"You are teaching her?" the young man asked of Emily, with slightly grudging admiration, as she sat beside Cressida at the pianoforte. Emily nodded her head and Fabrizio gave an approving grunt; "It's good to know that this time my sibling's care has been entrusted to a woman with some discernible accomplishments."
Emily did not know how to respond to this compliment, for it was wrapped in an insult against the late Miss Gretchen. She decided that the best course of action would be to ignore Fabrizio's vulgar remarks, which was just what she did.
His remarks played upon her mind, as she turned the sheet-music for Cressida, who was stumbling through a brave attempt at Mozart's Night Music. What an utter cretin the young man was, to disparage Miss Gretchen, when he had been romantically involved with her. Emily felt a stab of pity toward the late governess; she had probably come from a good family, fallen on hard times, and had perhaps seen Fabrizio as a means of escaping the sad, lonely life of a governess.
"Brava!"
Cressida finished playing to much applause from her audience; Fabrizio in particular appeared much affected by his sister's burgeoning talent.
"Mama would have been so proud," he said, with a tear in his eye, as he continued clapping loudly. "Bravissima."
"I am just starting to learn," Cressida deflected his praise with a shy smile, "I hope one day to be as talented as Miss Smith."
Hemsworth's eyes turned to Emily, who tried her best to avoid his penetrating gaze. Cressida's praise of her talents continued, and soon everyone in the room was calling for her to play something.
"I couldn't possibly," she stuttered, but their begging continued.
"Please," Cressida pleaded, looking at her with big, brown eyes, "The sad one, the one you played for me the first day."
Ah; during their first lesson Emily had tried to demonstrate to Cressida how the pianoforte could be used to express the deepest of emotions—just as Miss Bingham had taught her, many moons ago. She had played Lacrimosa from Mozart's Requiem, for it was a piece that she had turned to often, after her own mother's death. The sad, gentle score had resonated with Cressida, for she confided to Emily that it put into music all the sadness she felt at the loss of her parents.
"Please," Cressida begged again and this time Emily relented.
"Do you need sheet-music?" Hemsworth called, but she shook her head; she had played it so often that it sometimes felt as though the notes were etched into her fingertips.
Emily took a deep breath and began; slow, aching notes filled the room, and before she became completely caught up in her playing, she noted that her audience had stilled. Her fingers flew over the keys of the piano, effortlessly playing out the grief filled melody, which was one of the last works Mozart had completed before his death.
The piece finished on one long, haunting note, and for a few moments after she had stopped playing, silence filled the room.
"Brava!"
Fabrizio was the first to react, wiping tears from his eyes as he cried out his approval. Wild expressions of emotion were usually frowned upon as vulgar, but Emily could not help but be touched by the young man's overt reaction. Hemsworth, who stood a little behind the piano, wore a stoic expression, but his eyes glistened tellingly as they locked with Emily's.
"What was it called?" he asked, his voice so intimate that it was as though it was only the two of them in the room.
"Lacrimosa," she replied lightly; the Latin word for weeping.
"How very apt," he said, with a smile. His face, which was inordinately handsome, seemed even more so, as his expression softened. A tendril of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and an urge to reach out and push it back stole over her.
Gracious, she thought, giving herself a shake. She would soon get her marching orders back to London, if she acted on such an impulse.
"I will bring the children to bed," Fabrizio declared, breaking through the heady tension which had fallen between Emily and Hemsworth.
"There's really no need," she protested, but Fabrizio was not to be deterred.
"I wish to sing for them a lullaby my mother used sing to me," he replied with a shrug, calling something in Italian to his brother and sister, who shrieked and clapped their hands with joy.
There was little that Emily could do in the face of such enthusiasm and Hemsworth seemed disinclined to argue against the idea. Fabrizio led his siblings from the room, holding on to each of their hands, and as the door closed behind them, Emily realised that she was completely alone with the duke.
