The Wayward Governess

by Joanna Fulford

  ‘You look like a princess in a fairy tale.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Lucy looked over Claire’s shoulder. ‘Isn’t it, Uncle Marcus?’

  She had not heard him come in and turned to see the tall figure in the doorway.

  ‘You have excellent taste, child,’ he replied. For a moment his gaze swept across Claire and the grey eyes warmed. ‘A princess indeed.’

  Her cheeks went pink. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Under that close scrutiny she was more than ever aware of that charismatic figure and the raw, sensual power he exuded. Dressed in immaculate evening dress he looked every inch the aristocrat that he was. The dark coat might have been moulded to fit those broad shoulders. Pale breeches, snowy linen and cream-coloured waistcoat were plain almost to the point of austerity, and yet the overall effect was breathtaking. Once again it would have been impossible to find a more elegant or eye-catching figure.

  He bent to give his ward a goodnight hug and tucked her in. Then he turned to Claire and offered his arm.

  ‘Shall we?’

  As they walked toward the staircase she glanced up at him once or twice, but could gain no clue from his expression as to the thoughts that lay behind the facade. Yet she somehow sensed his approval and her heart sang. No matter what came after, there would always be this night to remember, the night when for a few hours anyway she had been transported into another world where there was no ugliness or sorrow, only beauty and light and music. A world where he was.

  In fact, Marcus was supremely conscious of the young woman beside him. He had not been exaggerating when he had likened her to a princess. She looked all of that and more. As he had imagined, the gown was stunning, serving as a glorious foil for the beauty of the wearer. It showed off every curve and line to perfection while tantalising him with the thought of what lay beneath. Did she know how lovely she was, or how powerful an impression she was making? He glanced down at her, but there was not the least trace of flirtation or coquetry in her manner, and she appeared quite unconscious of the effect she was having. It was probably just as well, he reflected. If she knew what was going through his mind that expression of calm serenity would vanish in an instant.

  His attention was eventually diverted by the arrival of the first guests, and Claire slipped away into the salon, hoping that Ellen and her brother would arrive very soon. In fact, she had not many minutes to wait before she heard their names announced. With them was Sir Alan Weatherby. George Greystoke performed the introductions.

  Weatherby beamed at her. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Davenport, and how pretty you look! By Jove, I wish I were thirty years younger.’

  Claire smiled and blushed at the compliment. Greystoke smiled.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he said. ‘That really is a beautiful gown.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Ellen smiled at her friend. ‘It suits you very well, my dear.’

  ‘It’s enough to make every woman here green with envy,’ said Weatherby.

  ‘If Miss Davenport will favour me with the first dance, I’ll make a few men envious too,’ replied Greystoke.

  When eventually the orchestra struck up, he led her out onto the floor. After that, introductions were sought by several other gentlemen, including Major Barstow, who solicited the next two dances. A handsome moustachioed figure in a dashing uniform, he had caught the eye of many ladies present. Claire put him in his mid-thirties. He had easy, unaffected manners and she found herself taking an instant liking to him.

  From across the room Marcus watched their progress. Both of them danced well, he saw, and they made a striking couple. From the Major’s expression it seemed that Claire had made quite an impression. Forcing his gaze away from the pair, the Viscount gave his attention to his own partner. The girl was not unattractive, but every time he spoke to her she seemed able to reply only in monosyllables and soon he gave up the attempt at conversation. By the end of the dance he was glad to relinquish her hand to her next partner. A glance at the other participants revealed that Barstow had retained Claire for the cotillion. It appeared she had no objection to offer. Indeed, from her smile it seemed to be most agreeable to her. The Viscount’s grey eyes narrowed and his smouldering gaze followed them across the floor.

  *

  Claire was enjoying herself enormously. Major Barstow was an excellent partner and a witty conversationalist, which made him excellent company. However, knowing it would expose her to gossip if she permitted him any more dances, she pleaded thirst.

  ‘Of course, how thoughtless of me,’ he replied. ‘I’ll find you some refreshment at once.’

  He hurried off to execute the commission. While she waited she heard her own name being spoken nearby. It was a woman’s voice, one of the party accompanying Lord and Lady Frobisher.

  ‘She’s the governess apparently. One wonders what Lord Destermere can be thinking of.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ replied her male companion, ‘but I should say it’s very easy to understand what he is thinking of. She’s a very attractive young woman.’

  The words were followed by others in a murmured undertone. The latter elicited a gasp and a rap on the arm with a fan.

  ‘Shocking, Henry! I am sure it is no such thing. Destermere would never lower himself so far.’

  ‘Of course not, I spoke in jest. I had it from Weatherby that she’s connected in some way to the Greystokes,’ replied her companion. ‘It seems the good doctor is a particular friend of Destermere’s. From India, don’t you know?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ The woman’s tone was suggestive of disappointment. ‘All the same, it is rather singular, is it not? I mean, she’s little more than a servant after all.’

  Claire’s jaw tightened and she had to fight the desire to turn round. She would not give them the satisfaction of revealing she had overheard them. Fortunately Major Barstow returned a few moments later with two glasses of punch. They had hardly taken a sip when another voice cut in.

