The Duke's Governess in Disguise

by Claudia Stone

  For a moment it seemed as though Fabrizio would flounce out of the room in a huff, but he resignedly sat himself back down upon the leather armchair, still glaring daggers at Rob.

  "It is about time you stopped gallivanting about London, throwing your money away on horses—and heaven knows what else," Rob continued. "I will arrange with David for you to assist him with the running of Blakefield, so that by the time you reach your majority, you will have some idea of how to manage your brother's inheritance."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "I will petition the courts and the children will remain with me until they are grown."

  Rob gave a shrug; he was actually rather keen on the idea, if truth be told. His life had a sense of purpose now that he was entrusted with the care of James and Cressida. He idly imagined himself watching them grow into young adults—taking James to Eton for his first day at school, or watching Cressida dance at her first ball—before realising with a jolt, that all his fantasies included having Miss Smith at his side. Heavens, he thought, when had he become so domesticated?

  "What say you?" Rob asked, as Fabrizio seemed more inclined toward sulking than answering to his proposition.

  "I will stay," he huffed in response, "I will learn the business of managing the estate with that pompous-poopinjay, and next year I will assume my rightful role as the children's guardian."

  It wasn't quite the humble acquiescence that Robert had expected but it was, he supposed, better than nothing. In the meantime, while he had Fabrizio close at hand, he intended to find out what the lad knew about Gallant's claims that the carriage wheel had been tampered with.

  "That old drunk?" Fabrizio gave a snort, "I dismissed him the next day—he's lucky I did not call the law. He claims the wheel was tampered with to try to hide his own guilt—he was probably in his cups."

  "Were you in the house, the day that the accident happened?" Rob queried.

  "Si," Fabrizio's face contorted into a dark scowl, "I had just returned from London the night before, when Lord Dunstable received an urgent letter, requesting his presence in town. Mama decided last minute to accompany him; Dio santo, how I wish she had not."

  Fabrizio blessed himself and murmured something in Italian, the only word of which Robert understood was "Mama". It was clear that the young man was distraught over his mother's death, but was there an added aspect of guilt to his flamboyant display of emotion? Rob could not tell, though he had to concede that his suspicion that Fabrizio had played a hand in Michael's death was based on nothing more than the ramblings of a drunk.

  "It was a terribly tragic accident," Rob added, feeling very stuffy and English in comparison to Fabrizio's theatrical show of grief.

  "Si," Fabrizio nodded, "It was a tragedy. I am blessed that I still have James and Cressida to comfort me, however, and I shall relish the opportunity to prove myself to you, your Grace. Though I will need to go back to town, to tie up a few loose ends in London, before I commit myself fully to Blakefield."

  "Of course," Rob inclined his head magnanimously.

  "Now, if you will excuse me," Fabrizio stood again, "I wish to see the children."

  The lad was halfway across the room when an idea struck Rob.

  "Will you stay for dinner?" he asked, "It will be nice for the children to dine with you, seeing as though you'll be gone for a few days."

  "Thank you, Your Grace, I think I will," Fabrizio replied. Looking quite pleased at the prospect, he left the room with a spring in his step.

  Lud; Robert exhaled a deep sigh as the door closed behind Fabrizio, feeling rather worn out after his difficult day. Still, he thought brightly, as he settled down to attend to some correspondence, at least he had the pleasure of sharing an evening with Miss Smith to look forward to—at least something had gone to plan.

  It was just hair, Rob told himself for the umpteenth time, as he found himself once more staring at Miss Smith from across the dinner table. The governess had removed the hideous cap that she insisted on wearing and her luscious, ebony locks were pulled back from her face in an elegant chignon. The candlelight from the chandelier above bathed her in a warm light, which picked up hints of copper and gold hidden amongst the dark ebony. Robert, who had never given much thought to ladies' hair, now longed to reach across and unpin the governess' tresses and run his fingers through them.

  However, it was impossible given that they were seated at a table with three other people, two of whom were children. One day, he vehemently promised himself as he tore his eyes away from Miss Smith, one day he would...

