The Nobleman's Governess Bride

by Deborah Hale

  For her part, Grace tried not to appear as if she exulted in Lord Steadwell’s confidence. Instead, she made an effort to let bygones be bygones. And every night, she prayed that Charlotte would lower her bristling defenses and give her an opportunity to draw closer.

  Hearing the nursery door close softly behind her, Grace spun away from the window, where she had been staring out at the drizzly day brightened here and there by blooming crocuses. The girls had worked so hard of late on their studies that she had promised them a whole afternoon to do as they pleased. She’d hoped the weather would be fine so they could go outdoors, but it had not turned out that way.

  Phoebe had gone off to the stables. Charlotte asked politely if she might go to the kitchen for a cookery lesson. Grace consented, though she wondered whether it was only an excuse for Charlotte to get as far away as possible from the nursery. Sophie had not been able to decide what she wanted to do. Or perhaps she refused to say, hoping to steal off on her own.

  “Sophie!” Grace scrambled toward the door. She recalled a story Lord Steadwell had told her during their first meeting about how the child had wandered off once before and not been found for hours.

  Her heart seemed to seize in her chest when she looked down the corridor and saw no sign of her youngest pupil.

  “Where are you off to, Sophie?” she called. “Please let me come with you!”

  An instant later, a small fair head popped out from around the corner. “I decided to go exploring. Would you really like to come along?”

  “I would.” As Grace advanced toward the child, her pulse gradually slowed. “This is such an interesting old house but I have seen little of it beyond the nursery.”

  Sophie seemed pleased with the idea of having a companion for her explorations. She held out her hand to clasp Grace’s. “I can show you heaps of things you’ve never seen before. There are lots of pictures of people. Papa says they’re relations of ours who lived long ago. Some of them wore such odd clothes.”

  As the child chattered on, Grace had an idea of how she might teach history to Sophie and her sisters by relating dates and events to their oddly dressed ancestors. No doubt the family had played a part in shaping their times, just as Lord Steadwell did now, faithfully attending Parliament when he would rather have remained in the country with his children. Grace had come to admire his diligence and sense of duty.

  Sophie led her along narrow corridors and wider galleries, up unexpected staircases. In one room, Grace marveled at an enormous bed hung with rich brocade draperies.

  “Who sleeps here?” she asked Sophie. “Your father?”

  His lordship never put on any great display of his wealth. Grace often forgot what an enormous gulf separated her position from his.

  “Papa doesn’t sleep here.” Sophie giggled as if her governess had made a deliberate jest. “Nobody does. This is the King’s bed. I can’t remember which king, but one visited Nethercross and slept here long ago. Papa told me. You can ask him.”

  “Indeed I shall,” Grace mused. Perhaps his lordship could explain to her how the history of his family connected with that of the kingdom.

  “That is my favorite picture.” Sophie pointed to a magnificent portrait that hung above the marble mantelpiece. It showed a lady wearing a coral-colored gown in the style of the Stuart royal court with voluminous skirts and lavishly puffed sleeves. Her dark hair hung in masses of thick ringlets with a fringe of wispy curls over her brow.

  “Papa told me her name was Sophia—almost like me. She was my great-great-great-great-great-grandmama.”

  Grace smiled as Sophie counted off the number of “greats” on her fingers. Now that Lord Steadwell was away in London so much, she no longer made such an effort to keep from smiling. Nor did she bother to wear her father’s old spectacles during the week. The girls all took it for granted that she was plain and never seemed to notice her appearance any more.

  “She is lovely.” Grace noted a strong resemblance to Sophie’s father in the lady’s raven hair, dark eyes and elegant features. “And such a gown. It may look odd to you but I imagine Cinderella might have worn one like it to the prince’s ball in your story.”

  “Do you think so?” Sophie’s eyes grew wide. “Would you like to see it?”

  “See what?” asked Grace. “I can see the painting already.”

