Gift-Wrapped Governess (19 page)

‘As to that…' Gabriel hesitated. He had, he realised, simply assumed that Regan would agree to his proposal without ques
tion, just as she always had. But the Regan seated opposite him was clearly no longer the biddable waif he recalled—was, in fact, a very assured, surprisingly attractive woman whom, he suspected, had developed a mind very much her own. He got to his feet and took out his snuffbox, turning it over and over in his hand. ‘The thing is, I need to get married,' he said abruptly.

Of all the reasons Regan had imagined, this one had never crossed her horizon. She was vastly relieved she had not the teacup in her hand or it would currently be smashed to a thousand pieces. There was a pounding in her ears, like the sea. ‘You need to—you want to….?' Her voice seemed to be coming from far away.

‘I am nine-and-twenty, it is well past time I set up my nursery,' Gabriel said, still apparently fascinated by his snuffbox. ‘These last five years since I inherited have been—well, there have been other pressing issues, but they are dealt with now. Producing an heir is my last obligation to the title. The time has come—I cannot forestall any longer.'

‘Forestall? You make it sound like—you are talking as if you don't want to marry at all.'

Putting his snuffbox away unopened, Gabriel finally looked over at her. ‘Frankly I don't, but nor do I have any option. If I must marry, I may as well make a decent fist of it, which is why I've drawn up a list of qualities.'

‘A list of qualities?' Mindless repetition seemed all she was capable of as Regan struggled to make sense of this bizarre turn in the conversation.

‘Qualities I consider essential in a wife,' Gabriel replied, as if it were perfectly obvious.

‘Good God.' Regan swallowed a hysterical desire to laugh. Was he serious? He looked serious. He
could
not be serious. ‘What—may I ask what these qualities are?' she said faintly.

‘Well, all the usual ones, obviously. Impeccable lineage—and it must come without any encumbrances, too. I don't
want to have to support a troop of sisters, nor have to tow any dissolute brothers out of the River Tick. A spotless reputation goes without saying. As to accomplishments,' Gabriel continued, counting off each quality on his fingers, ‘I confess, I don't much care whether she can paint a watercolour or play upon the pianoforte as long as she possesses some artistic talent befitting a duchess. She must also be presentable and biddable. I want a wife who will share my opinions, not contradict them. Which is the very reason I invited you here to the Hall.'

Regan felt as if the ground was tilting beneath her. Was he really implying what he seemed to be implying? She gripped the gilt arm of the sofa in an effort to anchor herself. ‘I'm afraid I still don't quite understand.'

‘The qualities I've mentioned are vital,' Gabriel said, ‘but there is another which I consider to be of paramount importance in any wife of mine. One which is extremely difficult to evaluate.' He smiled encouragingly at her. ‘You and the children are the perfect answer to my dilemma.'

Now she felt as if she were looking down a precipice from a great height. Dizzy. Completely disoriented. She took a deep breath. ‘Gabriel, would you please tell me, in simple language, what it is you're asking of me?'

‘Come, Regan, it's obvious. You of all people should recall what a lonely, miserable upbringing I had as the product of an advantageous match first arranged when my father was in short coats and my mother in swaddling. My father's interest in me began and ended with my arrival as the direct heir to the line. As to my mother's feelings for me—I doubt they ever existed.' Gabriel took his snuffbox back out of his pocket, looked at it blankly, and put it back. ‘I have no desire to subject any child of mine to such a fate,' he said tersely, ‘which is why I need you to help me choose. You and Portia and Jack and—er—Land.'

‘Choose?' Realisation was finally beginning to dawn on
Regan.
Thank the Lord she had not betrayed her utterly foolish assumption!

‘Between Lady Olivia Fortescue, Lady Sarah NiLaighin, and Lady Lucinda Fairbright. They will be joining us tomorrow for Christmas. They are each of them eminently suitable in every other way, and having the children here will give me the opportunity to assess first-hand their maternal qualities.'

‘You mean that you have actually drawn up a short list of potential brides, a list of runners and riders, so to speak?'

‘Well, I wouldn't put it like that precisely.'

‘Then how would you put it?' Having been buffeted from one extreme of emotion to another in the space of the conversation, Regan was having difficulty in deciding which to give rein to—anger, mortification, hurt, disappointment, disbelief?