"I must retire," she said nervously, falling silent as the duke held up a hand to stop her.
"Could I impose on you, Miss Smith," he said, his voice low, "And ask you to play that piece again?"
Emily gave a silent prayer of thanks that no one had ever died from embarrassment, for at that moment she felt as though she would expire completely. Had the Duke of Hemsworth really just requested that she play a private concert for him?
"I know my request is a little unorthodox," Hemsworth added, as he sensed her hesitation.
It was more than that, Emily thought, it was scandalous. If Hemsworth had known that she was not Miss Ava Smith, but rather Lady Emily, would he have asked her such a thing?
Of course not, Emily almost snorted; to risk being caught alone in a room with an unmarried lady was career suicide for a rake like Hemsworth. His hand would be forced and they would have to marry to preserve her reputation.
You are not Lady Emily, she reminded herself, shivering with a giddy thrill of rebellion. She was Ava Smith; she was free to do as she pleased, without having to worry about malicious ballroom whispers.
Emily nodded her head and sat down once again at the pianoforte. She had never played to a private audience before, and certainly never to anyone as intimidating as the duke.
Hemsworth stood behind her, peering over her shoulder as her fingers began to fly across the keys. At first, his presence felt like a heady weight upon her, and she feared she might stumble or miss a key, but once she began to play in earnest she became completely consumed by the music.
"Mesmerising," Hemsworth breathed, as her playing came to an end.
Emily looked over her shoulder to find the duke watching her with eyes that were dark with desire. Her earlier thrill of giddiness at carrying out such a scandalous act, was now replaced with fear. How had she been so foolish, she wondered, to place herself in such an intimate situation with a man whose sheer masculinity and power made her knees tremble?
"Thank you," she whispered, though it came out as a croak, for her throat was completely dry.
She made to stand and Hemsworth reached out to help her, his hand catching her elbow and burning through the muslin sleeve of her dress. Emily's breath caught in her throat at his touch, her reaction so involuntary that she had no time to try disguise it. The duke's mouth—sensuous and wicked—quirked into a smile, as he made note of his effect upon her.
"Where did you learn to play like that?" he asked, his blue eyes searching hers for an answer.
"I took lessons as a child," Emily demurred, unable to concentrate on forming a more credible lie. Hemsworth's hand still clutched her elbow, drawing her toward his hard body. A part of Emily longed to lean against him, to feel his heat and warmth, to allow herself just one moment of pleasure—but she resisted.
"Just who are you, Miss Smith?" Hemsworth mused, reaching out with his other hand to tuck a stray strand of hair, which had escaped her chignon, behind her ear.
Emily gasped at the intimacy of the act—an act which so mirrored her own earlier desire. Hemsworth, who seemed to have forgotten his earlier question, hesitated momentarily, his hand hanging in mid-air, just above her ear.
"Dash it," he whispered, snaking his hand to the back of her neck and pulling her against him. His lips crashed down upon hers, capturing them in a searing kiss. Emily felt herself melt against the duke's hard chest, dazed by pleasure and desire.
There was no part of her which wanted to resist
the duke's sensual onslaught, though she knew it was wrong. His lips, which had at first been demanding, now softened, lightly brushing her own. A growl of desire, so primal a sound that it made her start, escaped from Hemsworth's lips.
"Ava," he crooned, as he broke apart from her, his big hand cradling her cheek. "My dear Miss Ava Smith. What ever am I to do with you, eh?"
Her sister's name was like a slap across the face for Emily, who had become lost in Hemsworth's intoxicating touch. She hastily detangled herself from his embrace and tried to assume a more composed expression.
"Forgive me," she gasped, smoothing down her skirts as a means to soothe her shattered nerves.
"It is I who should ask for forgiveness," Hemsworth countered, his face writ with concern.
"Well, it was you who started it," Emily muttered, her flustered feelings transforming to annoyance. Why was she apologising when it was he who had instigated the kiss?
