Seducing the Governess (20 page)

He would take Lowell’s place.

And Nash needed someone like him to do just that. Lowell had helped him plow through Ashby’s account books, but it had become clear he knew nothing about raising sheep. It was a complicated business, one that Lowell did not really understand. And he was far too impatient with the pace at which Ashby would become profitable.

Perhaps Nash ought to dismiss him, but on second thought he realized it might be more practical to keep him close. That way, he would know what the man was up to . . . and why. Nash could not fathom what Lowell could have gained by the deaths of the Ashby earls, though something he’d seen that afternoon in Arthur’s last ledger had made him curious.

He took Roarke from the fencing match, and together they rode the Ridge path to Ashby’s southern acres that bordered Carew’s land. It was rough and craggy, and the lower ground was marshy.

“In town, they say there’s some kind of nasty fairy that goes about causing trouble near here.”

“Boggarts.”

“What’s that, my lord?”

“It’s what they call them here. The nasty fairies. They’re just a superstition.”

Roarke gave a nod, but did not seem to be entirely convinced. He swallowed and glanced around. “Are we looking for something here, my lord?”

Nash did not remember any talk of boggarts on Ashby land when he was a lad. Surely that was something he would have loved to explore with his brothers and Jacob Metcalf. Which meant that the boggart story was a fairly recent one. He supposed that if a superstitious man’s mule had gone lame near there, he would blame it on some spritely force.

“I found a notation in one of my brother’s ledgers . . .” Nash said. “Someone offered to buy this land. I want to know why.”

It had been Horace Carew, and he’d indicated that he wanted more grazing land for his sheep. This section of Nash’s land was unentailed—he knew it from studying the maps—so Arthur could have sold it off. He
should
have sold it, if only for the income.

And it had been surveyed recently. Nash wondered if Wardlow had been entirely honest in his explanation of the survey. Had the crown really commissioned it, or had someone local ordered it? It occurred to him that someone who hoped to buy the land might want a new survey.

“It looks useless to me, Lord Ashby. Rocky. Good for nothing. You can see the slate in the water, there.”

“Aye.” Nash wondered if Carew was still interested in the land, and whether he’d be interested in negotiating a good price for it. Nash had no problem with the notion of parting with it—for the right price. “Let’s head back.”

With the house empty, Mercy returned to the servants’ hall and closed up the linen cupboards. She started back to the nursery, but stopped at the doors of the large conservatory adjacent to the servants’ hall. She’d only had time to take a quick peek into the room while the main areas of the house were being scoured. It had intrigued her then, but she’d had no chance to explore it. She had time now, with Ruthie in charge in the nursery. Mercy did not think she would be missed until morning.

She unlatched the conservatory door and stepped inside, onto a light green tile floor that was interrupted at regular spaces by iron grates. Her heart beat a little faster when she took in the walls and ceiling that seemed to be all glass, the panes filmy with age and dirt.

It should have worried her with the storm coming, but she had never seen such a room and was filled with awe at the possibilities.

Mercy’s astonishment increased at the sight of row upon row of narrow tables that held discarded clay pots with the dried-up skeletons of plants in them. Several huge pots stood on the floor near the windows, bearing the corpses of long-dead trees.

She glanced at the floor once again and realized the metal grates allowed heat to rise from below. During more prosperous times, the earl would have had stoves burning during the cold months of the year.

Mercy sighed. The room was heaven on earth, and would be a wonderland of green with new plants in all the pots. The estate could have fresh fruit and vegetables all year round. If Mercy were staying—

A loud clang outside startled her, and she went to a window. Using her fingers to rub away the foggy coating, she saw Lord Ashby’s men fencing, only they did not seem to be using harmless fencing foils. They were sparring with their war sabers.

They’d all abandoned their coats and were in shirtsleeves, their hair and skin moist with their exertions.

Lord Ashby was among them.

Mercy’s throat constricted at the sight of him, his shirt buttons open and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he battled Mr. Bassett. She held her breath as the sergeant lunged and Lord Ashby dodged the blow.

