She should have known—Anne threw herself face down on the bed and hit her pillow over and over again. She should have known—how could she ever have been attracted to such a man, even momentarily?
To compound her horror, she burst out crying, like the veriest watering-pot. In spite of her best efforts to stop, she was forced to bury her face in the pillow to muffle the sound of her sobs.
The sooner she left Devon and returned to Aunt Sidonia, the better. A few days of exposure to her great-aunt’s no nonsense ways and Anne knew she would be cured of these emotional outbursts.
* * * *
Bronson had ample time to think during the ride back to Wylington Manor, and his thoughts stayed firmly centered around the three women who had affected his actions during the course of the day: First, the woman he had sought after; second, the woman he had found; and third, the woman who had found him. Each of them had taught him something unexpected about himself.
The governess had taught him that he was not actually the patient man he had long prided himself on being. It had been an insane idea to go chasing after her on the spur of the moment instead of waiting for her to return. Never before had he acted so ... so out of control.
Control? Martha Miller had shown him an even more unpalatable side of himself. He, who had always been careful to show women the proper respect, had attacked an innocent woman—a woman who, moreover, had come to him for help—and he had reduced her to tears. The demeaning things he had said to her in his anger had served only to demean himself—the degrading things he had accused her of doing and then suggested she continue doing, only reflected back unfavorably upon him. He did not recognize the picture of himself he saw, nor did he like it.
If he had observed another man acting in a similar manner, Bronson would have considered him to be a conceited, arrogant oaf, and he would not have hesitated a moment to call such a man to account.
On the other hand, every time Bronson’s thoughts came back to the tall woman with the magnificent brown hair and magnetic blue eyes, he felt even more of a shock at his reaction. “Know thyself,” had always been his motto, and until today he had thought he did.
He had thought he was not like other men—not so weak as to fall under the spell of a woman and make a fool of himself. Women played only a very minor role in his life. Indeed, sometimes for months at a time they were totally absent from his life and not missed even for a moment. If he had been asked—and indeed, Thorverton had asked him—he would have said that in general, women bored him.
So how was it possible that he could have taken one look into this woman’s eyes and felt as if there were a bond between them?
A bond he had never felt for any other woman… indeed, not even for his parents or his best friends?
Why had he felt an actual physical pain in his chest when he realized she had vanished? A pain that had died down to a dull ache, but that was still there? Why had he spent the afternoon wandering the streets of Tavistock like a fool trying to find her again? And why was he even now racking his brain to figure out whom he might ask about her?
Why did he now feel a deeper need to grieve at the thought of never seeing her again than he had felt when his own father and mother had died? Why, when he had never even spoken a word to her, did a life without her at his side seem so empty and desolate?
None of it made sense, and being a sensible man, he determined again to put all thoughts of her out of his mind. But having made that decision at least five times since he left town, and having been unable to abide by it, he had to accept that it might be impossible to forget her. And that in turn made him question whether or not he really was superior to his fellow men, who were so quick to lose their dignity by throwing themselves at the feet of women and allowing themselves to be trod upon.
Had he just seemed immune to such weaknesses because he had never really been seriously tempted?
Resolutely pushing thoughts of the woman, if not out of his mind, then at least to the back of his mind, he considered again the problem of the governess. Once he admitted to himself that he could act hastily—and today was the first day that seemed possibly true—then he was forced to admit that he had not done a very thorough job of investigating the situation at Wylington Manor.
In spite of what the Bible said about the sins of the fathers being visited upon the sons, when he considered the runner’s report rationally, Bronson did not feel he had been fair in assuming that Faussley’s daughter was cut from the same cloth he was. And the testimony of ten-year-old boys, no matter how intelligent, was also not perhaps the most reliable evidence. Although now that he thought of it, the twins seemed to have an uncommonly high regard for Miss Hemsworth.
Riding into the stable yard, Bronson dismounted and turned his horse over to one of the lads. Then recognizing one of the older grooms, he signaled with his hand.
“Yes, m’lord?”
“Patrick, is it not? I wish to ask you a question or two. About the twins and their new governess.”
“Miss Hemsworth? She’s a fine rider. Can handle any nag we’ve got in the stables, but treats them gentle like. Not one to ruin the tenderest mouth.”
“I am not so much interested in knowing how she sits a horse, as I am in knowing what the other servants think of her.”
“Well, I know in the stables there are some of the lads who are not too happy to have her here. In their opinion, she’s a bad influence on the maids.”
“A bad influence?” Could it be possible that his initial opinion of Miss Hemsworth was correct? “In what way?”
Patrick laughed. “Well, she’s been putting ideas into their head ‘bout the proper way for a lady to act. Not that the maids are ladies, mind you, but they’ve been getting the notion they can be just as good as ladies. For myself, I’ve had a good chuckle. Being married, I was never one to chase the girls, and a proper skinning my old woman would give me if she caught me rolling in the hay with some flightly young thing. But some of the others, well, they’re a bit put out. Even Sally has got her knees locked together tight as anything, and she was never all that particular. Seems Miss Hemsworth is teaching her to read, and she’s got ambitions now, our Sal does.”
