Seducing the Governess (7 page)

“Aye, and the surgeon told me to show you no mercy, my lord.”

Mercy. There was that word again, reminding Nash of the woman whose green eyes flashed with such ire when talking to him. Her disapproval could not have been clearer.

And she had plenty to disapprove of. Nash was an abysmal guardian to his niece. Seeing her through Miss Franklin’s eyes, he realized that his brother’s child was unkempt and far too thin. He knew he ought to have replaced her nurse immediately with someone more acceptable than the disagreeable battle-ax he’d dismissed, but it was too late for regrets. He could only hope Mercy Franklin would suffice for now. After all, how many caretakers did one small child require?

More to the point, how many more could he afford?

“Your shoulder is awfully tight, sir,” Parker said. He was several years older than Nash, and a sprinkling of silver had rained through the temples of his brown hair over the past year. Parker had been Nash’s batman for years, and the transition to valet suited him well. In addition, he’d become expert in performing the healing massages prescribed by the army surgeons who’d seen to Nash after the explosion. The burn scars had tightened the skin at the top of Nash’s shoulder, but its present good condition was a testament to Oscar Parker’s nagging and harassment as much as the heavy exercise Nash performed every day.

“It’s tension, Parker. Who knew that becoming earl would be such a trial.” Or that the images of John Trent’s horrible death would stay burned into his brain after nearly a year.

“You’ve a headache again, I see.”

“Too much reading.” And too much remembering. He never knew what would set off the memories that haunted him. A loud pop of the fire, the shattering of glass, a sharp shout . . .

But sometimes less than that. Occasionally, Nash would see some old thing in the Hall that reminded him of the early years when his parents were alive, laughing together and finding humor in their sons’ antics. And when Nash read his father’s script in an old ledger or came across a bit of his mother’s intricate needlework, a deep sense of loss would overtake him.

“Get some spectacles, sir. They’ll lessen the strain on your eyes.”

That might be true, but there didn’t seem to be any cure for the troubling memories. No doubt he needed a diversion.

Nash sighed as Parker rubbed a layer of liniment into his shoulder. He closed his eyes and imagined Parker’s hands were those of Miss Franklin’s, and the scent filling his nostrils was the subtle fragrance of lilies that she wore. How much gentler would she be? How much better would a woman’s touch feel?

It had been a very long time since any woman had taken
that
kind of notice of him, looking beyond the scars that marred the side of his face and clouded his eye. And yet Mercy Franklin had barely seemed to perceive them. She’d looked directly into his eyes when speaking to him, never flinching at the sight of his damaged visage.

“Did you meet the governess, Parker?”

“No, sir,” said Parker. “But the lads told me she’s a comely thing, if a bit stiff.”

Aye, she was comely. The stiffness was likely due to her parentage, being a vicar’s daughter. No doubt the man had not stood for any foolishness.

As Arthur had not. Nash had not considered it before, but life must have been quite bleak for Emmaline after Hoyt’s death. Arthur had never had much patience, and, knowing Georgia, he doubted she had shown any interest in the girl—not when she’d been the one who’d engaged Nurse Butterfield.

But Nash could not be too critical. While their rearing of Emmaline might have been severe, Nash’s bordered on neglectful. He supposed he should have been more aware and attentive.

“You’ve never had a problem loosening them up, my lord, have you, now?”

“Loosening what?”

“The ladies, sir. The ladies.”

Ah. He had lost the train of conversation. “ ’Tis unseemly to seduce the help, Parker.”

“I suppose you’re right, sir.”

He knew he was right, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about Mercy Franklin coming to him in his bedchamber. He fancied her wearing naught but a pretty chemise, something completely at odds with her straight-backed demeanor.

Nash flinched when Parker dug the heels of his hands into the hollow beneath his shoulder blades and groaned with discomfort when the man started rubbing. “Of course I’m right. Besides, I need money, and the only way I can get a sufficient amount to improve this place is by marrying it. I can’t waste my time on a priggish little governess who doesn’t have what I need.”

What he meant was that Miss Franklin couldn’t possibly have the wealth he needed. Nash wasn’t so sure about the rest. Beneath her apparent severity, he’d seen a soft regard for her young charge, even though she barely knew Emmaline. She’d been smiling and chattering like a little bird when he happened upon her in the governess quarters, and Nash had been captivated by the small dimples at each side of her mouth. Fortunately, not so captivated that he missed catching her when she fell from the chair.

“Have you any prospects, then?” Parker asked.

“Not yet. But I received a few invitations when we were in Keswick today. And I’ll be entertaining here after I get things in order.”