True, she had not been a reluctant participant, but she never would have kissed Hemsworth, had he not kissed her first. Oh, but how she had enjoyed those few, heady minutes! Could she truly say that she regretted it?
Hemsworth raised an amused eyebrow at her tone, unused—Emily presumed—to having anyone speak to him in such a manner. Even a duke should expect a rebuke every now and then, Emily thought mulishly, meeting his gaze with defiance.
"I beg your forgiveness," Hemsworth murmured, taking a step toward her, "The beauty of the music made me quite forget my manners."
"And I my own," Emily replied, dipping her head so she would not have to meet those piercing, blue eyes, "I should take my leave of Hemsworth House, your Grace. I cannot stay after—after—"
"No."
It was just one word, but in it Hemsworth had managed to inflect years of ducal authority and a certain, masculine possessiveness that sent a thrill through Emily's whole body.
"I cannot—" she began to protest, but the duke cut her off.
"You cannot leave the children," he said, his words more a command than a plea, "They need you."
"I-I-I-" Emily stuttered, trying to quash her disappointment at Hemsworth's summation of just who in the household needed her to stay.
"You will return to your bedchamber," the duke finished for her, "And we will talk again in the morrow. I will not accept your resignation, Miss Smith. Is that clear?"
Emily nodded, too overwrought to argue against him. She sensed he was immovable and despite her own knowledge that no good would come of her staying on at Hemsworth Hall, her will was weak.
She took her leave of Hemsworth with a quick curtsy and fled to the safety of her bedchamber. As she tossed and turned under her covers, she could not help but allow a quick smile at the irony of her situation. She had fled one duke in London, only to throw herself into the arms of another; out of the frying pan and into the fire, so to speak.
CHAPTER TEN
10
Rob's day had not quite gone to plan. He had envisaged a morning of riding, then an hour or two spent with his solicitor in the nearby spa town of Tunbridge Wells, followed by a leisurely afternoon meal in the company of the children and Miss Smith.
His visions for the day had been shattered, however, the moment that he had awoken. A heavy rain fell outside the window, scuppering his plans for a hard ride across the moors.
His next course of action, a meeting with Mr Hargreaves, his solicitor, had taken far longer than he had anticipated. The old, portly man had presented him with a slew of leases to be signed, a delicate letter from the Prince Regent, asking for a loan, and the rather perturbing news that Fabrizio had visited him, asking for an advance on his allowance.
"I already gave him one," Rob had retorted, "He can't need more money already?"
Apparently, he did. Mr Hargreaves—who was at pains to mention that he in no way indulged in gossip—had heard it on the village grapevine that Signor Piraino's visits to Blakefield, always coincided with a flurry of missing objects.
"Silverware, paintings, one of the late Lady Dunstable's rings," the solicitor had listed off for Rob, his round face creased in a frown. "I rather fear the young lad might have got himself in a spot of trouble, your Grace. I wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise."
"And you won't mention it to anyone else?"
"Oh, heavens no!" Mr Hargreaves had replied, with shock; he was nothing, if not a man who knew what side his bread was buttered on.
The meeting with the solicitor had ended, though not before Mr Hargreaves had imparted the rather worrisome news that the family of Miss Gretchen could not be located. Robert, out of a sense of duty, had wished to offer them a sum of money, given that the girl had died under his roof.
"I'll ask Mr Dunstable if he knows anything of her background," he had said in reply to this news.
He had not envisaged that a meeting with David Dunstable would be as imminent as it ended up being. Rob had returned home to find Michael's younger brother ensconced in his library with Miss Smith and the children.
He paused at the door to observe them; David was horsing around with the children by the bookshelves, while Miss Smith had watched them with what could only be described as affection in her eyes.
An unfamiliar feeling stole over Robert at the soft look upon the governess' face. If he had taken a moment to try and decipher the uncomfortable stabbing in his gut, he would have realised that it was jealousy. As it was, he took no time to try to tame the wild beast inside him, before he spoke.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" he called into the room.