Not wishing to hear all the particulars about the frustrations of the grooms and stable boys, Bronson soon excused himself and headed toward his room to change. Passing the door to Trussell’s bedroom, he met Wyke coming out and decided on the spur of the moment to question the valet about the events at midnight four nights past.
“Miss Hemsworth? Well, I cannot say for sure what happened that evening, as I was not an eye witness to the events. Mr. Trussell was drinking heavily when I retired to my cot in the dressing room, but about two in the morning I was awakened by a loud thump, followed by a door slamming. I found Mr. Trussell passed out on the floor in a heap, so I put him to bed. The next morning Miss Hemsworth returned Mr. Trussell’s robe to me. And that is all I know for a fact.”
“But you have thought about the probable events of that evening, have you not?”
“Well, I hesitate to discuss ...”
A sharp look from Bronson was all it took for Wyke to overcome any scruples about idle speculation.
“I have assumed that Mr. Trussell, regrettably bolstered by the courage he found in the bottom of the brandy bottle, sought out Miss Hemsworth in her room and made improper advances, which she naturally rejected. From his condition by the time I found him, namely unable to walk or even to sit up without assistance, I would also have to assume that she carried him back to his room, and the noise I heard was her dropping him on the floor.”
“Carrying him?” An idea sprang full-grown into Bronson’s brain—an idea too horrible to contemplate.
“I could almost wish she had remained a moment or two, as I had the devil’s own time hoisting him into bed.”
No, Miss Hemsworth could not be the tall woman with the magnetic blue eyes. The idea was preposterous!
But Bronson had a growing conviction,
however appalling, that he had met the governess on the street in Tavistock. Everything fit—the riding habit the tall woman had been wearing, the remark he had overheard in the Red Stag about the governess being easy to spot, the fact that she was strong enough to carry Trussell ...
“Is something wrong, m’lord? You look ill. Do you require some assistance?”
Waving off Wyke’s concern, Bronson retreated on shaking legs to his own room, where he sat on his bed and contemplated his future, which had suddenly become murky.
One half of him was insisting he seek out Miss Hemsworth immediately, to see if she was indeed the tall woman who had fascinated him.
The other half of him was just as fervently urging him to flee from her while his freedom was still intact.
Unable to sit still, he began pacing, and nemesis was the word that immediately popped into his head. Of all the people to have observed him make an ass of himself with Trussell’s discarded mistress, why had it been Miss Hemsworth?
But this was patently ridiculous. He had not met his fate on the streets of Tavistock, of all places. If he had indeed noticed Miss Hemsworth in town, it was merely because she was a fine figure of a woman. She did not have any power—natural or supernatural—over him.
Although she might prove to be an interesting person to talk to—for a day or two, at least—he would stay in Devon only long enough to make sure Miss Hemsworth was adequate as a companion for the twins. Then, assuming he did not find out Trussell was stealing from the estate, Bronson would set out on his postponed journey to the Far East. Alone. The way he always preferred to be.
The only reason he now left his room to seek out the twins was because he was still not positive Miss Hemsworth was the proper person to have them in charge.
He found the twins in their room, again alone. “Miss Hemsworth has not returned from Tavistock?”
“Oh, hello, Uncle Bronson. No, she’s back. She was mad as hops because we tricked her into going to town when we knew you would be coming—” one of them said.
“And we didn’t tell her you were expected,” the other one concluded.
“I wonder if you boys can do something for me?” Bronson asked.
“Of course!” They jumped up off the floor where they had been playing with their lead soldiers. “Oh wait, we can’t go anywhere.”
“Cannot?”
“Anne is making us stay in our room—’
“As punishment—”
“Because we were not exactly honest with her.”
“She says telling part of the truth is not the same as being truthful.”
“Well, what I want can be done just as well here as anywhere else. I would like you to show me just how your Uncle Creighton and Miss Hemsworth were ‘wrestling.”
It took the boys a moment to sort out which one should play the role of Trussell and which one Miss Hemsworth, but finally one of them was lying face down on the bed, the other sitting on his legs. “She had both his arms pushed up behind his back, like this.”
“Ow! Don’t twist them so much!”
“But Uncle Creighton couldn’t talk, because his face was shoved down into the pillow—”
Bronson quickly stopped the twin on top from smothering his brother. “So then what happened?”
“We wanted to help—
“We were going to tell her where she could hide the body—”
“But she sent us back to bed—”
“Except we dawdled long enough to see her carrying Uncle Creighton back to his own room.”
“Then she came and tucked us in a few minutes later.”
The twin underneath managed to throw his brother off his back, and he then sat up and asked worriedly, “You do believe us, don’t you, Uncle Bronson? We don’t want you to send Anne away.”
“Please, Uncle Bronson, it was not Anne’s fault, in spite of what Uncle Creighton said when he told her she was fired.”
“If anyone had unbecoming conduct, it was Uncle Creighton.”