She felt as though a vicious fist had taken hold of her stomach and twisted. “Lord above, what can he be thinking?” she murmured. If Mr. Bassett killed him . . .

Her earlier anger toward Lord Ashby paled at this newest madness. What would happen to Emmaline if yet another Farris man were killed? Hadn’t Emmaline suffered enough losses in her young life?

“I cannot believe they’re jabbing away at one another this way.”

She stormed out of the conservatory in search of a door that would lead to the courtyard where they performed their dangerous antics, fully intent upon ordering the thoughtless, irresponsible man to cease.

When she found the door, she flung it open in a blaze of white-hot fury.

All movement in the yard stopped. Ashby’s men turned and stood gaping at her as though she were a lunatic, escaped from the attic. Her gaze came to rest upon Lord Ashby, who lowered his sword as he looked at her.

Mercy could not form the words that had balled into a lead weight at the back of her throat. She clenched her teeth, still furious, but vastly discomfited by the sudden attention she’d garnered.

Ashby started toward her. His white shirt hugged his shoulders and torso like a second skin. A sheen of perspiration lit his face, but his expression was dark and forbidding.

Her anger became a liquid ripple in her blood, only slightly tempered from the way it had been when she’d pulled open the door.

“Was there something you wanted, Miss Franklin?” the earl said ominously. He towered over her, a warrior in battle. Untamed. Savage.

Mercy stepped back, and the door slammed shut behind him. The little light from outside disappeared as Lord Ashby continued to stalk her until he’d backed her into a far corner of the room.

“You . . . Can you not use wooden swords, my lord?” she asked, or rather, she demanded, balling her fists at her sides. She felt the wall at her back and knew there was nowhere to go. A fleeting memory of being backed up against the garret and kissed with a ruthless tenderness crossed her mind.

“Hardly,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What would be the point?”

He lowered his head, his face only inches from hers. Mercy could smell the scent of sunshine and horses and sweat on him. She swallowed.

“Your niece,” she said, her voice a mere croak, coming from deep in her throat. “She relies upon you, my lord. To stay alive!”

He moved in closer, and Mercy felt his breath upon her face. He tipped his head slightly, angling as though determining the right placement to fit his lips to hers.

Mercy swallowed dryly. Wanting it, wanting to feel his lips upon hers. And yet so furious . . .

Her limbs seemed to soften like warm honey, but her body drifted toward him like iron to lodestone. Her breasts felt heavy. Her heart thudded in her chest.

“I have no intention of dying, Miss Franklin.” His voice was satin-rough in her ears. “At least, not any time soon.”

“B-but your swordplay . . .”

He lifted his hand to frame the edge of her jaw, brushing back a few wisps of her hair. “You have such little trust in my swordsmanship, then?”

Her thoughts blurred. She could not think when he touched her, when his mouth inched so close to hers. She could barely recall why she was so angry.

“I am going to kiss you, Miss Franklin.”

Her eyes drifted closed. His chest touched her breasts, the contact drawing them into tight, exquisitely sensitive peaks. His scent filled her. He dropped his hand to her waist and drew her even closer. She felt his mouth only a hairsbreadth from hers.

“Lord Ashby,” called a harsh voice from outside, “as soon as you’re finished playing nursemaid to the nursemaid, might we get back to it?”

Mercy recognized Mr. Bassett’s voice, and was surprised Lord Ashby did not react to the man’s insolence. He ignored Bassett and covered her with his body, taking her lips beneath his own.

He speared her mouth with his tongue, teasing her with exquisite intimacy, inflaming her blood with his hard body pressed against hers. His desire was unmistakable and Mercy felt her own, puddling deep inside her.

Some vague whisper at the back of her mind insisted she should not want him, should not crave more of his breath, his touch; more of his soul. But his kisses were merciless, making her respond as ferociously to his seductive onslaught as he demanded.

He suddenly broke away and grabbed her hand. He pulled her alongside him to the first open room—the housekeeper’s bedchamber—kicking the door closed behind him, drawing her into his arms once again.