Parker made a rude noise.

“What?”

“
Here
, my lord? That will take more than a wish and a prayer, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“I’m not completely without resources, Parker.”

“Of course not, my lord. The house is . . . The house can be . . . Er, have you thought of the London season? Bound to be a horde of marriageable heiresses there.”

Nash shuddered and sat up. “I’m hoping like hell to avoid it.”

“Don’t blame you in the least, my lord, but you might consider it. Going down there would be a whole sight easier than making this pile of stone presentable.”

Nash shook his head and stood. He had no intention of parading himself before a gaggle of simpering debutantes and their marriage-minded mamas. Not unless he had no other options.

“That’s enough for now, Parker. You’re dismissed.” Nash had assigned him a room near the other men, for he did not care to encourage his valet’s tendency to hover.

“Yes, sir,” Parker said, and took his leave. Nash collected the shirt he’d discarded and went into his dressing room. He looked forward to sinking into the steaming tub of water that awaited him there. All that could possibly make the evening better would be having Mercy Franklin there to attend him.

Mercy hadn’t known that the markedly carnal sensations that roiled through her veins at Lord Ashby’s touch would bedevil her all night. She could not attribute her sleeplessness to the unease and questions she’d known ever since her mother’s revelations about her adoption, or to the words Emmy had read aloud from her mother’s journal. She could not credit her new bed and surroundings, either, for they were entirely adequate. She’d been so far beyond merely tired after her day’s journey and the work she’d done to make her room ready, she should have been able to sleep.

But once in bed, Mercy had not been able to forget the melting awareness that coursed through her veins when Lord Ashby had caught her, or the shivery heat that skipped across her shoulders beneath his arm when she supported him all the way from her quarters to his bedchamber.

She knew her reaction was entirely inappropriate. Mercy had so very often heard her father preach—both in church and at home—about the dangers of licentiousness. He’d admonished her particularly, refraining from mentioning the ruin of her true mother, of course, but making it clear he believed that Mercy was more susceptible to sin than anyone else.

She’d resented his unfounded insinuations. She was as virtuous as any other young woman in Underdale, even if her father could not believe it.

And yet Mercy found herself yearning to feel those heated sensations again. It was as if she were fulfilling her father’s worst opinion of her. She turned over and pulled the blanket over her shoulders, wishing she had mustered the nerve to write to Andrew Vale before coming to Ashby Hall. If she’d sent him a letter right after Susanna’s death, she might now be on her way to Whitehaven, where her former suitor had his own small church. She would be en route to the life for which she’d been prepared, and not trying to sleep within the walls of a moldering old ruin of a house. She wouldn’t be wasting these precious hours in the dark, ruminating on a rude and rough nobleman who managed to set her blood on fire in spite of herself.

Staring into the darkness, Mercy decided she would not allow herself to dwell on the possibility that Mr. Vale had married someone else since the previous summer when she’d last seen him. He had been newly assigned to his church, and so he might still be getting himself established. There would be plenty of young ladies vying for his attentions, though, for he was a very attractive young man.

Reverend Franklin’s refusal of Mr. Vale’s proposal had been maddening and frustrating, but there had been nothing Mercy could do about it. And Reverend Vale had had no choice but to honor her father’s decision, or defy it and prove himself unworthy of her. There’d been no possible way for Mercy to win the equation.

She decided there was no better time to write the letter than now, but she had no pen or paper. Hoping to find what she needed in the schoolroom adjacent to the nursery, she rose from her bed and lit a lamp, then wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She went into the nursery and found Emmaline asleep but fitful, her blankets kicked askew. The fire had burned low, so Mercy added some peat, then pulled Emmaline’s blankets over the little girl’s shoulders. She gently smoothed her hair away from her face.

The child’s eyes opened. “Mama?”

“No, dear. It’s Miss Franklin. Are you warm enough?”

Mercy’s bare feet were freezing. She guessed Emmaline must be cold, too. She pulled up an extra blanket before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“I dreamed . . . Papa carried me to Mama’s room,” she whispered, her chin quivering with distress. She reached up and clutched Mercy’s shawl tightly in her small hand. “We were laughing, and then everything was . . . was . . . red. And I could not breathe. I jumped down, away from Papa, and ran and ran . . .”

Mercy drew the trembling child into her arms, holding her and rocking her gently until her body stilled and she went back to sleep. The poor child must have bits of memory from the time she’d lost her mother, and Mercy wondered if any of her own dreams reflected her early years before the Franklins.

She would never know.

She eased Emmaline down to the mattress and covered her, but did not leave her right away, in case she awoke or needed comfort again.