“He was the one who was drunk and in the wrong room.”
“And we don’t want Anne to leave, ever—”
“It’s important. Really and truly important.”
“Because we love her, you see.”
“And we don’t want her to go.”
Bronson contemplated his wards, who had variously been described by governesses as hell-born brats, devil’s spawn, and worse. “Yes, your demonstration of the midnight wrestling match has made it quite clear to me who was at fault. I only have one last question.” There was no more doubt in Bronson’s mind, but it was better to tie up loose ends. “How big is Miss Hemsworth?”
“Oh, big—”
“But not fat—”
“No, not fat, although she does stick out in front.”
“But she can’t help that, ‘cause she’s a woman.”
“Mostly she’s just tall—’
The one boy stood on the bed and held his hand up to Bronson’s mouth. “About this tall, prob’ly.”
“Yeah, about that tall. And strong.”
“She can do anything.”
The boys looked at him expectantly. “She sounds ... formidable,” was all Bronson could think of to say.
“Oh, she is,” the boys affirmed, then proceeded to tell him about Anne’s more impressive talents, such as being able to roam the moor without getting lost and to ride bareback, which reminded them about the prickles under the saddle blanket, so they told him that story as well as others.
If the boys were to be believed, Miss Hemsworth was fearless, with nerves of steel. She was as athletic as a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, so intelligent and well-educated she was able to discourse logically on any topic, and it often seemed she had eyes in the back of her head since nothing escaped her notice.
What made it especially daunting was that Bronson was well aware that he himself had on more than one occasion been praised in just such glowing terms. But to hear a female described thusly...
“So she has no weakness, this new governess of yours?”
“We do know her Achilles’ heel—”
“Yes,” his brother added promptly, “she loves clotted cream with strawberries, better than anything else in the whole wide world.”
Leaving the twins to serve out the rest of their sentence, Bronson descended to the main floor, his thoughts bedeviled. The mere mention of clotted cream called forth a tantalizing image of Miss Hemsworth’s clear complexion; ripe strawberries made him think of her lips; touching a finger lightly to his own lips, he wondered if she were indeed that tall.
He had not long to wonder. Entering the library with the intention of reviewing the bailiff’s accounts, he found the elusive Miss Hemsworth already there, perched halfway up a polished walnut ladder, apparently with the intention of returning a book to the top-most shelf.
Her ankles were as trim as the rest of her was well-endowed, and by the time Bronson finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, he had to admit he had earned her look of icy disapproval. Blast the woman! He’d be hanged if he would apologize to her before they’d even been properly introduced.
“I trust we still have footmen, whose job it is to climb about on ladders?”
With a regal tilt of her head, she replied, “I am perfectly capable of managing for myself, without the aid of any man.” Then, without giving him a chance to play the gentleman, she proved her point by descending unaided from her perch.
They were standing too close ... and the twins had been right. If he leaned forward just a trifle, his lips would touch her forehead, which was presently creased with annoyance. He had, indeed, only to tilt his face down slightly for his mouth to meet hers ... since her chin was already tilted up at a most belligerent angle.
Looking down into her blue eyes, which in spite of the anger they held were still most fetching, Bronson felt an irrational desire to apologize for his own failings and to make excuses for the shortcomings of his fellow men. It was with difficulty that he resisted the
urge to grovel at her feet.
So this was what drove other men to make fools of themselves, the rational part of his mind observed. This readiness to pay any price, to give up everything else in life, in order to bask within the magic circle of a woman’s charms. And not any woman would do. It had to be one single, specific, irresistible, indispensable—
“If there is nothing else, my lord, I have other things to do.”
She started to step around him, but he caught her by the arm. He could not let her vanish again, not yet, not after he had spent so many hours looking for her.
“Unhand me, my lord!” Her rage was palpable. “I have already been accosted by one ‘gentleman’ in this household, and I do not intend to repeat the experience.”
“Are you accusing me of wanting to kiss you ...” His voice trailed off when he realized he was indeed thinking about her soft lips and wondering how they would feel touching his.
“Do you deny it? If you do, I shall have to assume I am in the presence of a liar.”
“Miss Hemsworth, do calm down. There are things we need to discuss.” Bronson cast around wildly in his mind, trying to think of an excuse to keep her in the room. “About your job—”
“There is nothing to discuss. If you will kindly release my arm, which you are bruising, I shall finish my packing and be ready to leave by morning.”
“Now you are lying. I am not hurting your arm in the slightest. Admit it.”
For a moment she looked away, but then she again met his gaze squarely. “No, you are not hurting me. But I am, as a matter of principle, opposed to the use of physical force in any and all situations.”
He looked down into her eyes and felt again the strong pull of attraction. His free hand came up of its own volition and cupped her cheek, then without conscious decision, he leaned toward her. She sighed softly just before their lips met.
It was the most chaste kiss he had ever shared with a woman, and yet the most satisfying. Lifting his head slightly he looked down into eyes that mirrored the confusion he felt.
Charlotte Louise Dolan Page 11