  “Not that. The gown.” Sophie seized her hand and drew her into a smaller chamber that must once have been a dressing room.

  Two sides of the room were lined with tall cupboards that almost reached the ceiling. A third wall was hung with two large looking glasses. Sophie moved from cupboard to cupboard, peeping inside each.

  “I think this is the one,” she announced at last.

  “One what?” Grace threw wide the cupboard door to find Sophie lifting the lid of a large trunk. “Careful you don’t jam your fingers. Are you allowed to be in here, going through all these old things?”

  “This is it.” Sophie lifted up the bodice of the elaborate lace-trimmed gown from the portrait. “Smell.”

  The child inhaled deeply, prompting Grace to do likewise. The wholesome sweetness of dried lavender wafted up from the open trunk along with the faint pungency of cedar, which must have kept the moths at bay all these years.

  “It is very fine.” Grace took one of the sleeves between her fingers and caressed the rich fabric. “Just imagine wearing something like this.” Her voice trailed off in a wistful sigh.

  “You don’t need to imagine,” Sophie thrust the gown toward Grace. “Put it on.”

  Grace drew back in shock as if she’d been invited to commit murder. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Why not?” The child looked perplexed.

  “Because... it doesn’t belong to me.”

  “You aren’t going to steal it,” Sophie persisted. “And nobody has worn it for years and years. Poor gown! Imagine how sad it must have been to lie in a trunk all this time, even if it does smell nice.”

  Grace tried to return the gown to its proper resting place, but her hands refused to cooperate. “Sophie, you know gowns aren’t living things with thoughts and feelings.”

  “I know.” The child did not sound persuaded. “But I wonder what it might be like if they did. What if the gown remembered being worn and taken out places? Wouldn’t that make a good story?”

  Such were Sophie’s powers of invention that Grace fancied she could hear the rustling pleas of the old gown, begging to be worn and admired one more time, if only for a few moments. What would it hurt, after all, to indulge the child’s harmless whim?

  “Very well, then,” she murmured. “I will put it on, but only for a few moments over the dress I’m wearing.”

  As it turned out, that looked ridiculous—the tight, long sleeves and prim neck of her rust-brown dress protruding from that luxurious confection of damask and lace. The gown might as well have stayed in its trunk as be worn that way. At Sophie’s urging, Grace slid off the bodice of her dress and let it fall around her hips, hidden by the volume of the old-fashioned skirts.

  “Kneel down,” said Sophie. “I’ll fasten your hooks.”

  Though part of her protested, Grace obeyed.

  “Look in the glass.” Sophie clapped her hands as Grace rose from the floor. “You are like Cinderella. That means I must be your godmother.”

  Grace turned and looked at the reflection of a woman she barely recognized. The vivid coral hue of the fabric brought out the color of her eyes and brightened her complexion, making it look more like fresh cream than cold wax. The delicacy of the lacework highlighted her fine features. The unexpected pleasure she found in her appearance made her eyes sparkle and her lips relax into a winsome smile.

  Was it wicked vanity, as she’d so often been told, to be pleased by her reflection in the glass? It did not feel wicked. It felt joyful and free, as if she had been released from a tight, dingy prison.

  Her fragile bubble of happiness did not last long.

  “Do you
hear footsteps?” She spun toward the door, her heart hammering so hard it made the lace trim around the gown’s neckline tremble. “Someone is coming. I must get out of this!”

  How could she have forgotten the danger of casting off her protective disguise?

  “I don’t hear anything. And your cap doesn’t look right with that gown.” Before Grace could stop her, the child reached up and grasped one of the long white lappets. Then she pulled it off, bringing down Grace’s tightly-pinned hair in the process.

  “Sophie!” she cried in dismay.

  “Sophie?” another voice echoed. “Are you in there?”

  Panic froze Grace to the spot as the door swung open and Charlotte rushed in.