  ‘Major Barstow, won’t you introduce me to this delightful creature?’

  She looked up to see a stranger. Seemingly in his early fifties, he was a rather stooped figure with sandy-coloured hair. His freckled face was thin and angular, the thin-lipped mouth like a slash. It gave him a slightly reptilian appearance. At his side was a stout young man who bore him a striking facial resemblance.

  Barstow stiffened slightly, but then acknowledged them with a polite bow.

  ‘Miss Davenport, may I present Sir James Wraxall and Mr Hugh Wraxall?’

  The reptilian mouth widened in a smile that never reached the pale blue eyes. ‘Charmed, Miss Davenport.’

  Beside him his son echoed the sentiment and smiled too, revealing stained teeth. His gaze travelled from Claire’s face to the front of her gown where it lingered. She felt her skin crawl.

  ‘May I have the honour of the next dance?’ he asked.

  Unable to get out of it, she was forced to accept with a good grace and allow herself to be led away to the ballroom. They took their places in the next set. It soon became clear that Hugh Wraxall was not an accomplished performer and, worse, he kept squeezing her hand in a manner that was both embarrassing and distasteful. Each time the figures brought them together he leered at her cleavage. The music seemed to go on for ever. When it finally stopped she breathed a sigh of relief, wanting nothing more than to escape, but it seemed the ordeal wasn’t over yet.

  ‘Don’t think I shall release you so soon, Miss Davenport. I claim the next.’

  Before she could reply a tall, familiar figure cut in. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Wraxall, but this one’s mine.’

  Hearing that familiar voice Claire felt her heartbeat accelerate and a moment later she was looking up into Marcus’s face. For a brief moment an expression of annoyance flitted across Wraxall’s features; then it was masked with an unctuous smile. He bowed and retreated, leaving the field to his rival. Claire smiled
at her rescuer.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replied. Then sotto voce, ‘How on earth did you get waylaid by that charmless oaf?’

  ‘I wasn’t quick enough with an excuse.’

  ‘That’s most unlike you.’

  She threw him a speaking look, which seemed not to disconcert him in the least. Rather the grey eyes gleamed.

  ‘True sir, but in this instance I am grateful.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘How grateful exactly?’

  He watched her cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink. ‘Odious man!’

  He laughed. Then the orchestra struck up the next dance and they took their places in the set. For a little while they were separated by the moves of the dance, but when she rejoined him at last he pursued it.

  ‘You do not answer my question.’

  ‘Nor shall I.’

  ‘Then you must demonstrate the feeling instead.’

  Her eyes widened a little. ‘How so?’

  ‘By dancing the next with me as well.’

  They parted again for a while. Claire, moving through the intricate sequence of steps, was aware of his gaze following her. The knowledge set her pulse racing.

  ‘Well?’ he inquired when she returned to him. ‘Have you considered my request?’

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I accede to it.’

  ‘Excellent. Of course, it would have made no difference at all had you refused.’

  The tone was both teasing and provocative, but the expression on that handsome face was less easy to read.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she agreed. ‘You have a habit of getting your own way.’

  The grey eyes gleamed appreciatively. ‘Indeed I do, ma’am.’

  He was as good as his word, for when the dance ended he made no move to lead her aside, but waited while the next set formed around them. Once again Claire was uncomfortably conscious of eyes turning their way. Seeing that fleeting expression, he squeezed her elbow gently.

  ‘Don’t let them trouble you, Claire. It will do them good to witness my standards.’

  At his words of praise her heart leapt, and she looked up quickly to see him smile. Suddenly all her former anxiety melted away like frost in the sun. As the measure began, Claire forgot everything else and then there were only the two of them and the music and the moment. It felt so right to be here with him, to feel his hand on hers as he led her through the figures of the dance, to see the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. When she was with him she felt truly alive. This one night was all they would ever have, but she knew it would remain with her as long as she lived.

  Marcus had also taken note of the eyes turned their way and was both amused and gratified. Curiosity had been aroused, it seemed. He knew full well every man there would like to be in his shoes, but for this little space at least he had Claire all to himself. The notion was pleasing. It felt right to have her beside him like this. She danced well too, her movements light and graceful, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Somehow it went against the grain to acknowledge that he would have to yield her up to other partners, but good manners dictated that he must later solicit other young ladies for a dance. After Claire, their company would be at best insipid.

  When at length the dance was over he led her aside and paused a moment, looking down into her face. Then he carried her hand to his lips.

  ‘I regret that I am engaged elsewhere, but I leave you in good company this time.’ He glanced to where Ellen Greystoke was talking with Sir Alan Weatherby.

  Following his look she smiled. ‘Very good company, sir.’

  Then, having spoken to the others briefly, he reluctantly relinquished her hand and bowed before taking his leave. For a moment or two she watched his retreating back, then forced herself to look away and give her attention to her present companions.

