Emily looked around the schoolroom, which was quite sparse. There was an old rocking-horse in one corner, though it was sadly missing a leg, and a few dolls which looked to be as old as Emily. Gracious—why had the duke abandoned his wards to such a miserable place as this? Surely he was not a skinflint? He was one of the wealthiest men in England!
"Well," Emily said brightly, offering the young boy a smile, "I don't have any toys with me, but I do love to play. What's say you and I go out to the garden and have a game of hide and seek?"
James' eyes lit up at the idea, though his excitement died as he glanced at his sister. Cressida was still staring moodily out the window, her arms across her chest, her mouth in a determined pout.
"Your sister can come with us," Emily said loudly, "Though she needn't play if she does not want to."
Cressida gave a nod of her dark head, to show that she had heard and, sensing that this was as good as it would get, Emily bade the children to follow her.
It would do them well, she thought, as they made their way down the corridor toward the stairs, for them to get to know her in a more informal setting. They were obviously quite upset about the loss of their last governess, and couple that with the loss of their parents, it was no wonder they were hostile toward her.
"What games do you like to play?" Emily asked James, as they made their way through Hemsworth House. "Cricket? Fencing? Battledore and Shuttlecock?"
Emily thanked heaven that she had grown up with so many brothers, for with each suggested game, James became more excited.
"Fabio played jeu de volant with me, the last time he was here," James confided, slipping his small paw into Emily's, "Though I don't know where he put the rackets when he finished."
"Fabio?" Emily gave Cressida a questioning glance.
They were in the grand entrance hall now, though there was little time to stop and appreciate its baroque splendour. Instead, Emily focused her gaze on the little girl who stood before her, whose ears had gone red at the mention of this Fabio.
"Fabrizio is our brother," Cressida replied, her brown eyes glistening with tears, "And when he comes of age, he'll be our guardian and we won't have to live alone in this horrible house anymore."
"It is a rather horrible house, I agree," a voice called across the vast hall, "Bit of an eyesore really—I don't know what my great-grandfather was thinking, when he built it."
The Duke of Hemsworth, resplendent in a riding coat and breeches, strode across the marble tiles of the hall, toward the trio clustered by the doorway. A thrill of nerves went through Emily at the sight of him, though she quickly lowered her eyes to her feet, remembering last night's embarrassment at having been caught staring.
"Uncle Rob!"
James gave a joyous shout at the sight of the duke, let go of Emily's hand, and went barrelling across the floor, as fast as his little legs would take him. Hemsworth bent down to scoop the little lad up into his arms, averting what had seemed like a likely collision.
"Little Lord Dunstable," Hemsworth cried cheerfully, as he carried the boy the last few steps. With an exaggerated flourish, Hemsworth deposited James back down and offered him a bow.
The boy was delighted by this, his cheeks turning pink and his eyes sparkling. He was like a puppy, Emily thought, gazing up at the duke with adoration and awe. Cressida, on the other hand, remained mute, her dark eyes narrowed in a scowl at Hemsworth's actions.
"Miss Smith," the duke turned to Ava and offered her a smile,his eyes lingering too long on the mob cap upon her head. "I was expecting to find my wards in the school room."
"Your Grace," Emily bowed her head as she spoke to him; partly out of the deference she felt a servant would show and partly out of her own desire to avoid those cool, blue eyes. "The children and I are going outside to play—I felt it best that we got to know each other a little, before we begin our lessons properly."
"We were going to play Battledore and Shuttlecock," James interjected, "Though we don't know where the rackets are."
"Nor do I," the duke replied, hunkering down so that he was at eye-level with the young boy, leaving Emily red faced as his muscular thighs strained against his tight breeches. "Though Battledore is a game for two and there are four of us, if I'm not mistaken?"
The duke glanced from James, to Cressida, and finally to Emily, who tried not to look too horrified at what he was suggesting. Did the duke mean to come outside and play with them? It was a ridiculous suggestion; he was one of the highest peers of the realm, he could not play.