  The instant she caught sight of Grace, her eyes bulged and she let out a piercing scream. Grace’s nerves were wound so tight, she screamed too.

  “Run, Sophie!” Charlotte tried to drag her sister toward the door. But Sophie dug her feet in.

  “What’s wrong with you, Charlotte? It’s only Miss Ella. I think she looks as pretty as a princess, don’t you?”

  Charlotte peered at Grace in stunned disbelief. “Miss... Ellerby?”

  “That’s right.” Grace snatched up her cap from the floor and tried to cover her hair with it again.

  If she had been caught committing a dreadful crime, she could not have been more consumed with shame or fear for her future. She had no doubt Charlotte would seize this opportunity to get rid of her.

  Chapter Seven

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND.” Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest and shot Grace a scowl that seemed more wary and bewildered than angry. “Why do you pretend to be plain and dowdy when you’re... beautiful?”

  She sounded reluctant to use that word in reference to the governess she heartily disliked.

  It was now evening, several hours after Charlotte had burst in on Grace and Sophie in the dressing room. To her credit, the girl had not yet mentioned the incident to anyone else at Nethercross. But her father would return from London the day after tomorrow and Grace knew better than to hope Charlotte would remain silent then. If something like this had happened at one of her previous posts, Grace would have packed her bags and fled before his lordship’s return. This time she could not bear to give up a position she had come to enjoy so much without making some appeal.

  That was why she’d asked to speak with Charlotte after her sisters had gone to sleep. Given the girl’s hostility toward her, Grace doubted any explanation would satisfy Charlotte. But she had to try.

  “It is a long story.” Grace pulled off her cap. Lately it had begun to feel stifling and there was no longer any use maintaining her disguise in front of Charlotte. “Suffice to say that your beauty and your sisters’ will be a benefit to you as you grow older. For a woman like me, without fortune or family, attractive looks can be more of a burden.”

  As she spoke, Charlotte’s scowl seemed to soften.

  “It can make others envious.” Grace continued, determined to tell Charlotte as much of the truth as was proper for her young ears. “It can make them assume I must be vain... selfish... foolish.”

  How many times had she been accused of those vices by her teachers? “I cannot claim to be perfect, but I do not believe my appearance makes me a bad person. By making myself look plain, I hoped others might be able to see my character for what it truly is, rather than what they judge it to be based on my looks.”

  Grace had expected Charlotte to interrupt her with questions, perhaps contradiction. But even after she’d finished speaking, the child remained silent.

  “I wish you would not mention any of this to your father.” Grace hated to beg, but she hated the thought of leaving Nethercross even more. “I’m afraid he might not understand.”

  “He would so.” The need to defend her father forced Charlotte to speak. “When you first came here, he told me not to judge you by your looks.”

  Part of Grace wanted to believe that Charlotte was right and Lord Steadwell might not be like other men in that respect. But she had been too often mistaken about people in the past to trust that vulnerable hope.

  “I believe one of the reasons your father hired me was because I looked plain. If he found out that was not my true appearance, he might suspect I had set out to deceive him.”

  But hadn’t she? her conscience whispered. Perhaps, but only as a last resort and not in a way that would do any harm to him or his children.

  “Who called you vain?” Charlotte demanded.

  Grace hesitated, for this was not a subject she cared to discuss any more than she’d been forced to already. “My stepmother was the first. But not the last or the worst.”

  “Who was the worst?”

  Why did Charlotte want to know all this? So she could gloat over the governess she detested and now had in her power to destroy?

  “My teachers at school,” Grace admitted, uncertain what compelled her to answer. Perhaps it was because she had so little to lose. Or could it be that she was tired of hiding her past and her true self? “And the great girls. That was what we called the older pupils who bullied and tormented us younger ones. I was a favorite target because they envied my looks, I suppose. Or perhaps they could tell I was not very good at standing up for myself.”

  Could that be part of the reason she and Charlotte had gotten off on the wrong foot—because Charlotte sensed Grace’s weakness from the beginning?

