“Of course, my lord,” she murmured. Her tone was a study of deference.
Hugo watched her climb the stairs. She moved with grace and fluidity, as though she barely touched the ground. Her embroidered slippers made not a sound on the carpeted stairway. There was more to this woman than her station in life would suggest and for the first time since the sacking of Badajoz, he was intrigued by a member of the fairer sex for reasons other than the sating of his flesh. Although, his errant mind noted, as his body responded to his thoughts, a man could do far worse if he were on the lookout for a wife.
Miss Burcott – Amelia was her given name – was undoubtedly of gentle birth and educated. Her skin was clear and refreshingly free of the paints and cosmetics employed by so many of his class; her speech refined, her hair glossy and well-cared for. He closed his eyes; he could still smell the fresh fragrance of lavender. As for her eyes… well, they were a glorious symphony of hazelnut and roasted almond, not mere brown. Whatever could he have been thinking?
~*~
Amelia was relieved to enter the drawing room without a fanfare she felt to be not her due, as the butler was distracted by a footman having dropped a silver salver in the dining room. As governess, she occupied a middle position in the household, being neither servant nor family, yet Mr. Stebbins seemed inclined to treat her with a flattering warmth – something she knew she was no longer entitled to.
Raftesbury was sitting in a high-backed wing chair before the fireplace, a half-full glass of some pale amber fluid on a small table at his elbow and a folded newspaper on the floor at his feet. He was staring moodily at what appeared to be the letter from the casket. It was still sealed.
When she entered, he jumped to his feet and came forward. Holding out his hand, he greeted her with a bow that was judged to a nicety.
“I must commend you on your excellent timing, Miss Burcott. I was about to set down my newspaper, since it wants but ten minutes to the hour. You must forgive my insinuation earlier, that you might be late. It was not my intention to offend, but having been in the military, I abhor tardiness.”
Amelia smiled and bobbed a curtsey. Why had he made mention of the newspaper when he had not been reading it? She cast a quick glance at his chair. The letter he had been staring at had been pushed down the edge of the cushion. Why had he not opened it? She could not help feeling she had stumbled on a mystery; there had been something odd about his behaviour on the island and now this. Perhaps she ought to find an excuse not to be alone with him, yet her senses assured her she was quite safe. Her instincts told her there must be some rational explanation and rarely had she had cause to doubt their omniscience.
A discreet tap on the door heralded a footman to inform them dinner was served and she followed the Earl at a respectful distance. Another manservant was waiting to pull out a chair for her and she was relieved to find she was seated on Lord Raftesbury’s left hand, so they would not be obliged to raise their voices in order to converse. Several leaves had been removed from the table, it seemed, since it was a bare ten or twelve feet long, when the dining room was of a size to accommodate a board of near double that length.
The cloth was a fine, white linen; the cutlery gleamed and the tableware sparkled in the candlelight. It was daylight still, but turning dim within the room as the sun began to sink towards the western horizon. An array of serving dishes stood in readiness upon a handsome mahogany sideboard with yet another footman in attendance. The butler took a bottle from a matching mahogany wine cooler and presented it to his lordship for approval before retiring to withdraw the cork. There was a quiet pop as the cork behaved as elegantly as was proper in such surroundings and then a white-gloved hand placed a glass of wine beside her plate. A row of stately windows, framed by deep gold curtains, graced the wall before her, with two mahogany side tables set towards each end of the room. In the centre, tall French windows stood open on to a terrace, with steps leading down to a formal garden.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, the Earl offered a rueful apology.
“Forgive me if you are averse to the night air, Miss Burcott, but it is a warm evening and I find I dislike the odours of food to linger. It is no doubt a conceit stemming from eating in the fresh air around a camp fire.”
Amelia took a sip of the soup she had been served. It was a thin consommé of vegetables and delicious.
“I find the cool breeze quite refreshing, sir. It has been a warm day and the fragrance from the shrubbery is most pleasant.”
“I am afraid if your interests lie in botany, ma’am, you will have to consult with the Head Gardener. I fear I am but a poor soldier, with no knowledge of such things.”
Seeing her opportunity, Amelia dabbed her lips with her linen napkin.
“What do you do to occupy yourself, my lord, when on campaign? There must come a point when all your equipment has been cleaned and polished, your harness mended and your hosiery stitched!”
He set down his silver spoon and considered her. She had the impression he was deciding how to answer. There was a slight crease between his slender, dark eyebrows. His lashes lowered and she had the ridiculous urge to reach out and touch them with the tip of her finger. They looked like fine strands of silk and far too soft for a man, yet his face was nothing if not masculine.
He took hold of his glass and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. They were shapely hands, the fingers long and tapering. They looked strong and capable, a man’s hands, but with the capacity for tenderness, she thought wistfully, feeling a sudden burst of jealousy against his unknown future wife. He stared at his hand and she wondered if perhaps he might not answer. Did it tremble in the slightest degree, or was it a trick of the candlelight? He wore a gold signet ring upon his third finger and it winked as he fiddled with the glass.
The silence stretched to the point of becoming uncomfortable and she was searching for something to say when he looked up at her. The smile he favoured her with was one of great charm and she felt the full effect of it; however, it did not reach his eyes.