"Shall we?" Hemsworth arched an eyebrow, his eyes resting on Emily.
She nodded her head mutely and thus the trio became a quartet. James and Cressida ran ahead as they passed through the grand front door of Hemsworth House, out into the courtyard. Once they were well ahead, the duke slowed his pace slightly, so that he fell into step beside Emily.
"What a clever idea," he said quietly, as he watched his wards race ahead toward the manicured lawns. "The children need time for fun and games—they have been through so much."
His eyes followed James and Cressida, both dressed completely in black, as they raced each other toward the distant fountain. The duke's eyes then slid toward Emily—lingering again on her frilled cap—and she tried to maintain her composure in the face of such obvious scrutiny.
"And it gives you a chance to explore the gardens," Hemsworth continued, after a pause. "You appeared to be most fascinated by them last night."
Emily flushed at his jibe; what a beast he was! She turned her head to cast him a quelling glare but found that his eyes were crinkled softly at their corners and a gentle smile played on his lips.
He was teasing her, she thought, with a jolt of alarm. The same realisation seemed to occur to the duke, for he cleared his throat loudly and spoke again in more serious, business-like tones.
"I was most impressed by your language skills," Hemsworth said, casting her an approving glance, "It will be good for James to get a head start on his Latin, before he goes down to Eton."
"Eton?" Emily gave a startled laugh, "He is only four, your Grace."
"My father sent me early," Hemsworth replied brusquely, "It did me no harm. Scientia potentia est, isn't that what they say?"
Emily looked at him blankly, nerves fluttering in her stomach.
"Knowledge is power," Hemsworth continued with a frown, "I apologise, my Latin is quite rusty."
"Oh, yes," Emily gave a giddy laugh, one that she hoped was not too tinged by the hysteria she felt. "You're quite right, your Grace. Knowledge is power. But, we have decided that today is about play, have we not? Carpe diem, and all that..."
Emily gave the duke what she hoped was her most winning smile, before picking up the hem of her skirts and racing toward the children. She said a quiet prayer that Hemsworth would not pursue the topic of Latin any further—for with that little phrase, she had expired her knowledge completely.
CHAPTER SIX
6
A morning given over to hide and seek, and blind man's bluff—with Miss Smith's shawl used as a makeshift blindfold, had not been what Rob had expected of his day. It had been what he needed, however, he reflected, as he staggered blindly across the grass, following the sound of giggles, with his arms outstretched.
He had not felt this light-hearted in a long time—perhaps in years—and it did his heart good, to hear his ward's laughter pierce the spring air.
Rob sensed a movement to his left and he paused mid-step. Was there someone there? He held his breath and waited, until another quick movement assured him of his prey's whereabouts.
"Caught you," he cried victoriously, as he leapt forward, his outstretched arms making contact with a warm body.
The body was much too tall to be either James or Cressida, Rob knew it in an instant, but he decided that the excuse of the blindfold allowed an extra moment to appreciate the feel of Miss Smith in his arms.
Her scent was a beautiful mix of jasmine and musk—so intoxicating and rich
that could have come straight out of a bottle from Floris on Jermyn Street. Though Rob had never heard of a governess with the appropriate funds to waste away in a perfumers, so he assumed it to be her natural scent.
After a second of being held, Miss Smith went rigid in his arms, and Rob reluctantly let her go. He removed the blindfold which covered his eyes and offered his flushing governess an apologetic smile.
"Forgive me," he said, hoping that he had managed to sound even a little contrite,for he did not feel it. "I thought you one of the children."
"No matter," Miss Smith replied, taking a step back from him and adjusting her hideous cap. Her green eyes looked at him nervously, from under all the lace and frills, and Rob felt an unexpected jolt of desire at the image of innocence before him.
Lud, he thought, two days of declared celibacy and I'm finding a spinster's headgear titillating. He gave a frown—this would not do.
"You're next, Miss Smith," James called, racing over to the pair, from where he had been hiding.