“I’ve waited forever for this,” he whispered, and in her haze of desire, Mercy believed she must have, too.

Chapter 22

N
ash cupped Mercy’s face and kissed her lips while caressing her shoulders and back. With purpose he pulled her tight against him, letting her feel the heat of his arousal, the depth of his desire.

He kissed her as though that intimate contact was the only thing keeping him alive, and he groaned when she dragged her fingers through his hair in an insistent demand for more. He complied, sucking her tongue into his mouth, then stabbing his own into hers. Her kisses consumed him.

She pressed her breasts into his chest, and Nash could hold off no longer. He ripped at her buttons. And as the rain suddenly began drumming violently at the window, Nash managed to pull open her bodice. He shoved her sleeves down her arms and broke the kiss, pressing his lips to her bare shoulder, then the sweet mounds of her breasts that rose above her chemise.

“I want you.”

His words were punctuated by a crash of thunder. The storm was upon them.

Nash managed to dispense with her dress, then ripped his own shirt off. His naked torso pleased her, and she slid her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, drawing him in, seducing him with her own desire.

Her stays presented little challenge to him, and once Nash had the garment loosened, it fell to her feet. Still kissing her, he lowered her chemise off her shoulders and it slid down, though it caught on the peaks of her breasts.

“Mercy . . .”

Lowering his head, he bared her breasts and caught one pink-tipped nipple in his mouth. Her head fell back as he circled it with his tongue, and her deep sigh rippled through him like molten honey. He laved the other breast, the familiar scent of lilies filling him as his hands slid in eager paths down her body.

He smoothed his battle-roughened hands to the soft mounds of her bottom and pulled her against his erection, her nakedness against his trews. “Mercy . . .”

He felt her hands on his bare chest, tentatively sliding through the hair, testing the taut plane of muscle she found, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when she touched his nipples. “God, yes.” His voice was an unholy rasp, his need a fierce torment.

He caught her gaze, but she pulled his head back to hers, then kissed him with a passion that whirled them into a world of their own.

He unfastened his trews, but before he could divest himself of them, could not resist touching her. He slid his fingers into the triangle between her legs, finding her already so hot, so moist. He heard a whimper, but she offered no resistance as he parted her swollen folds and stroked her.

“You’re so beautiful, Mercy.”

He shoved his trews off and lifted her into his arms. He walked to the bed and laid her on it gently, anxious to be inside her. But it was too soon. He wanted so much more.

A look of panic crossed her delicate features, and Nash knew that what he intended was irrevocable. “No, sweet, don’t cover yourself.”

“But you . . . your fiancée . . .”

He slid one hand down her thigh, and when he reached her knee, eased it away from its mate. “I have no fiancée.”

“My lord . . .”

“Nash.” He moved down her body, skimming his lips over her satiny skin while he probed the hot slick confines of the feminine flesh between her legs. “I am Nash.”

“Ooh . . .” she said on a sigh.

The rain pelted the window, but they were cocooned together in the snug little bedroom. The only light was faint, but Nash could see her beautiful eyes and lovely feminine curves. He could not remember wanting anything more than he wanted Mercy Franklin. Now.

She inhaled sharply when he swirled his tongue around her navel and then moved lower. “Oh! I . . . I . . .”

He descended further, and Mercy arched into his mouth. She was made for this—made to share her body with him. With only him.

Nash heard her moan and felt her hands tangle in his hair when he licked between the folds of her sex. He blew his hot breath on her and she shivered, making a small, intensely erotic cry. He found the sensitive bud at her apex and swirled his tongue gently around it.

He ravished her gently, patiently pleasuring her as her limbs went taut with desire. She was too close and he wanted more from her. He withdrew suddenly. Changing his angle, he reached down and took hold of her ankle, then pressed hot kisses to the sensitive skin behind her knee.

She gave a pleading sob. “Please!”

Nash knew he was tormenting her. And he knew that next time, she would be the one doing the tormenting. For there would be a next time, and the plain-speaking governess was nothing less than a tigress.

She arched against him in a plea for release, and Nash could not resist her demand.