  Her hand was solicited again several times by other gentlemen before she eventually sat down to eat supper with the Greystokes, along with Sir Alan Weatherby and Major Barstow. She found her companions most agreeable and entertaining, and the conversation and laughter flowed easily. Once she looked around the room for Marcus and located him at a table across the room. Among the aristocratic guests gathered there were the Frobishers. Quickly she looked away again, for seeing him there was a pertinent reminder of who he was. That was his milieu, the society to which he naturally belonged and which she could only be part of for this one brief night.

  *

  Later she watched him mingle among the other guests, laughing and talking with his habitual polished ease. She could discern absolutely no difference in his manner whether he spoke to a mill owner or a lord. If some sections of the company regarded his behaviour askance, they kept their opinions to themselves. A viscount could afford eccentricity, and if he saw fit to invite the professions into his home then he was entitled to do it. However, she knew that every aspect of this occasion would be discussed in minute detail on the morrow. She smiled to herself, well able to visualise those scenes.

  Marcus had shown her some attention this evening, more perhaps than he needed to. Had it aroused jealousy in other female breasts? Was this going to make her the butt of local gossip for weeks to come? She ought to feel concerned, but for the life of her she could not regret it.

  Just then his voice broke into her reverie. ‘Shall we have some music? Miss Greystoke, can I persuade you?’

  Ellen murmured something in reply and then rose, following their host to the pianoforte in the corner of the room. Claire watched them select the music and then Ellen seated herself and began to play. The music was gentle and soothing and she listened with close attention until the piece finished, joining the applause enthusiastically. Her friend played two more pieces before relinquishing her place at the instrument to Lady Frobisher’s daughter, Mildred. Though Claire had no objection to hearing someone else play, the heat of the room was increasing and she began to feel the need for a little fresh air, so with a smile and a brief word she excused herself. Having slipped away from the crowded reception rooms, she turned into the corridor and headed for the conservatory. It wasn’t far and it would be an ideal sanctuary for a while.

  Her instinct had been correct, for here among the scented greenery it was blessedly cool and the air sweet and fragrant. She breathed deeply, enjoying it. From somewhere behind her she could hear the music still, though more faintly now, but all the bustle and conversation was absent. The only other sound was of tinkling water from a small fountain. It was restful here, a place to pause awhile and dream. Marcus’s face drifted into her consciousness unbidden. He should be pleased tonight: the ball had been an unqualified success. The new Viscount Destermere was well and truly established. She smiled. He looked the part too, every self-assured and arrogant inch of him.

  The sound of the door opening drew her back to reality and she turned quickly. Her eyes, accustomed to the dimmer light now, made out a man’s figure. For a second her heart leapt. Surely it couldn’t be he? The figure made its way towards her.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Miss Davenport.’

  She froze, recognising the voice of Hugh Wraxall, and in an instant her former hope was dashed.

  ‘Saw you slip away,’ he went on. ‘Followed you here.’

  Claire regarded him with alarm and distaste. The slurred tones suggested he had been drinking, not enough to render him incapable, but certainly enough to be a nuisance.

  ‘I came in here for some fresh air,’ she replied. ‘I’m going back now.’

  He stood across the path, barring her way. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘Pray excuse me.’

  ‘Not yet. I think you and I should get to know each other better.’

  ‘I have no desire to know you better, sir.’

  Hearing the icy tone his expression changed. ‘I’ll wager you wouldn’t be so damned haughty if the handsome Viscount were here.’

  Claire’s fists clenched at
her sides as she strove to keep control of her temper. ‘Please let me pass.’

  ‘Touched a nerve, have I? Thought as much.’ He leered at her, wafting a reek of foul breath in her face. ‘Had you written down as a fancy little piece from the start.’

  His answer was a sharp slap across the face. For a second he reeled, holding his smarting cheek. Then his expression grew ugly.

  ‘You’ll pay for that, you haughty little madam.’

  He grabbed hold of her arm, dragging her close. Seeing his face looming over hers, she turned her head aside and the intended kiss grazed her cheek instead.

  ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘Oh, no, my dear, I’m not done with you yet.’

  His arm tightened around her waist. Pressed against him, Claire could feel his arousal through the thin material of her gown. With each passing moment the danger of her predicament became increasingly obvious and she struggled to free herself from that noxious embrace, but he was strong. She heard him laugh. The sound roused her to renewed effort.

  ‘Get your filthy hands off me! Let me go!’

  ‘You heard the lady,’ said a voice from the doorway.

  With unmitigated relief Claire recognised Major Barstow. Taken quite by surprise, Wraxall stared at the newcomer and then his face darkened.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ he snarled.

  Barstow strode forwards and a second later had him by the throat. With a strangled croak of surprise Wraxall released his hold on Claire. The Major shook him hard, regarding him with contempt the while.

  ‘You nasty little cur! I’ll teach you to lay hands on a lady.’

  ‘Mind your own business, soldier boy.’

  ‘This is my business.’

  As he spoke Barstow let go of his grip and Wraxall launched a haymaker in reply. It missed by a wide margin, but Barstow’s clenched fist hit its intended target and sent the other reeling backwards. As he staggered, Wraxall’s heel caught the stone edging round the plant border and he lost his balance to fall sprawling among the greenery in the flower bed. There he groaned once and lay still. Claire stared at him in horror and then looked up at her rescuer.