Cressida straggled along behind him, trying—to Rob's eyes at least—not to look too interested in it all.
"No more," Rob held up a gloved hand, "We are done playing for the day."
He had not meant his tone to sound so brusque, but the unexpected urge he had felt to remove Miss Smith's cap and run his fingers through her hair, had left him a little short tempered. The governess did not flinch at his tone, but his two wards looked heartbroken. Children, he remembered vaguely—for it had been a long time since he'd been one—were rather sensitive souls. Especially children who had been recently bereaved, like James and Cressida.
Rob could sense that he had rather ruined the mood, for Cressida—who appeared to be far better at holding a grudge than her brother—began to drift away, mumbling to herself in Italian. James glanced after her, worry creasing his little brow and tugging on Rob's heartstrings. Quite the surprise, when he had been convinced that he had none at all.
"We shall explore the grounds," he decided, knowing that after such a long absence, his wards needed more of his attention than a few mere games had offered. "Miss Smith has not been shown where everything is."
"Nor have we," James replied, his face betraying his disgruntled feelings openly. Oh to be four, Rob thought with a wry smile; there was no artifice in children and they were too honest to disguise their thoughts for the sake of someone else.
"Did Miss Gretchen never take you down to the river?" Rob asked, as the four set off down the path. The grounds of Hemsworth House were quite extensive, taking in over three hundred acres; the initial, landscaped gardens gave way to game-filled woodland and the banks of the river Medway.
"James was too sick to go out," Cressida said, answering for her brother, "Which you would have known, had you been here."
Oof.
The six-year-old's remark cut right through Rob; though it had been rather optimistic to expect them to forgive his absence after a mere morning together. Still, he gave a frown; no one had told him that James had been ill.
"I was not sent word of this," he replied, a little defensively. He cast a glance at Miss Smith, wanting to see her reaction, but her face showed no disapproval, only the impassive expression of a servant.
"It was only for a week or two," Cressida gave a shrug, "When we first arrived. And then, just before Miss Gretchen—before she—before that, he was quite bad. But he is fine now."
As if to prove her point, James gave a shout and tore ahead of them, chasing two distant pheasants, who took off in fright.
Cressida gave a sigh and ran after her brother, leaving Rob and Miss Smith quite alone.
"No one sent word," Rob repeated again, though he knew that he was only trying to assuage his own guilt, rather than convince Miss Smith of his innocence.
"Children are quite often ill," she offered, her gaze fixed on the path before her.
"Yes," Rob agreed, then uttered a curse underneath his breath, "No, dash it. I should have been here. I shouldn't have waited for someone to send word, I shouldn't have left in the first place."
If Miss Smith agreed with this statement, she did not say. The trouble with being a duke, Rob thought regretfully, was that there were very few people willing to speak up to him. Michael had been one of the few people that Rob had been able to rely on for an honest opinion—and now he was gone.
"I don't know why I was appointed their guardian," Rob continued, his eyes following Cressida and James as they raced along the path, "I was never one for children and Blakefield had always felt the same way. Then he disappeared off to Italy for a year, returned with a wife, and started producing heirs."
"How thoughtless of him."
The sparky reply seemed to have burst from Miss Smith's lips involuntarily, for she looked rather shocked by her own brazenness. Rob gave a laugh, delighted at her honesty.
"I was rather put out, at first," he admitted, "Though Lady Dunstable always made me feel at home at Blakefield, and I grew to love the children dearly."
"Perhaps that is why you were named their guardian?" Miss Smith suggested lightly, "Lord Dunstable would have wanted them placed in a home filled with love..."
Her voice trailed away, as though she had realised her faux pas. Michael had wanted his children to be raised in a loving home—and Rob had abandoned them the moment they had arrived under his roof.
He swore to himself again, cursing his own selfishness. He was an adult, he had the wherewithal to cope with grief—or if not to cope, at least to understand it—whilst Cressida and James were nought but children. They must have felt so alone, while he had been distracting himself with wine and women.