He returned to her damp nest of black curls and hovered over her for a moment before flicking his tongue across the acutely sensitive bud. He felt her gasp of breath immediately as she tightened and cried out. But Nash continued his erotic torture, feathering his tongue over her as he used one finger to enter her vulnerable feminine vault. Her damp flesh pulsed over him, and he wanted nothing more than to possess her fully in the most intimate way a man could have a woman.

He prowled over her, his hands moving up beside her until they reached her head. Resting on his elbows, he cradled her face in his hand and positioned himself between her legs, his shaft poised at her entrance. “I cannot remember a time before wanting you. You are mine, Mercy Franklin.”

He moved slowly, teasing and nudging until he was barely inside her.

“Nash . . .”

He wasn’t sure if it was supplication or worry, but he kissed her mouth again and pushed inside all at once, then held perfectly still for one long moment. She was so tight, so hot. Virgin until this moment.

The sensation of being inside her was almost too exquisite to bear. He feared he might lose control and come before she had time to adjust to his invasion, and he moved again. “Sweet heaven . . .” he rasped.

He felt her swallow.

And when she wrapped her legs around his hips, he knew that everything he could ever want was here.

He moved inside her, setting a rhythm that created a sweet tension between them. He felt her fingers dig into his shoulders, and when he looked into her eyes, he saw an expression of wonder, of astonishment. Of raw greed.

She wanted more.

Nash could do naught but comply.

He slid one hand beneath her bottom and tilted her to enhance the friction between them. They moved together, their bodies as one, their pleasure escalating with every stroke. Her breathing became rapid puffs of air, and she suddenly dug her nails into his skin, shuddering and crying out as she tightened around him.

A fount of some deeply buried emotion sprang up in Nash’s chest, and his own orgasm poured forth, a ripping, primal cataclysm that convulsed him with pleasure while it tore every vestige of restraint from him.

He squeezed his eyes tight and shuddered violently, gathering Mercy close as he collapsed beside her.

The room was silent but for the savage beating of their hearts and the rasp of their rapid breaths.

“You are so incredibly perfect,” he finally said.

Mercy lay against him, her eyes drifting closed as Nash skimmed the fingers of one calloused hand across her back. His touch aroused her even now, when she should be gathering up her clothes and leaving. She ought to regret what had just happened, for there would be repercussions.

Her body was sated, but her mind whirled with questions. He had denied having a fiancée, but Miss Carew’s name had not been idly spoken by William Metcalf. Nash might have denied a betrothal, but he must be seriously considering marrying her—or he would not have mentioned the woman to his old friend.

“I don’t want her, Mercy,” he whispered, his words intruding on the thoughts she had not yet voiced. “It’s been you, from the moment I fell off my horse and you told me to go hang.”

“I never said that.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You wanted to.”

“Perhaps I should have. And then gotten back on the mail coach and returned to Underdale.” A nervous, shivery breath escaped her as her world quietly split apart.

She thought of the letter that lay pressed between the pages of her mother’s journal, and the little ripple of panic became a tidal wave. She could not send it now, not after this. She could no longer even imagine a life as Mr. Vale’s wife.

Nash lifted her chin and looked into her eyes, his expression one of pure desire, and Mercy forgot all about Andrew Vale. He lowered his head and kissed her, his fervor unabated. He pulled her hips against him, his shaft hard and ready, her own body soft and wet and willing.

He ended the kiss but held her so close she could feel the beating of his heart.

“I had to consider marrying Miss Carew because of her dowry. Because Ashby is destitute.”

And the estate would remain destitute if he did not wed her. Tears welled in Mercy’s eyes. She did not want to speak of Miss Carew now, but she understood the reality of the situation.

And it hurt desperately.

She would have been satisfied with Reverend Vale. If her father had given his permission, Mercy would have wed the young vicar and gone to live with him in Whitehaven, offering him but a bland imitation of passion. With Andrew, she would never have known the depth of emotion that Nash Farris could rouse in her with just a glance. She would never have understood what it was to love someone with every beat of her heart and every fiber of her being.