No doubt Claire Rogers would say it was not a governess’s place to soothe her charge this way, but holding this child felt exactly right to Mercy. She realized with chagrin that caring for Emmaline might be the closest she would come to motherhood, for her chances with Reverend Vale were tenuous at best.

Mercy sighed. Any other father would have welcomed a son-in-law such as Andrew Vale. He had a good living, was kind and respectful, and was exceedingly handsome, with his suede brown eyes and lovely blond hair. Mercy felt herself blush when she recalled her longing for him to kiss her.

Perhaps she
had
inherited an unhealthy wantonness from her mother, though surely her response to Lord Ashby’s touch had been an aberration, a reaction to a strange situation that had caught her—had caught both of them—off guard. Now she knew what a mistake it had been to offer her assistance after he saved her from falling.

Somehow, in spite of his injured ankle, he’d managed to get up the stairs and all the way into the nursery corridor. For that matter, he’d hurried to her side to prevent her fall. Mercy thought it likely that he could have gotten himself to his bedchamber.

But even now, strange sensations shuddered through her at the image of the utterly masculine earl standing beside his massive bed, looking at her as though beckoning her.

So absurd.

He was a thoroughly contrary man, his demeanor not attractive in the least. Whatever strange sensations Mercy might feel, she could easily quench them. She had much to do in the next few days, beginning her lessons with Emmy and writing to Mr. Vale, which she vowed to do upon the morrow. It would be an extremely delicate letter to which she would need to give her full attention.

She needed to know if he was yet unmarried, and if so, whether he was still interested in courting her.

When it seemed fairly certain that Emmaline would sleep through the rest of the night, Mercy tucked her shawl around her shoulders and left the nursery. She closed the door quietly and turned to the corridor, only to collide with a large, solid body.

Chapter 9

“L
ord Ashby!”

Nash caught Miss Franklin’s elbow and held her there, suspecting that she wanted naught but to make a quick exit to the privacy of her bedchamber. She stood so tentatively in her chemise and shawl, her feet bare, her hair in disarray, and ready to bolt.

Every nerve in his body tightened in reaction to her.

She smelled like sweet rain, fresh and alluring—so incredibly different from his hideous nightmare of fire. He didn’t know if that was what had awakened him, or if there’d been some stealthy noise outside his room.

The candlelight cast her cheekbones in high relief. Her lashes were thick and black, beautifully framing her sleepy eyes, and Nash could easily conjure the way they would lie against her cheek in slumber. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her soft body lying against his in the darkness of night, soothing away the harsh memories that plagued him.

He took a deep breath and released her arm, resisting the urge to touch the silken, black filaments that curled over her shoulder. But the force of his desire to touch her was nearly overwhelming. “You are up rather late, Miss Franklin. Is anything amiss?” Though she clutched her shawl tightly to her chest, the visible portion of her simple white chemise seemed to glow in the candlelight.

It was as soft and feminine as he could have hoped.

She took a step back. “No, I— Emmaline was having a nightmare and so I—”

“She must have had a very loud nightmare if you heard her from your bedchamber.” He wondered if Miss Franklin’s little foray across the corridor had been the cause of the sounds that woke him.

“She— My lord, might we discuss this upon the morrow?”

The governess took another step back, and Nash allowed himself a moment to peruse her lushly feminine form.

He gathered his wits and reined in his lust. “Did you hear anything when you left your room, Miss Franklin?”

“Hear anything?” she asked curtly. “No. All was quiet.”

She glanced around as she spoke, and Nash could not help but relive those moments in his bedchamber when he’d felt a compelling desire to lift her into his arms again and take her to his bed. But she was a proper young lady, and quite rightly uneasy in his presence.

“You heard no doors closing?” he asked, tamping down his frustration. “No footsteps on the stair?”

“Nothing. I-I don’t even know why I could not—”

“Could not what, Miss Franklin?”

“The house is strange to me. I am unfamiliar with its normal creaks and noises.”

“Then you admit there might have been something?”

A faint line appeared between her brows. “Yes— No. I do not know, my lord.”

Nor did Nash, but he could not seem to help badgering Mercy Franklin. “All is well, then? There is nothing you need to report about my niece?”

She appeared baffled at his abrupt change of subject. “No, my lord. N-nothing is wrong,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the floor is cold and it is entirely unseemly for me to be—”

“Not at all, Miss Franklin. I’ll bid you good night. Unless you’d care to assist me to my bedchamber again . . .”

“Since you arrived here on your own two feet,” she said acerbically, “I trust you can go back the same way.”

