Seducing the Governess (3 page)

And yet she would have thought marriage to a bona fide clergyman was exactly what they’d want. What better way to keep their adopted daughter on the straight and narrow path? But her father had refused Reverend Vale.

Mercy suddenly thought of the man who’d been thrown from his horse and understood how a woman might be persuaded to surrender to such a man’s dark good looks and brooding manner. The horseman was temptation personified.

But Mercy was nothing like the mother who’d abandoned her. She had the wherewithal to resist any man, in spite of what her adoptive parents might have thought of her
or
her true mother.

Following Henry through a maze of stone corridors, Mercy slowed, her worries and trepidations getting the best of her. She did not doubt that the fallen horseman had been part of the barbarous group that had nearly knocked her off the road near the turnstile. And two of those men were in the kitchen now.

“Miss?” Henry asked when he realized she was no longer following him.

Mercy gave him a wavering smile and caught up as she prayed the injured horseman was not the man who had hired her. She had been anything but respectful to him, and he had made at least one undignified remark. The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks as she thought of his words, so inappropriate for a man to make to a maiden, and a stranger at that.

As they walked through the dim, medieval corridor, their footsteps echoed hollowly. “The library is just through there,” said Henry, pointing to a set of pocket doors that had darkened with time.

“Thank you,” Mercy replied as Henry took his leave. She stood outside for a moment and checked to make sure her collar was straight and her hair well contained. She gave a brief knock at the door, and a blond man with a nicely trimmed mustache answered. He was only a few inches taller than Mercy, but solidly built, and possessed of an engaging smile.

“Miss Franklin,” he said as he stepped aside for her to enter. He bowed with an impressive flourish. “I am Philip Lowell. Welcome.”

Mercy felt almost giddy with relief. In spite of the fact that there was no housekeeper to conduct her interview, at least Mr. Lowell was not the blackguard on the road. “How do you do, Mr. Lowell.”

The man was handsome in a conventional way, with a healthy, ruddy complexion. His light hair was thick and fashionably cut, and his smile hinted at charm to spare. Though Mercy sensed that he would find favor with every young lady in the parish, she found nothing intriguing about him, felt no pull of attraction.

It was clear proof that her father had been entirely wrong about her propensities.

The room behind Mr. Lowell was large and dimly lit. The beveled windows were in need of a good washing, but the number of books on the shelves made Mercy’s eyes grow wide. She wondered if Lord Ashby would object to her borrowing some of these volumes for her own personal reading. She did not care that they gave off an odor of dust and disuse, or that the deep red draperies were in need of a good beating. Having met Mr. Lowell, her misgivings eased, and the possibility occurred to her for the first time since her arrival at the turnstile, that Ashby Hall might suit her very well.

The smell of the peat fire permeated the room, and when Mr. Lowell led her farther into the library, Mercy was startled to see a man sitting in an overstuffed chair near the fireplace, with his leg conspicuously elevated on an ottoman.

A great rock, the size of a Castlerigg standing stone, lodged in her throat, and Mercy wished she could go away and hide. Instead, she pressed one hand to her breast, closed her eyes briefly, and forced a composure she did not feel, chastising herself for neglecting to consider this possibility.

And yet she never would have thought an earl would be quite so . . . She gulped when the word
earthy
came to mind. He did not appear at all the way she had expected a nobleman to look, with his plain, gentleman’s clothes and lack of ornamentation.

And yet it was this stark, strapping physicality that made him so very intriguing. It was what made her knees go soft like pudding when her eyes drifted to the sensual mouth that was quirked in the vaguest hint of a smile.

Chapter 5

M
ercy reined in her unseemly reaction to Lord Ashby, aware that he would likely dismiss her on the spot. He could not possibly want to hire an insolent, cheeky—

“Lord Ashby has a few questions for you, Miss Franklin.”

Lord above!
Why could she not have kept a civil tongue in her head? She could very well have assisted the man quickly and gone on her way. But no . . .