She swallowed back her tears, but the back of her throat burned, nonetheless. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room momentarily. “I ought to get back to the nursery. Ruthie has only just arrived, and Emmy—”

“You’re crying, Mercy.” Nash cupped her face with his big hand.

It was unbearable. “No. I just—”

He kissed her again. “Stay with me.”

She shook her head. “Your men will wonder where you’ve gone. Or what you’ve done with me.”

“No one will wonder. They have their duties. They won’t have any idea where I am.”

“Nash . . .”

He slid his thigh between her knees, and Mercy’s nerves skittered wildly.

“I would make love to you again, but it’s too soon for you, sweet.” He continued to caress her, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and cheeks. Her tears subsided. Her fears, along with the tense reality she faced, finally eased from her body, and she drifted to sleep under his gentle touch, leaving her worries for a later time.

Banbury, Oxfordshire

Gavin Briggs wasted no time in getting out of Oxford. He knew Hank’s body would be found sooner rather than later, and a stranger with bruised ribs and a purpling jaw would be the first man the magistrate would want to question. Gavin had no interest in staying in Oxford for an inquest.

Nor did he want to encounter Bertie again, the blackguard who’d gotten away from him in that treacherous little street. Gavin hoped Bertie had fled for good and hadn’t found Miss Thornberry or somehow discovered the information she’d given him. But he could not be sure.

He hastened out of town as quickly as possible and went to ground in Banbury so that no one would find him.

The ride was painful, but he managed to cover the fifteen miles to his destination, then take a room in a dingy little inn as far out of the way as possible. There was no time to waste recovering from the beating at Hank’s and Bertie’s hands before heading up to Lancaster, to the rectory where Miss Thornberry said she had escorted a three-year-old Lily Hayes twenty years before.

He would have to leave before dawn to keep ahead of Bertie, in case the bastard found the Thornberry woman and got the same information out of her.

Gavin learned that Windermere’s grandchildren had not been kept together. A second nanny had been hired to take one of the sisters to Edinburgh, escorted by an associate of Newcomb. Miss Thornberry did not ever hear his name, but she’d somehow gleaned the name of the Edinburgh family who was to take Christina.

More surprising was the information that the two girls were twins. Miss Thornberry remembered them as being identical and inseparable.

He cursed the duke once again for the heavy-handed cruelty he’d demonstrated, not only for abandoning the two sisters after their parents’ deaths, but in separating the children when their world had been essentially destroyed. Gavin could not imagine a more contemptuous worm of a man than Windermere—but then he thought of his own father. Hargrove was no better.

As Gavin crawled into a relatively clean bed, he had a firm plan in mind. He would go first to Lancaster and see if Lily still lived there with her adoptive family. But he was not hopeful. By age twenty-three, she was likely married, though someone was bound to know her.

Gavin figured an inheritance from her long-lost grandfather would be a welcome thing, in spite of what she might feel for the old man. Once he found her and delivered her to her grandfather, he would begin his search for Christina in Scotland.

But for now, sleep was all Gavin wanted.

Nash lay in the dark listening to Mercy’s breathing, absorbing the sweet sound into his soul. He inhaled her scent and felt the brush of her eyelashes against his chest. He was dangerously close to making an even greater mistake than taking her to bed. He felt far more vulnerable now than he had in the past year, ever since his injury. Since his brothers’ deaths.

He didn’t like it.

His plan had been so perfect. Miss Carew would never have inveigled her way into his heart, which suited him well. With Helene, there would have been no danger of Nash losing everything he cared about. Whatever happened with Carew’s daughter, as long as her money was made available to him and she gave him a son, he would not have cared. He could have gone about his own business, and she hers, only to meet when necessary.

But now there was his fiery Mercy, who noticed none of his flaws but all of his foolishness.

It had grown late, and the storm was subsiding, the rain only a gentle patter now on the ground outside. Mercy’s sleep was restless, but Nash gathered her close and stroked her back to help calm her agitation. He’d known better than to seduce his niece’s governess.