Miss Smith turned to him, her green eyes wide and startled at his cool tone. Blast, he thought; he hadn't meant to sound so irritated. The cheerful quartet in the library soon disbanded, due not in part, Rob supposed, to his dour mood.
David escorted his brother and sister back to the schoolroom, before returning to the library, where he partook of a glass of brandy with Rob. Rob, though in an impatient mood, threw the lad a few general questions before asking about Miss Gretchen.
"I can't say that I know much about where she came from," David replied with an easy shrug, "Though I am sure that someone in Blakefield might know, or perhaps there are letters in Michael's study. I shall check for you, the next time I am there."
"If you wouldn't mind," Rob inclined his head, "There is another thing..."
He had been hesitant to ask the boy about the night of his brother's death, but Gallant's assertion that someone had tampered with the carriage wheel weighed heavily on his mind. When he mentioned it to David, the young man looked most uncomfortable, and was almost reluctant to answer.
"I fear Gallant was too long in his position," David eventually said, almost blushing, he was so uncomfortable. "Michael should have let him go a long time ago. I was not there the day that the accident happened—I was at Highfield—but I am sure that what occurred was nothing more than a tragic accident."
"Was Sofia expected to travel with Michael?" Rob probed further, for something still did not sit right with him.
"I believe that she decided last minute to accompany him," David replied, "T'was a tragic choice."
Indeed. Rob was not able to quiz David any further, for another visitor arrived at the door, thoroughly quashing Rob's hopes of an afternoon meal with Miss Smith.
"Signor Piraino, your Grace," Mr Brown announced, before Fabrizio sauntered in behind him, looking as cockily self-assured as ever.
Fabrizio's arrival put an end to David's visit. The young man exchanged a few pleasantries with his half-nephew, about the children and the estate, before offering his excuses to leave.
"I am away to Highfield for a few days," David said, referring to his own, small estate in north Kent, "I expect I shall see you upon my return. Are you finished with that?"
David glanced at the paper upon the table and Rob nodded; he had read the thing from cover to cover and had no desire to reread the endless pages of speculation on Princess Charlotte's new beau. With a cheerful goodbye David left, newspaper
tucked under his arm, leaving Robert alone with Fabrizio.
"I wished to call upon my brother and sister," the Italian said, as he poured himself a generous measure of brandy from Rob's decanter.
"You had no other motives?"
"Can a man not visit with his siblings?" Fabrizio looked so outraged, that had Rob not known any better, he would have felt guilty for insinuating that Fabrizio was not only motivated by familial concern.
"My solicitor tells me you visited him looking for an advance on your allowance."
"I may have done," Fabrizio gave a shrug, "But I had a horse come in at Newmarket, so I have no further need of your charity."
The word charity dripped with disdain so overt that it set Robert's teeth on edge. He swept a cool, appraising glance over his visitor, noting with pleasure that his ducal ire had not gone unnoticed.
"You have much to learn about managing your finances, before you become the children's guardian," Rob said evenly, somehow mustering up the patience to not shout at the indolent man-child before him.
Fabrizio gave a shrug, uncaring that Rob thought his financial savvy lacking.
"If I do not note a marked improvement in your behaviour," Rob continued, "I shall have to petition the courts to keep me on as the children's guardian."
"What?"
Ah, that particular threat had elicited a reaction from the lad. Fabrizio let out a string of what presumed to be Italian curses, leaping from where he was sprawled on the Chesterfield.
"You cannot do that," he shouted, waving a finger defiantly in the air.
Rob raised a cool eyebrow in response, casting the boy a look that would make any man quiver with fear.
"I think you'll find, that a duke can do almost anything he likes," he retorted, "Now calm yourself. I have only said if; there is still plenty of time for you to prove yourself worthy of the responsibility being a guardian entails."
The Duke's Governess in Disguise Page 12