The earl tipped his head, which happened to be turned slightly so that his scars were not visible. His profile was even more striking than she remembered it. “At your service,” he said.

Mercy knew that was patently untrue, but she kept her peace for a change.

“You’ve come a long way, Miss Franklin?”

She was grateful he did not refer to her dreadful conduct on the road. “Yes, my lord. From Underdale.”

“Ah. At the seashore.”

Mercy nodded, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak. If only she could have assisted him without having to tuck his leg so indelicately under her arm . . . If only he had not mentioned her . . . derriere.

She felt a prickle of some unfamiliar and untoward sensation creep up her spine.

“Mr. Lowell tells me that this is your first governess post.”

Mercy swallowed the Castlerigg stone, but it lodged heavily in the pit of her stomach. Clearly, he intended to torture her before dismissing her. “That is correct, my lord.”

“Tell me: How have you occupied yourself for the past twenty . . . whatever . . . years? And what qualifies you to be my niece’s teacher?” He allowed his glance to rove over her form for a moment, and the prickle in her spine settled into her lower back.

Mercy could not allow him to rattle her.

“I lived with my parents in Underdale. My father was vicar at St. Martin’s Church.” No need to tell the arrogant man that she wasn’t really Reverend Franklin’s daughter, that the Franklins suspected Mercy had been her true mother’s immoral misfortune. “He died last summer. My mother passed away only recently.”

“My sympathies, Miss Franklin.” He spoke softly, and a rogue shadow crossed his brow. But then he took a deep breath and addressed her again. “You appear sufficiently stiff-backed to fill the role of governess. Stringent discipline, and all that. Tell me, Miss Franklin, I assume this post was not your first choice of avocations. Were there no opportunities for you to marry in Underdale?”

“My lord . . .” said Mr. Lowell in a cautionary tone, but Mercy turned to him and spoke before he could continue.

“ ’Tis quite all right, Mr. Lowell. I do not mind setting Lord Ashby’s mind at ease.” She returned her full attention to the earl. “I received two proposals of marriage in Underdale, but both were rejected by my father.”

Ashby scowled, the expression reminding Mercy of the harsh looks he’d given her while lying injured on the road. “On what grounds? I cannot imagine that there were two scoundrels in all of Cumberland who would vie for the hand of a vicar’s daughter.”

Mercy clasped her hands together, feeling altogether out of her element. Her life had been thoroughly fixed and predictable in Underdale—at least, until the deaths of her parents. The people of the parish knew the Franklins well, and afforded her the respect and deference she was due. But here at Ashby Hall, her life would be subject to the whims of her employer.

And he was a rascal at best.

“The first young man was a local fisherman who my father believed would be unable to provide for me as he saw fit.” She was not ashamed of her past or of James Morland’s proposal. He was an honest, hardworking man with a small fishing boat of his own. And he’d courted her quite properly. Mercy had done naught to earn disdain from anyone, not even a roguish earl.

“And the second?”

Mercy shook her head slightly and hedged. “My father was vague in his rejection of Reverend Vale.”

“Vale? Another reverend? I wonder . . .” He looked at her speculatively, and Mercy resisted the urge to squirm. “But here you are, Miss Franklin, ready to teach my niece.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and suddenly realized what had seemed so “off” about the house. She had not seen any women here; no housekeeper, and not a maid in sight. Henry Blue had addressed Mr. Childers as corporal, and the men on the road had worn old army clothes. They seemed to have turned the place into an army installation. Not quite what she would consider an appropriate environment for a young girl.

“You have not yet met my niece, Miss Franklin. How do you know you’ll be able to manage her? Or that your severe manner won’t terrify her?”

“
Severe
mann—” She stopped and took a deep breath, moistening her lips at the same time. She needed this post, at least temporarily. “I’m sure I’ll fare much better with your niece than a battalion of soldiers can do.”

“Correction.
Former
soldiers,” he said, confirming her suspicions.

“And ruffians, at that.” A muffled sound came from Mr. Lowell’s direction, but Mercy did not turn to look at him.