  “That school sounds dreadful.” Charlotte insisted fiercely. “Why didn’t you just go home?”

  Grace hesitated, but she could not suppress the truth. “I had no home to go to. The school was an institution for the orphaned daughters of clergymen. My stepmother sent me there after my father died. I doubt she would have taken me back even if I’d wanted to go home... which I did not. Harsh as conditions were at the school, at least there I had a few friends.”

  “Is that who you write letters to all the time?” asked Charlotte.

  Grace nodded. “We are all scattered about now. I have not seen any of the others since we left school. You are very fortunate to have your sisters so close.”

  “Too close sometimes,” Charlotte muttered. “Tell me about these friends of yours.”

  Grace was sorely tempted to declare that her friends were none of Charlotte’s business, but she could not risk vexing the child. “Leah Shaw was often up to some bit of mischief to make us laugh. Phoebe reminds me of her. Rebecca Beaton was one of the smallest girls in our year but fierce as a lion if the great girls tried to pick on any of us.”

  If Rebecca were here now, she would find a way to keep Charlotte from tattling to Lord Steadwell. But Rebecca was many miles away in the Cotswolds.

  Grace did not intend to tell Charlotte too much, but once she began talking about her friends, it seemed to bring them closer. She was in the middle of a funny story about Leah Shaw when she noticed Charlotte trying to smother a yawn.

  “That is a great deal more than you wanted to know, I’m sure. You should get to bed.”

  Charlotte nodded as she rose from her chair. “I am tired. Good night, Miss Ellerby.”

  Was it her imagination, or did the child’s tone sound more amiable? Probably the former because Charlotte had given no promise that she intended to keep Grace’s secret.

  Something had changed this week while he’d been in London. As Rupert stood at the window of his study staring down toward the river, he was not certain what had changed or how it had come about, yet he sensed the altered atmosphere. In general, he mistrusted change. Its results could be positive, but all too often they were not. It remained to be seen which result this change would yield.

  He had left London early on Friday because there was no pressing legislation before the House of Lords. After his talk with Charlotte the previous week, he wanted to make certain she was giving her governess the cooperation he’d insisted upon. When he reached home, he’d found all three girls busy with their lessons.

  To his surprise, Phoebe was engrossed
in a book on a mild afternoon that would have been perfect for riding. Sophie was not off in some daydream world, but eagerly relating a story that the governess copied down for her. Charlotte seemed too absorbed in a composition she was writing to cause Miss Ellerby any trouble.

  All three girls started up with ready smiles when he appeared.

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” he begged their governess. “After getting home so late the other week, I wanted to make it up to my daughters at the first opportunity.”

  “You needn’t apologize, sir.” Miss Ellerby fiddled with her spectacles, which he could have sworn she had not been wearing a moment ago. “The girls have been working very hard at their studies. They deserve some time away from their books to be with you.”

  “That’s the second time this week we’ve had a break from lessons,” cried Phoebe.

  The governess winced at the child’s words, as if she expected Rupert to chide her for neglecting her duty. In fact, he could not be better happier with her work. Though Phoebe still talked constantly of her pony, she often mentioned new things she’d learned in a tone that conveyed enthusiasm for her studies. Sophie seemed happier than she had been since Mademoiselle Audet left. Charlotte was quieter than usual and not so quick to boss her younger sisters.

  At first Rupert wondered if she might still be vexed with him for insisting she obey Miss Ellerby. But she seemed affectionate enough, in spite of her subdued manner. Perhaps she was simply maturing—discovering that he could question her behavior yet still love her as much as ever.

  The thought of his daughters growing up triggered an insistent voice in the back of Rupert’s mind. It urged him to get busy courting Barbara Cadmore. The lady was out of mourning and eligible to remarry without violating propriety. She was a handsome woman of property and still relatively young. If he did not soon signal his intentions, some other suitor might steal the march on him.