high like Mercy’s gowns, but the neckline was lower than any she had ever seen. Even so, it was a tasteful dress, and had a matching pelisse lying just below it in the trunk.

Holding the gown up in front of her, she tried to imagine how she would feel wearing such a beautiful thing.

“No,” she said abruptly, taking it down from her shoulders. “I—”

“It will fit you, miss,” Emmy said. “I know it will.”

Before Mercy could say anything more, they heard Henry Blue calling to them from the doorway. She used the distraction to lay the dress carefully on top of the others in the trunk, and hoped Emmy would forget her silly notion. “Come. We must see what Henry wants.”

They found him standing at the bottom of the stairs with Ruthie Baxter beside him, the nursemaid who had been sent from Metcalf Farm. Her hair was as red as Henry’s, and she appeared to be only about fifteen or sixteen years old. Emmy had been charmed by her friendly manner and vividly colored hair, and Mercy felt Ruthie would be yet another positive influence on the child.

They returned to the nursery, and Mercy encouraged Emmaline to show Ruthie around herself, and she noted that it was a far different tour from the one she’d given Mercy. Emmaline was still a reserved little girl, but far more talkative and . . .
engaged
with Ruthie.

Mercy remembered having to pry every word from Emmaline’s lips on her own arrival at Ashby Hall. Now, she was speaking more freely, and, most important, her fear of her uncle had faded significantly.

Emmy and her new nursemaid were getting along well, so Mercy left them alone, saying they would visit the laundry and kitchen on the morrow and discuss Ruthie’s duties.

Mercy retreated to her bedchamber. She closed the door and stood with her back against it. She had not anticipated becoming quite so attached to her young charge.

Or to her uncle.

He might have denied his betrothal to Miss Carew, but Mercy had seen with her own eyes the terrible condition of his house and estate. And Mr. Lowell had confided that the earl did not even have funds for proper servants. Mercy did not doubt that Miss Carew would bring a generous dowry to her marriage. How could Lord Ashby turn it down?

How could he have taken such liberties with her when he knew he would have to wed soon?

Torn between anger and hurt, Mercy went to the small writing desk and began her letter to Mr. Vale. This time, she was determined to finish it and find someone to post it for her.

“Dear Mr. Vale,” she penned, and followed with the usual pleasantries. Then to the meat of the letter. “With the deaths of my parents, I find myself in the employ of the Earl of Ashby near Keswick, as governess to his niece. It is not ideal, but alas . . .”

Mercy stopped and crossed out the last line, realizing it might take a few attempts before she achieved just the correct tone. Once she had the wording exactly right, she would write the missive on a clean sheet of paper, and send it off.

When she finished final draft, she opened the drawer of the table beside her bed and took out Susanna’s journal. She supposed now would be a good time to delve into the diary, but the day had already been long and distressing. She could not yet face it.

Besides, she felt angry enough already.

She slipped her letter to Mr. Vale into the pages of the journal, then put it away. Straightening her collar and cuffs, she went to check her appearance in the mirror, and grimaced at the state of her hair. Her coif was as disordered as her emotions.

She removed the pins that held it in place and brushed it, reminding herself that it was best for her to leave Ashby Hall. Emmaline would soon forget about the governess who’d helped her to overcome the worst of her shyness, and Lord Ashby would soon have the funds he needed to pay Ruthie and the houseful of other servants that were needed here.

Mercy smoothed her skirts, then took her lamp and went down to the servants’ hall, where she located the housekeeper’s bedroom. There was not much to be done to prepare for Mrs. Jones’s arrival, just a quick dusting and the application of fresh linens to her bed. A low rumble of thunder gave Mercy pause, and she knew a storm was coming. She quickly made up the bed, then left the room.

All was so quiet, there didn’t seem to be anyone in the house, not even the old butler. She ventured into the kitchen and saw pots simmering on the stove, but none of the earl’s men were in evidence. They must have had some errand away from the Hall, or perhaps they were out on the property doing chores. Even the earl.

Which was perfectly fine with Mercy. Her anger had not abated in the least, and she did not wish to see Lord Ashby now, anyway.

Once again, Lowell was nowhere to be found. The rest of the men were playing at swords, but Lowell had likely gone to visit his female acquaintance in Lake Road.

Nash did not think the steward would appreciate the arrival of Grainger’s brother. It would be one thing to hire a shepherd to manage the flock, but Sir William indicated that George Grainger was much more than that.