For some reason, Lord Ashby brought out the worst in her. She wished she possessed better control of her tongue before those brazen words had a chance to slip out.

Perhaps she
wanted
him to dismiss her before she could even begin.

In any event, there’d been absolutely nothing wrong with her manner prior to meeting Lord Ashby. And since her parents had dictated her mode of grooming and dress, she knew they were perfectly proper, in spite of the fact that she was not wearing her mourning gown at the moment. It had been soaked in the rain and was drying by the fire in the kitchen.

She sighed inwardly and decided she must try to redeem herself.

“I would not call my manner severe, my lord. ’Tis merely sensible. Beyond that, I spent much of my time with the parish children and we got on well enough. Famously, in fact. I am sure your niece and I will carry on just fine together.”

She thought she sounded convincing. At least, convincing enough for him to allow her to stay and try with the child.

He rubbed the side of his head, and Mercy wondered if his facial damage was the result of battle. She supposed the injury could be what made him so irritable.

Sympathy for the trouble the earl must have endured was out of place here and now. He had not yet indicated his approval of her as his niece’s governess and could send her away just as easily as keep her.

Mercy slid her lower lip through her teeth and forced her nerves to settle as she took a surreptitious glance around the purely masculine room. A large desk occupied one corner, and the heavy, crimson draperies framed the filmy windows behind them. She had already noted that they were dusty with age and neglect—obviously, none of Lord Ashby’s men had taken note of their disreputable state. She hoped the nursery was kept in a more acceptable condition.

“You’ll do, Miss Franklin.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Mercy’s heart pattered with relief.

She had a home, at least for the time being, and a means to earn a living. She wondered if she ought to speak of her salary now, for Mr. Lowell had not mentioned it in his letter. Never having sought employment before, she was unsure of the proper protocol.

Nor did she know how to broach the subject. She should not be embarrassed to ask about the wages she intended to earn, but being in need stung deeply. “D-does your niece have a nurse, my lord?”

Lord Ashby made a low sound, and Mr. Lowell quickly answered the question. “No, Miss Franklin. Emmaline is an independent child.”

She’d forgotten Mr. Lowell was in the room. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, turning to him.

“Private Blue looks after Lady Emmaline for the most part,” Lowell explained. “And Corporal Roarke spells him when necessary.”

Mercy frowned. “Mr. Lowell, you said in your letter that Lord Ashby’s niece is eight years old.”

“Correct.”

“It does not seem altogether proper that two . . . young men are responsible for such a young child. She should have a nurse to care for her.”

“I sacked the damned harpy on sight,” Ashby snapped. “Which is why Lowell has summoned you, Miss Franklin.” He turned to Mr. Lowell. “Have one of the men bring Emmaline to us here.”

Nash was likely making a gross mistake in allowing Miss Franklin to stay at Ashby Hall. He’d ordered his men to stay clear of the young women in Keswick, and they were starved for female attention. He did not know how they would react to having Miss Franklin in their midst day in and day out.

His own reaction was less than stellar, and for that reason alone, he should have sent her back to Underdale. But then they would be back to having only Blue and Roarke to keep track of Emmaline, dash it all. He knew it was an unsuitable situation.

But his options were limited.

He hoped Miss Franklin’s audaciousness would appeal to Emmaline, perhaps even draw the child out of herself. As much as the new governess attempted to appear the proper, straitlaced vicar’s daughter, Nash thought the young lady might actually be too softhearted to be effective with his niece. In spite of what he’d said about her stiff manner, Mercy Franklin was the very opposite of the peevish nurse he’d dismissed on the day he’d arrived at Ashby Hall.

Which had led to his present predicament. He was in desperate need of a female to deal with Emmaline. Nash feared something was wrong with Hoyt’s daughter, for she was far too quiet for a child her age—not that he knew a great deal about children, but he’d seen plenty of them during his campaigns abroad. Not to mention that he’d once been one.