Gabriel sighed. ‘It's quite simple. I need an heir, therefore I must marry. With such vivid first-hand experience of the abject misery an arranged marriage can inflict on all involved, especially the children, I will take every precaution to avoid a similar outcome. I wish my children to be raised by a woman who is not, like my own mother, completely lacking in any maternal instincts. What I want is a compatible woman with an aptitude for motherhood and a fondness for children; in order to establish that, I need a ready-made family. Your family.'

He looked expectantly at her, obviously feeling that he had now explained unequivocally how two and two made four, though to Regan what he was saying might as well have made one, or five hundred. She felt as if he had rounded up every single one of her hopes and expectations for this visit and cold-bloodedly destroyed them. ‘So your invitation,' she said, swallowing hard, ‘it was nothing to do with wanting to give us a lovely Christmas?'

‘Well, of course I want the children to have a lovely time and they will,' Gabriel said. He had been leaning against the
mantel; now he joined her on the sofa. ‘All I ask in return is that they do so in the company of my other guests. I thought it best I claim them for distant relatives and you their governess—'

‘Governess!' It was the absolute last and final straw. ‘You want me to pretend to be a governess to my own siblings?'

‘If I claim you as a relative, it would engender far too many questions. As a governess you will provoke no curiosity. Besides, if the ladies know you are related, they will behave quite differently towards the children—what have I said to upset you?'

‘I'm not upset,' Regan said through gritted teeth.

‘You are, I can tell. I always could tell. You have a little pulse that gives you away.'

‘I do not. Where?'

Gabriel touched the fluttering just behind her ear lobe. ‘It's right here. Can't you feel it?'

The shock of his fingers on her bare skin made them both freeze. Regan felt the giveaway pulse beating faster. Gabriel smelled of clean linen and lemon soap. Though he had shaved this morning, she could see a hint of bluish stubble on his jaw against the snowy white of his starched neckcloth. Blue-grey eyes met hazel. His knee was pressing against her leg. For a moment, she thought, as he leaned towards her—she thought—she didn't know what she thought! Then he moved away, dropped his hand, and she blinked, wondering if she had imagined it. Whatever it was.

‘So you got us here under false pretences and expect us to lie for you.' Her voice sounded shaky. She clasped her hands together in her lap, struggling to maintain her usual equanimity.

‘Not lie, pretend,' Gabriel said impatiently, confused by her hostile reaction to his proposal. ‘The children will most likely have the time of their lives, acting as little lords and ladies.'

He was probably right, but Regan was not about to admit that. ‘You've put me in an intolerable position.'

‘When it comes to being placed in an intolerable position I brook no competition,' Gabriel said with a misguided attempt at humour. They stared at each other across this impasse. ‘So you refuse to help me?'

Regan shook her head. ‘Would that it were so simple. As I said, you've put me in an intolerable position. I must either agree to take part in your charade, which on principle I find objectionable, or deny the children the perfect Christmas I have promised them, which would be a monstrous thing to do.'

‘I wish to make a marriage based on shared aspiration and mutual respect in order to secure the best upbringing for my children. I fail to see how that can offend your principles,' Gabriel snapped, for he was quite unused to having his judgement questioned and had not at all expected to have his motives interrogated, most especially not by Regan Stuart. ‘You must not think I am entering into this
charade
lightly.'

‘Which makes you sincere, but misguided. I cannot believe the Gabriel I once knew would allow doing his duty to hold such sway over him.'

‘I'm not the Gabriel you once knew.'

‘On that, if nothing else, we can agree.' Regan bit her lip. ‘And I am not the Regan you clearly thought you knew. I ought not even to be considering taking part in such a subterfuge, to say nothing of embroiling the children. I ought to be turning on my heel and returning home this instant.'

‘Ought? Which means you
are
considering it?'

‘You give me no option.' Regan got to her feet and shook out the skirts of her travelling dress. ‘I warn you, in return I shall expect you to ensure that the children have the most memorable Christmas possible.'

‘If I have to import snow from the Arctic, I will do so. Then we have a bargain?'

‘Yes, Gabriel,' Regan said, taking his outstretched hand, ‘I suppose we have a bargain.'