  Dinner was a rather inelegant affair, by society's standards at least. Chatter was consigned to indulgent, childish prattle and James, despite Miss Smith's diligent help, had managed to stain the tablecloth with crumbs and drops of sauce. Fabrizio was seated beside Cressida and their conversation quite often lapsed into Italian, excluding Rob from joining in. Not that he minded; it allowed him to subtly focus his attentions on Miss Smith, as she tended to James.

  "I want bread and jam," James whined, as a plate of game was placed before him. The lad was tired and irritable, which was not unexpected, given that he would usually be in bed by this hour.

  "Just try a little," Miss Smith gently coaxed, "There are poor children in London who would give their right arm for such a meal."

  Rob nodded to himself in silent agreement; even if the boy was tired, it was not an excuse for bad-manners.

  "He is not a street urchin, Miss Smith," Fabrizio called out, interrupting Rob's thoughts. "He is the Viscount Dunstable—if he does not want to eat the bird, he does not have to."

  The rude, dismissive way in which Fabrizio had spoken, would have irritated Rob under normal circumstances; that he had spoken down to Miss Smith in such a manner, made him near apoplectic with rage.

  "Miss Smith is James' governess, Fabrizio; she may instruct him as she sees fit at my dinner table. Please apologise at once."

  Rob's voice was glacial in its coolness and he narrowed his eyes dangerously at his dinner guest. It took all of his willpower not to leap from the table and grab the pompous, young git by his neckcloth and shake him silly.

  Fabrizio read the anger in his eyes and offered Miss Smith a tepid apology, which she graciously accepted. Had the children not been present, Rob would have ordered Fabrizio to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness. The protectiveness that he felt toward Miss Smith was quite a new sensation; he had never felt rage like it—it was an anger that was almost primal. He wanted to protect Miss Smith and harm anyone who would hurt her; though even he had to admit, that it was he who posed the biggest danger to the alluring governess.

  "Do I still have to eat it?" James asked uncertainly, poking at the pheasant on his plate with a fork.

  "Yes," Robert barked, wishing the whole uncomfortable charade would come to an end.

  "Just a little," Miss Smith whispered quietly, far more tactful than he. "Then it's the sweet course and I know how much you like that."

  "When I am your guardian, you can eat sweetmeats for breakfast if you like," Fabrizio called to his brother, unable to resist sticking his nose in.

  Robert gripped the table edge, with such force that his knuckles turned white, as he tried to subdue the temptation he felt to stuff the ruddy pheasant down Fabrizio's throat.

  "You are not yet their guardian—and you would do well to remember it, boy," he snapped, his patience finally wearing thin. "You would also do well to remember that you are a guest in this house and your presence here is conditional on my allowing it."

  "I don't want Fabrizio to leave," James wailed, adding a note of hysteria to the already frayed atmosphere.

  Guilt stabbed Rob as he realised that he had only inflamed matters and made them worse. He was the children's guardian—he should know better than to lose his temper in front of them—especially when his ire was directed at their beloved brother.

  "He is not leaving," Miss Smith said firmly, admirably taking hold of the conversation, before it d
escended into complete chaos. "I know that Mrs Ilford would be very disappointed if the syllabubs that she spent all afternoon preparing went uneaten. Perhaps we should all finish our pheasant as quick as we can, for it seems to have everyone in a flap, and then we can enjoy our desserts."

  Robert felt his mouth quirk at her apt turn of phrase. She had handled the situation admirably, he thought; as discreetly tactful as any society hostess.

  "The bird does seem to have us squawking at each other," Robert agreed, waving for the footmen to take the wretched course away. Miss Smith was quite right that a bit of sweetness was needed, to remedy the sour atmosphere.

  The lemon syllabubs did an admirable job in distracting everyone and by the time they were finished, Rob decided that the congenial mood that had descended might last a little longer, so he invited Fabrizo to stay and hear his sister play.

  If he was being honest with himself, he would have admitted that his desire to prolong the evening had little to do with hearing his ward's brave attempts on the pianoforte. Rather, he was motivated by a relentless need to spend more time with Miss Smith—to watch her, to observe her, to be near her.