Mercy stood with her back against the inside of her tightly closed bedroom door and forced her breathing to return to normal. She felt heated and chilled all at once, the sensations of her restless dreams coming back in force. She could not believe she’d actually hoped Lord Ashby would touch her again, perhaps draw her close and say something quite . . . quite . . .

Oh, how ridiculous
. She’d never been a fanciful girl, but Lord Ashby brought out the worst possible inclinations in her. Not only was her body far too sensitive to his presence, he somehow made it impossible for her to govern her wayward tongue. It did not matter that he’d put her in an untenable position, keeping her in the shadowy corridor in her nightclothes while he asked his questions. She was in his employ and needed to be mindful of her place.

Mercy had never been inclined to display such insolence as she did with this exasperating man, and yet she knew his irritating manner was no excuse for her behavior. No doubt her friend Claire Rogers would chide her for her impertinence. Yet the earl seemed to derive some satisfaction from mocking her. How ought she to respond to that?

By avoiding him altogether.

With some careful planning, Mercy might be able to evade him for the duration of her employment at Ashby Hall, which she hoped would not be long. And if she encountered him again, she would take care to follow the strictest protocol.

In other words, she would hold her tongue.

Once Mercy wrote to Mr. Vale, she did not think it would take much time for him to send his response. Perhaps only a fortnight. Mercy doubted Lord Ashby possessed any such sense of etiquette. Clearly, he had no awareness of proper social decorum, as demonstrated by their inappropriate interchange just now.

In any event, Mercy had not heard any sounds out of place in the house, and wondered if Lord Ashby had concocted his tale of rogue noises for the purpose of detaining her outside her bedchamber, wearing naught but her chemise.

That possibility was really quite infuriating, and Mercy’s blood boiled at his inconsideration. She had no doubt he’d enjoyed her discomfiture.

She climbed into her bed and gave the bolster a violent shake before yanking the blankets up to her shoulders. If the earl had intended to be maddening, he could not have been more successful.

She just wished he did not make her body quiver with an awareness that created an unwelcome heat in the core of her being.

When morning came, Mercy washed and dressed, then listened for sounds of footsteps going past her door before broaching the corridor to walk across to the nursery. She did not care to encounter . . . anyone . . . on her way to Emmaline’s room.

The arrangement of rooms at Ashby Hall was quite different from the house Claire Rogers had described in her letters, and completely unacceptable in Mercy’s opinion. But it was not a governess’s place to demand a change. She could not tell the earl to move the master’s bedroom away from the nursery any more than she could order him to stay away from her.

Nor could she quell the nervous anticipation of another midnight meeting outside her bedchamber.

In direct opposition to such a daft notion, she’d dressed in a modest frock, a gown of celery green with a high neck and sleeves that fell just below her wrists. She brushed and pinned her hair carefully, leaving no loose ends to give anyone the wrong impression.

When Mercy entered the nursery, Emmaline was still in her nightclothes, kneeling beside her bookcase, looking at the picture book they’d read the night before.

Mercy wondered if she ought to discourage Emmaline’s fascination with her mother’s book. Perhaps her attachment only encouraged the kind of dreams that had upset the child’s sleep the night before.

And yet the book was one of the few items Emmaline had of her mother. It did not seem right to take it away when the girl had already lost so much.

If Mercy owned something of her true mother’s . . .

She wished she knew more about the woman who’d borne her, and knew it was time to delve into Susanna’s journal, even though the passages Emmaline had read were disturbing. Mercy could not help but suspect the rest would be just as difficult to take.

But she might learn something of her origins, something more than the trifle Susanna had told her before she’d died. And Mercy longed to know. Later, when their morning lessons were done, she would try to eke out a few minutes to read a bit more. Perhaps after she wrote her letter to Mr. Vale.

“Good morning, Emmy,” Mercy said quietly so as not to startle the girl out of her intense concentration.

Emmaline glanced up at her, then closed the book and put it away, ever so carefully.

“ ’Tis my guess that Mr. Blue will not be coming up with our breakfast as he did with supper last night.” At Mercy’s request.

“No.”

“Well then, we must go down to the kitchen and see what we can find.” And make arrangements for all their meals to be brought up to the nursery.

Claire had mentioned that the nursemaid in her household always gave instructions to the kitchen staff for the nursery’s food requirements. Then a footman would bring the meals to them. Clearly, that would not be the case at Ashby Hall, since she’d had to go down to the kitchen the night before and request supper. She should have made it clear then that she expected all future meals to be brought to the nursery.

“Let’s get you dressed, then.”