"I began to make preparations for my return, once Mrs Ilford had written to me with the unfortunate news about their last governess," Rob continued, beset by a strange determination to show himself in a vaguely favourable light to Miss Smith.
You are a duke, a voice in his head admonished, there's no need to jump through hoops to be impressive, though he ignored its needling whispers. True, his title was intimidating, but a part of his soul wished to be recognised as something more than just aristocratic—to be recognised as the good person he so fervently wished he could be.
"It was quite difficult," he continued, "Given the—ah—unfortunate way Miss Gretchen left us, but when I saw your advertisement, I knew that you would be perfect for the job."
"Oh, I don't think—" Miss Smith began to brush aside his platitudes, but he interrupted.
"No," he shook his head, "Latin, Greek, French, and your reference said you are well versed in philosophy! Why my own governess could barely read—though I don't think that mattered to my father for rumour was that he was tupp—"
Rob stopped, just before he finished the word "tupping", his cheeks aflame. Lud; he was acting far too comfortable in this Miss Smith's presence for propriety's liking. He cleared his throat awkwardly, aware that beneath the mob cap, Miss Smith had also turned a shade of red.
"We're nearly at the river," he said with some relief, as they turned a bend in the path. The trees which had lined their way soon thinned out, and before them lay the banks of the river Medway. It would be filled with trout from next month, and in the past, Rob had fished there many a time with Michael. The memories of lazy spring afternoons, which had consisted of more talking than fishing, left him almost breathless with grief. He and Blakefield had been like brothers; they had been raised not even ten miles apart, and Rob had practically been raised in Blakefield House, as Michael's parents had been far more loving than his own cantankerous father.
Cressida and James were weaving through the long grass by the riverbank, searching for stones to skim. Rob and Miss Smith joined them, though he noted that the governess hung back from him a little.
She's probably afraid that I'll start blabbering again, Rob though with a wince, as he took a stone from James and showed him the best way to angle it. He wasn't often given over to fits of verbosity, but something about the governess had loosened his to
ngue. It was, he decided, as he skimmed a stone of his own across the river's still surface, her eyes.
Deep and mossy green, they were both kind and understanding, at once. And there was something else, something in the way that her eyes met his, which made Rob feel as though he was speaking with an equal. Which, on the face of it was preposterous, for he was a duke and Miss Smith was...
He frowned; the letter of reference from Mr Hobbs had made no mention of Miss Smith's background. It was clear to him, just from the way she spoke, that she had been brought up genteel—but something had obviously happened, for her to have sought employment.
His ruminations about his governess, were brought to an abrupt halt by James.
"I'm hungry," he said, dropping the stone in his hand and turning toward Miss Smith, "We haven't had anything to eat for ages."
Michael squinted at the sky and judged, by the height of the sun, that it was near lunch time. Miss Smith too appeared to have realised how late it was and she began to gather up the children's discarded coats and hats.
"Come," she said gaily, "I'm sure that His Grace has much that he needs to do. We shall go back to the schoolroom and ask Hannah to fetch us something nice to eat."
Luncheon in the schoolroom with the delectable Miss Smith sounded more appealing than the meeting Rob had scheduled with his land agent. Though, he reflected, she was right in that there were things he needed to do. He had spent the last few months tending to his wants—now it was time to tend to his duties.
He escorted the tired trio back to the courtyard, though there was to be no more tête-à-têtes with Miss Smith, for an exhausted James hung out of her skirts the whole way back.
"I'm famished," he whined, his face wearing the ravenous look of hungry boys the world over. No one experienced hunger like a growing lad, Rob thought with a smile.
"We'd best get you upstairs before you expire completely," Miss Smith replied, her lips twitching with mirth. "Say thank you to His Grace, for his time."
James and Cressida immediately obeyed, both offering Rob words of thanks. Cressida, however, quite mumbled her words and did not meet Rob's eye, leaving Rob in no doubt that he was still in her bad books.
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