His fingers tightened around hers as their eyes met and a little
frisson
shivered up her arm at the contact. She saw the surprise of it reflected in the lift of his eyebrows. He raised her hand to his lips, still holding her gaze. His mouth was warm on her skin. His lips lingered longer than they should, a second, two, five. She found herself taking a step closer to him. His kiss trailed along the length of her middle finger. A surge of heat flooded her, then the sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor make her jerk her hand away. The door opened to reveal a huddle of downcast children trailing in the regal wake of the formidable Duchess herself.

S
weeping into the room, it was obvious that her Grace was not best pleased. But then, Regan thought to herself wryly, she never was. Tall, whip thin and aquiline, the Duchess was all glacially sharp edges with a tongue to match. Dressed, as was her unwavering habit, from head to toe in black velvet, she eyed Regan through the quizzing glass that she kept, by means of a black satin ribbon, around her neck. The glass, which had a single lens and had belonged to her late departed husband, magnified the Duchess's eye to saucer-like proportions.

‘I gathered, from the mêlée, that you had arrived,' she said to Regan by way of greeting. ‘I assume my son has informed you of your role. I do not concur with his methods, but it is the outcome that matters. If bringing a coterie of children to the Hall will aid that purpose, then I must resign myself to the upset,' she said, looking very far from resigned. ‘You will, however, oblige me by restraining them more effectively than you have thus far, Miss Stuart. I do not know what possessed you to leave them unattended in the long gallery. It dates back to the sixteenth century, you know, but they seem to be under the impression that it is some sort of playground.'

Casting a despairing glance at Gabriel, Regan dropped a deep curtsy. ‘My apologies, your Grace. They had been cooped up in the stagecoach for so long, I'm afraid, that…'

The quizzing glass dropped. ‘You travelled here on the public stagecoach?'

The Duchess looked utterly appalled. As if, Regan thought, she had transported the children to the Hall by means of a chamberpot on wheels. ‘Indeed we did, your Grace,' she replied with acid politeness, ‘for we travel so rarely that it makes little sense for us to keep a carriage and six.'

‘Four horses are more than sufficient,' her Grace said, eyeing Regan suspiciously. ‘Unless one is royalty, six are undoubtedly vulgar.'

Choking back a hysterical little laugh, for the Duchess was every bit as terrifyingly ridiculous as she remembered, Regan looked to Gabriel for assistance.

He was frowning. She thought at first that her irreverence had offended him, until he spoke. ‘That was remiss of me,' he said, addressing himself directly to her. ‘I should have sent my own coach to collect you.'

‘All the way to Yorkshire!' his mother exclaimed. ‘Nonsense. Miss Stuart would not have liked to be obliged to us for such an additional and unnecessary outlay.'

‘You forget yourself, your Grace. It is we who are obliged to Miss Stuart for her kind assistance in this matter,' Gabriel said curtly, doubly embarrassed by this evidence of his own thoughtlessness and his mother's blatant condescension. ‘Please accept my apologies, Regan, you should not have been put to the inconvenience of making your own travel arrangements. Rest assured that I will facilitate your return journey.'

The Duchess once more employed her quizzing glass, surveying Regan from head to toe. ‘You were a slip of a child when last we met, and forever leading my son into some scrape or other, as I recall. You have the look of your father
about you now you've grown. He was a good man, so my husband informed me. It is a shame you take your colouring from your mother, though, that red hair is not at all the thing,' she said, looking at Regan's simply dressed auburn tresses as if they had committed some sort of social solecism.

‘Regan's hair is not red, it is Titian,' Gabriel said, surprising himself as much as his audience. ‘Though it may not be in vogue just now, I have to say that I much prefer it to any brunette or blonde,' he added, surprising himself again with the realisation that what he said happened to be true, despite the inescapable fact that his potential brides consisted of two dusky brunettes and one golden blonde. As a consequence, he quite failed to notice that this mildest of compliments was making its recipient blush. ‘Now if you'll excuse us, your Grace,' he said, holding open the door for the Duchess, ‘I wish to be introduced to Regan's brothers and sister. After all, I have just adopted them as my own.'

The Duchess fixed her son with a baleful stare. ‘That, Gabriel, is not even faintly amusing.'

Gabriel bowed. ‘I am relieved to hear it, ma'am. One would hate your Grace's hard-earned reputation as a bastion of gravity and sobriety to be tarnished by over-exposure to humour.'