She found some reasonably clean clothing for Emmaline and functioned as nursemaid once again, helping her with buttons and laces. When the little girl was ready, they walked downstairs together, and Emmaline went directly into the kitchen, where there were six men seated around the large worktable. The child immediately took her place between two unshaven men in shirtsleeves, and when a bowl of some sort of gruel was placed before her, she began to eat. Emmaline was clearly accustomed to this practice.

But Mercy had no intention of allowing it to continue. She had never before met the daughter of an earl, but she had been a guest in the homes of a few of the local gentlemen near Underdale. Their daughters were treated in a vastly different manner than this. Mercy could not imagine Squire Claybrook’s daughters being squeezed into a place at the table between men such as these.

They were savages who had no sense of decorum and not the slightest practice of good table manners. She cringed when Henry Blue speared a piece of bread with the point of his knife and bit off a large piece of it without even removing it from the knife.

Their crude example was the last thing to which Emmaline should be exposed.

Mercy debated whether to remove her charge from the table immediately and instruct someone to take her breakfast into the dining room or up to the nursery, or allow this meal to continue and make the change for future meals.

“Sit yourself down, missy,” said the oldest of the group. He was the fierce bald man who’d gazed at her with such disdain when she’d encountered him before. The man had a broken tooth beneath his dense brown mustache, and he raised his thick, winglike eyebrows as he chewed openmouthed and pointed in Mercy’s direction with a spoon.

“I beg your pardon.” Mercy would give no quarter, or she’d be lost.

He gestured to a place at the end of the table just as Lord Ashby came into the kitchen from one of the outer doors. He brought in the cold air from outside, smelling of fresh air, leather, and horses.

The men all came to their feet, pulled off their caps if they wore one, and put their fingers to their forelocks. “Morning, Captain.”

“Be seated, men. You know you needn’t salute me any longer.” His dark hair gleamed in evenly clipped layers and his face was freshly shaven, his square jaw reminding Mercy of polished granite. He removed his dark green coat, which left him in rolled-up shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He wore no collar.

Neither the heated impressions of Mercy’s dreams nor the chance nocturnal encounter with Lord Ashby had prepared her for the sight of his bare forearms or the deep notch at the base of his throat, grazed by a few dark hairs rising from his chest. She struggled to gather her thoughts as he handed his coat to one of the men, who carried it out of the room.

So much for maintaining her distance, she thought, chagrined.

“Miss Franklin, you do not break your fast with us this morning?” he asked.

“My lord, this is quite irregular.”

“Where’s my tea, Bassett?” he asked the bald man.

“On the stove, sir. Steeping nicely.”

The earl slightly favored his injured ankle as he walked to the stove and poured himself a cup, and Mercy could not help but glare at his strong back and the bold line of his legs. He wrapped his large, blunt-fingered hand around his cup as though its handle did not exist, then turned to focus his gaze upon Mercy.

“Where is Miss Franklin’s tea?” he demanded.

“My lord, Lady Emmaline should not be put into the position of . . . of . . . fraternizing with your men.”

“Do you want her to eat all alone, upstairs?” he asked with a frown creasing his brow.

She did not understand how such a damaged face could be so compelling. His unharmed eye was pale gray with flecks of blue, and seemed to miss naught. His injured eye was slightly cloudy, but Mercy did not think it was blind, for it moved in tandem with its mate and seemed to spear her with awareness.

He looked at her with a purely masculine potency that set her nerves on edge.

“Of course not, my lord. But there is proper decorum and unacceptable—”

“Do you wish to quarrel again, Miss Franklin?”

Seeing the governess bristle, her back going as stiff as the crisp blade of a lethal saber, was one of the rare pleasures Nash could enjoy these days. The other was the hot bath he often sank into after Parker’s massages. Sometimes they relaxed him enough so that he could sleep without dreaming.

Last night had not been one of those occasions. Something had awakened him. Perhaps it had been the dream of the exploding farmhouse, or maybe he’d heard the same cries from the nursery that had awakened Miss Franklin.

Nash took in her presence like a long drink of cool water after a hard ride. Her eyes were only slightly darker than the pale green of her dress, and if she thought those nondescript sleeves and her high collar could disguise her conspicuously feminine attributes, she was vastly mistaken. Even the severe style of her hair served to accentuate her delicate features rather than mask them.

“I do not quarrel, my lord,” she said, her tone as prickly as ever.

He could not help but enjoy the look of pure indignation on her face. She was a surprisingly bright spot in a long tunnel of dark days, and he could not resist provoking her. Not when it was so very easy and she reacted by biting her full lower lip and releasing it ever so slowly through her teeth as she pondered her next words.