  Robert positioned himself a little away from the piano, so that his view of Miss Smith would go unobstructed as she turned the sheet-music for Cressida. The girl had a talent, Rob realised with a jolt, as Cressida played, only stumbling on the notes very occasionally. He joined Fabrizio in his loud applause, as the tune came to an end, and was touched by how excited Cressida seemed by their approval.

  Pride welled in his chest, as his young ward stood and gave a little bow. What would it be like, he wondered, to watch his own daughter grow and develop talents? His eyes slid to Miss Smith and he imagined that their own daughter would be dark haired like them both, perhaps with his blue eyes.

  Lud. The yearning he felt nearly knocked him sideways—not to mention the shock at realising that he had been imagining starting a family with his governess! Rob had always known that at some stage he would have to produce an heir, though he had never relished the thought. His vague plans had involved finding a bride by his fortieth birthday—a girl with impeccable breeding and background—and then quickly producing an heir. As plans went, it was rather unromantic, but then a man of his station did not look for romance, he looked to continue his line with the most suitable woman he could find.

  Miss Smith, for all her charms, was no more suited to becoming the Duchess of Hemsworth than Mrs Ilford was. Dukes did not marry servants, and that was that.

  Rob's attention was drawn back toward the pianoforte, where Cressida was heaping praise on Miss Smith's skills and begging her to play a piece. His eyes locked momentarily with those of the governess, who was watching him with something akin to fear.

  Was she afraid to play in front of him? Heavens, he had many things, but an ear for music was not one of them. She need not fear his judgement, if that what was worrying her.

  "Do play something, Miss Smith," he called, adding to the clamouring chorus from James and Fabrizio.

  Miss Smith relented, with one final plea from Cressida, and turned back toward the pianoforte.

  "Do you need sheet-music?" Rob called, thinking to sit beside her and turn the pages, as she had done for Cressida.

  He tried not to let his disappointment show as Miss Smith shook her head in refusal of his offer. How nice it would have been to sit beside her, he thought with a pang. His regrets soon vanished as the governess began to play; in his life he had never heard a piece of music so melodious and heartbreakingly sad. The soft, gentle heartbreak of the piece seemed to speak to the grief in soul, and when it was done, he found that he was blinking away tears.

  "What was it called?" he asked Miss Smith, as she turned her gaze toward him. Could she see how deeply the music had affected him? He thought he saw a hint of understanding in her green eyes.

  "Lacrimosa," she replied lightly, with a soft smile that seemed to say she saw his pain.

  Ah, the Latin word for weeping—no wonder he was near tears after listening to it.

  "How very apt."

  He held her gaze a few moments longer, ignoring the chatter between the children and Fabrizio. In her eyes, he saw the same pain of grief that he felt and he wondered why it was that Miss Smith knew by heart the music for such a heartbreaking song.

  Her eyes shifted toward Fabrizio, as the young man loudly declared that he would take the children to bed. Despite Miss Smith's protests, Fabrizio persisted, and amid much chatter and high-spirits, the others left the room.

  "I must retire," Miss Smith said nervously, as the door clicked shut behind them. She pushed a strand of hair that had escaped her chignon behind her ear, the simple action stirring something low down in Robert's stomach.

  "Could I impose on you, Miss Smith, and ask you to play again?"

  The words had escaped his mouth involuntarily, before he had a moment to think on them. It was, he admitted quite a scandalous request, and it was most unchivalrous of him to suggest it. He was a duke and she was his servant; the balance of power was tipped his way.

  "I know my request is a little unorthodox," he said gruffly, as he sensed her hesitation. He wanted to assure her that his intentions were honourable—though could he truly say they were?

  Miss Smith, who had flushed pink, met his eye and he saw a glint of something—almost rebellious—before she nodded her head and resumed her seat at the piano.

  Robert came to stand behind her as she started to play. His eyes followed her hands as they flew across the keys, so effortlessly that one would almost believe it was easy to play as well as she. The music filled the room, transfixing him completely.