 

The click of the door closing behind the formidable black-clad woman who had interrupted their breathless game of chase released Portia, Land and Jack from their unusually subdued state.

‘Regan, that scary woman looked at us through a glass that made her eye look
this
big,' Jack said, stretching his little arms as wide as he could manage.

‘Regan, I'm hungry.'

‘Regan, when can we go to the maze?'

‘Regan, I'm hungry, too.'

‘And me.'

‘You shall have your dinner shortly,' Regan said, ruffling
Jack's hair, ‘but you are forgetting your manners. Introduce yourselves to the Duke.'

Three pairs of very blue eyes peered up at Gabriel from varying heights. Two ungainly bows and one wobbly curtsy were made. The faces looked at him with awed expectation. He felt like a prize exhibit in Bullock's museum or a show horse at Astley's Amphitheatre. He had no idea what sort of performance he was expected to put on. ‘How do you do?' he said finally.

Portia giggled. Land and Jack nudged each other. Gabriel looked helplessly at Regan. Ignobly pleased to observe his discomfort, she made no move to assist him. The irony of the situation made her smile inwardly. Intent as he was on establishing the presence of maternal qualities, he appeared quite oblivious to the fact that he was distinctly lacking in the paternal equivalent.

‘Your sister tells me you travelled here on the stagecoach,' Gabriel said stiffly, speaking down from his great height to the children as though he were preaching to a congregation.

‘Jack was sick,' Portia volunteered.

‘Sick as a dog,' Jack confirmed proudly. ‘Three times.'

‘Indeed,' Gabriel said, quite nonplussed by this information. ‘Capital.'

‘Sir.' Land tugged on Gabriel's sleeve, ‘I mean, your High-ness…'

‘Your Grace,' Regan corrected, stifling a giggle.

‘Gabriel will be quite acceptable.'

‘May we please see the maze, Gabriel?'

She would dearly have loved to hear Gabriel's reply, for his face was a picture, but she would not take the risk of him giving any of the children a set-down. ‘Perhaps tomorrow,' Regan said hastily. ‘You must not bother his Grace at the moment. No doubt he has much more important business to attend to.'

‘Indeed, tomorrow will be much more convenient,' Gabriel
said, clutching gratefully at this grudgingly offered straw, for the last hour had left him unaccountably drained. ‘I will leave you to settle in. Mrs McGlone will show you to your quarters. I will send her to you directly.'

Regan watched the door close behind him with a sinking feeling. She had come here with such high hopes and expectations, excited at the prospect of rediscovering an old friendship, but Gabriel was evidently only interested in her as a means to an end. So now, for the sake of the children, she was going to have to spend the next three weeks pretending to be someone she was not in front of a triumvirate of social butterflies, each of whom was desperate to get her talons into a Duke. Not that butterflies had talons. In fact, she was being extremely unfair; they were probably very nice. And beautiful. Blonde, no doubt, for it was the fashion, even if Gabriel had said he preferred Titian hair. Not that she cared what colour of hair he preferred. Or what type of female.

Regan made a face. Whatever type of female they were, they would not be interested in a mere governess. It was not for a moment that she resented the title; governess was a perfectly respectable position and a vocation she might even have pursued herself had circumstances been different. No, it was not that, nor did she grudge the children their treat, but it was just difficult, sometimes, to be the one always having to make the sacrifices. She sighed. At least they would all still have Christmas at the Hall to look forward to. She must not be selfish. Tomorrow, she told herself stoically, when she had had time to readjust her expectations, she would hopefully not feel quite so cheated.

 

Mrs McGlone, Gabriel's eminently practical housekeeper, had set aside an entire suite of rooms located far from the main guest chambers for Regan and the children's exclusive use. ‘Where they'll be able to make as much noise as they like without you worrying that they'll be disturbing anyone,' she
explained with a kindly smile. ‘A lovely lady, your mother was, Miss Stuart. As you know, I used to write to her now and then, just to keep in touch. It was myself who gave his Grace your whereabouts—I hope you don't mind? Such a tragedy, her dying as she did, though it must be some comfort to have the little ones looking so like her. You must miss her dreadfully.'

Regan sniffed back a rare tear. ‘I do. She always spoke most kindly of you, too. You used to let me stir the puddings for the Yule party in the old days, do you remember?'