But that was a long time ago. Before his brothers had died. Before John Trent had put himself in the way of a bloody Frenchman’s saber on the field at Waterloo.

“My niece is quite shy,” he said to Miss Franklin. “She barely speaks.”

“Even to you, my lord?”

“
Especially
to me.” She was as fragile as his mother’s bone china, and Nash hardly knew what to say to her, or how to deal with her. Not that he particularly wanted to. That was why he now had Mercy Franklin.

Now that her bonnet was gone, he saw that the young woman’s hair was as black as her brows, as glossy as a raven’s wing. Nash could not help but wonder how it would look if she allowed its waves to fall loosely about her face. She would be stunning, and a man would have all he could do to keep from sliding his fingers through it and pressing his face to its lustrous bounty.

He curbed his reaction to her and gestured to the chair across from him. Surely she would confine Emmaline and herself to the nursery and classroom for the most part. He couldn’t imagine any reason why she might spend time in the drawing room or kitchens. Or in his presence.

Nor did he want her to. She was young, her skin perfect, the blush upon her cheeks a reminder of all that Nash would never have . . . never allow himself to have.

He could not bear yet another loss.

“Why especially to you, Lord Ashby?” she asked.

“Are you blind, Miss Franklin?” he said angrily.

“No, my lord. My vision is quite good.”

“Then you can see what my niece observes every time she looks at me.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed thickly at his harsh tone. Obviously, she’d seen his scars, even if she had not visibly recoiled from the sight of them. Perhaps a vicar’s daughter was accustomed to dealing with the sick or injured, and was inured to such ghastly sights.

He changed the subject. “Tell me what you know of governessing while we wait for my niece.”

She lowered herself onto a straight-backed chair near the fire and he caught a subtle whiff of flowers. Lilies, if he was not mistaken. “I know that a child of eight should be able to read and write. She should know something of England and the world, and have the ability to pursue her talents.”

“Her talents?”

Miss Franklin nodded. “We all have talents, do we not?”

“She is but a child, Miss Franklin.”

“Even children have certain aptitudes, my lord.”

Nash remembered having had a noteworthy talent for climbing. Trees, cottage roofs, the gabled roof and high turrets of Ashby Hall. He’d loved looking at the world from a perch far above where he could see for miles. He was lucky these days if he could see his own boots.

“What is your particular aptitude, Miss Franklin?”

She hesitated for a moment. “Plants, my lord.”

“Plants?”

“Yes, plants. And insects, of course. I have an interest in botany, therefore, I’ve made a point to learn all I can on the subject.”

“And insects?”

“They often have an intimate relationship with plants. And honey bees are quite essential.”

Nash felt heat rise on the back of his neck as he watched Miss Franklin’s lips form the words. Intimate relationship, indeed.

The door opened and Emmaline came into the library, followed by Mr. Lowell.

Nash had seen the child at least once daily since his return to Ashby Hall the previous month, out of guilt more than anything. He did not care to form a bond with the girl—or with anyone. The losses of the past few years had taught him the folly of trusting his heart to the whims of fate.

Fortunately, Emmaline was not particularly charmed by her unsightly uncle who knew more about swordplay and artillery fire than dolls and tea parties. Still, he had a responsibility to his orphaned niece. In the absence of a nurse, Miss Franklin would do.

Emmaline came into the room, looking slightly disheveled and more than a little uncertain, and Nash realized how dreadful the situation had gotten. It wasn’t that Roarke and Blue were bad fellows, but they were not nursemaids.

Emmaline’s light blond hair was loose and uncombed, but at least her face was clean today. Nash did not go to her, for she would just cringe away from his touch. And besides, she appeared so fragile, he was a bit afraid to lay his big hands upon her, for fear she might break.

“Emmaline, this is Miss Franklin, who is to be your governess.” He was certain Emmaline had not cared much for Butterfield, the nurse he’d dismissed. Lowell and the ancient butler, Grainger, had told him the woman had been engaged by Arthur’s wife. And Georgia had been far more interested in becoming a grande dame of society than a child’s guardian.