  "Mesmerising," he breathed, as her playing came to an end.

  "Thank you."

  Miss Smith sounded a little breathless. Indeed, her face appeared flushed as she turned to him, her chest rising and falling most noticeably.

  Don't look at her chest, you cad, he chided himself, reaching out a hand instinctively, to help her stand. His fingers grasped her arm lightly, though the mere act of touching her sent a surge of desire through him, and Miss Smith gave a little gasp, obviously as affected by it as he.

  Rob smiled as he noted her reaction, a surge of pride coursing through him. She was not as immune to him as he had initially believed.

  "Where did you learn to play like that?" he asked. Her playing was flawless and though he was sure she was talented, he was also certain that her talent had been honed and polished by an expert teacher.

  "I took lessons as child," she demurred, casting her eyes away from his. The piece of hair, which he had earlier watched her tuck behind her ear, had once more escaped. The urge to mimic her earlier action was, this time, too strong to resist.

  "Just who are you Miss Smith?" Rob asked, as he reached out with his free hand, to catch the wayward strand of hair and tuck it back in to place.

  Miss Smith gasped, presumably at the audacity of his actions, and for a moment Rob's hand hung in mid-air. He quickly scanned her eyes for any hint of fear, but all that he saw, was his own desire mirrored back at him.

  "Dash it," he whispered, placing his hand on the back of her neck and drawing her toward him.

  Rob had kissed many a woman over the course of his lifetime, but never had he felt a need as urgent as he did now. He wanted to own Miss Smith, to claim her as his own; his lips were on hers and yet he still wanted more...

  Rob revelled in the feel of her body melting against his, soft and feminine, and her heady scent made him dizzy with desire. It was obvious that no one had ever kissed her before, and the lion of pride in his chest purred with delight at this thought.

  She was his. She had to belong to just him.

  "Ava," he crooned softly, as they broke apart, "My dear Miss Ava Smith. Whatever am I to do with you, eh?"

  It had been meant as a rhetorical question,just a stupid lover's aside, but Miss Smith seemed to think that he sought an immediate answer, and she pulled away from him.

>   "Forgive me," she gasped, running nervous hands over her dress. Her face was a picture of agony, causing a cascade of guilt within Rob.

  "It is I who should ask for forgiveness," he replied, reaching out a concerned hand toward her.

  "Well it was you who started it," came the tart reply.

  Rob could not help the amused smile that escaped him at her indignation. It was quite refreshing to be rebuked, though of course, he must not forget that he deserved it.

  "I beg your forgiveness," he murmured, seeking to make amends, so that they could pick up where they had left off, "The beauty of the music made me quite forget my manners."

  "And I my own," Miss Smith replied, her voice still shaking slightly. "I should take my leave of Hemsworth House, your Grace. I cannot stay after—after—"

  "No."

  Rob had not meant to sound like he was issuing a command, but the sheer jolt of fear at the thought of Miss Smith leaving had wrenched the word from his lips. She could not leave. He would not allow it.

  "I cannot—" she began to protest, but Rob cut her off with a wave of his hand.

  "You cannot leave the children, they need you," he finished for her. He had wanted to say that she could not leave because he needed her, but somehow he found the sense not to. He didn't want the poor girl fleeing the house in terror.

  He did need her, he realised, as he waited for her to answer. His desire for her was not just physical; he needed the warmth of her presence, her light humour, her kindness, her everything.

  If she were a lady, it would have been simple, he would have offered for her straight away. Though if she were a lady, he reasoned, she would not be playing private concerts for him in his home, completely unchaperoned.

  "I-I-" Miss Smith stuttered, looking as though she was about to make her excuses and flee.

  "You will return to your bedchamber," he finished for her, "And we will talk again in the morrow. I will not accept your resignation, Miss Smith. Is that clear?"

  Miss Smith nodded, much to Rob's relief, before offering him a quick curtsy and fleeing the room.

  Rob let out a sigh as the door closed behind her, wondering what on earth he was going to do. He could not offer for a girl with no name or family to speak of. He could not make her his duchess, no matter how much his heart desired it.