‘What I remember is you doing more eating than stirring,' Mrs McGlone said, her ample bosom quivering as she chuckled wheezily.

 

A cosy hour of reminiscing had restored Regan's spirits somewhat. Next morning, waking from a restful sleep, she was, she told herself, reconciled to the situation, if still a little disappointed. Walking with the children in the extensive gardens after breakfast, her spirits lifted further. Things were not as she had hoped, but they were certainly a lot better than the alternative—spending a frugal Christmas at home, alone with the children.

It was a bright December morning, though the distant clouds looked to be laden with snow. She was in the act of thinking that Mother Nature looked as if she was going to keep Gabriel's promise for him, when the man himself came striding across the lawn to meet them. He was dressed less formally today, in a frockcoat and tight buckskin breeches with top boots. He was hatless as well as gloveless, his hair slightly rumpled, and Regan's heart gave a funny little skip. A funny, foolish little skip. It was so unfair of him to be so very attractive. Gabriel, she reminded herself sternly, was not in the least bit interested in her.

‘Are you on your way to the maze?' he said by way of greeting. ‘You won't mind if I accompany you? I thought
it would be prudent to give the children a chance to get acquainted with me before my guests arrive.'

‘Prudent? And here was I, thinking you had a desire for my company, your Grace.'

‘How serendipitous it is, then, to be able to combine the two.'

She ignored that. ‘I have not explained the situation to them, deeming it best that it should come from you.'

He cast her a harassed look but, gathering the children around him at the entrance to the maze, he embarked on a rather complicated explanation of the situation. Jack, Land and Portia craned their necks up at the imposing giant, too awed and confused to comment. ‘So, what do you think?' Gabriel finished, nonplussed by their lack of reaction.

‘I think you're too tall,' Jack said. ‘My neck hurts.'

‘That's why he's called your High-ness,' Land whispered, earning himself a reproving look from Regan and making his brother and sister giggle.

Remembering, of a sudden, how much he had hated having his father loom over him in just such an intimidating manner, Gabriel cursed his own insensitivity and dropped to his knees beside them. ‘There, I'm now your Low-ness. Is that better?' To his relief, all three children nodded shyly.

‘Yes, but please, your Grace…'

‘Gabriel. Please, call me Gabriel.'

‘Please, Gabriel, we don't understand the point of this game, do we?' Portia said, seeking confirmation from her siblings, who nodded vigorously.

‘Oh. Well, it's a game where you all pretend to be different people, even Regan.'

‘Like when she used to pretend to be a Duchess?' Portia asked.

‘Did she now?' Gabriel looked at Regan quizzically.

‘Yes, in the big tower where there are boxes and boxes of clothes. She said—'

‘Never mind that,' Regan said, blushing. ‘It's not that kind of dressing-up game, more of a secret game.'

‘We like secrets,' Jack declared.

Gabriel cast Regan a grateful look. ‘I used to like secrets, too, when I was your age,' he said, remembering as he furrowed his brow and tried to place himself in Jack's shoes, that he had also been fond of very tall tales. Beginning his explanation anew, suitably simplified, embroidered and exaggerated, he was rewarded with three children extremely eager to take on their new roles.

‘And now,' he said with immense satisfaction as he got to his feet, ‘I think the three of you should see who can get to the centre of the maze first. I will award a prize to the winner. Your sister and I will watch from the top terrace up there. Which,' he continued
sotto voce
to Regan, tucking her hand in his arm, ‘is also far enough away to offer some respite from the excited screaming that will inevitably follow.'

‘You really are—'

‘Ruthless, selfish, manipulative,' Gabriel said with a grin. ‘I prefer
persuasive
myself. You're not going to tell me that you'd rather spend the next hour pretending to be lost in a yew hedge that you know like the back of your hand?'

‘No, your Grace, not when I can spend the time in your exalted company.'

Her smile was teasing, but Gabriel frowned. ‘Is that how I seem to you, high-handed, imperious?'

‘No, but you have a sort of certainty—I expect it comes with the position you hold—that your way of looking at things is the only correct way.'

‘You seem to possess a similar brand of certainty,' Gabriel replied. ‘Perhaps it, too, is a result of having unwelcome responsibility thrust upon you.'