“Why, we held dances and balls, Miss Burcott! You must have heard how the Duke of Wellington rode to hounds? Had it not been for the fighting, it would have been a feast of gaiety! Concerts, assemblies, card parties… there was no end to the entertainment, I assure you.” His smile widened and he tossed back the wine in one swallow.
Her attention on her soup, Amelia said quietly, “I expect you also had to drill your men – is that the correct term? Surely, though, you must have spent time on less vigorous pursuits? What did you do then? Forgive me if I overstep the mark. There is so much about the world I do not know, I am sadly inquisitive when the opportunity arises.”
“We slept a lot, Miss Burcott. I am sorry to have to disillusion you, but much of warfare is either boredom or horrors I would not care to repeat to a lady. Sleep was the most effective way of passing idle hours. It took the hunger from a man’s belly – forgive me – the fear from his heart and the discontent from his soul. Some men played games of chance, some carved items from wood; others read or wrote in journals.”
The servants removed their soup plates and replaced them with large oval ones warm from the plate bucket. There was a pause in the conversation as they were served with slices of roast beef or chicken; sweet baby peas; mackerel in fennel sauce; saffron potatoes and a cheese pudding. Amelia accepted a small portion of mackerel and some vegetables from a footman, while his lordship opted for beef, a large slice of mutton pie, potatoes and horseradish sauce. He seemed reflective, she mused, as they began to eat. She cast her mind back over what he had said. He must have witnessed some dreadful sights and with her prying, she had no doubt stirred up memories he would have preferred to have left forgotten.
“Please forgive—”
“I beg your—”
Having spoken at the same moment, they broke off and shared an uneasy laugh. Amelia felt a warm flush fill her cheeks and looked down at her plate. She must not forget she was merely the g
overness and get ideas beyond the station to which she now belonged. It was not for her to be enquiring into her employer’s private interests, no matter that her instincts told her something was troubling him and she wished to help if she was able.
“Pray continue, sir.” She kept her voice cool and polite – her governess’ voice.
“’Twas nothing. I merely wished to apologize if I seemed unforthcoming, but in truth there is little in camp life to interest a lady. You appear to have something on your mind, however.”
“I-I fear, my lord, I was being vulgarly curious. I did not properly consider; it was not my wish to bring up what must be most painful recollections. Please accept my humble apologies.”
“I trust I am made of sterner stuff, Miss Burcott, than to be undone by a few memories.” His words were light, but she noticed he was quick to take a mouthful from his refilled wineglass. “Tell me – at the risk of my being vulgarly curious – how you like to fill your leisure hours? Although, I suspect with Edmund in your charge, you have few such moments!”
His smile was so charming, it effortlessly drew an answering one from her.
“Edmund is such an engaging child! Should I ever have had the opportunity for a child of my own, I should have wished for one such as he!” she answered without thinking and then gasping in shame at her immoderate tongue, blushed furiously. She felt it burn her cheeks and down her neck in a tide of scorching embarrassment. Snatching up her glass, she gulped some wine, which made the moment worse, for she choked as some found its way into her windpipe.
“Some lemonade for Miss Burcott, quickly!” barked Raftesbury, jumping to his feet and summarily thumping her on the back.
There was clearly no thought of making improper advances in his mind and indeed, she felt for a moment the hearty pats were about to chop her in half, yet as she began to recover, she became aware of a strange warmth spreading from the place his hand made contact. She was wearing the only evening gown she possessed, a simple creation of jonquil muslin with cream lace around the neckline. The décolletage was modest, but did reveal a small area of bare neck and shoulder. At some point, his flesh had touched hers… and it had sent a ball of flame to her stomach.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fought for breath, her chagrin at her gauche behaviour not assisted by his lordship bending over her in a most solicitous fashion. He smelt of soap, wind-blown linen and something she could not recognize; it only served to bring forth a further rush of sobs for all she had lost and all she would never now know.
A tall glass of lemonade was pushed into her hand and she gratefully availed herself of its soothing sweetness. The Earl returned to his chair and the servants efficiently removed the first course and replaced it with a second, tactfully allowing her time in which to recover. What a fright she must look now, she could not help thinking. Not that his lordship would be concerning himself with her appearance, of course, for she had long ago accepted she would never be a beauty and she was, after all, in his employ. Nevertheless, she could not prevent a feminine twinge of regret that he should see her thus.
A scalloped-edged sweetmeat bowl of finely-cut glass was placed in front of her. It contained a pale green confection decorated with a tiny sprig of mint.
“I thought perhaps a water ice would prove beneficial.” Raftesbury’s voice held no hint of anything but concern, although she was sure he must consider her a ninny-hammer with more hair than wit.
Amelia fought to compose herself. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind. I beg your pardon for—”
“No!” He slapped his palm on the table with sufficient force to rattle the spoon in her dish. “I will have no more apologies! This world is full of regrets; I will have no more tonight! I am not some miserly curmudgeon, like to cast you off without a reference because you spluttered over your wine. Were he not by now safely in bed, I would suspect Master Edmund of having put pepper in your glass! From what I have observed so far, you are what I was seeking – an able teacher for my nephews and nieces. You bring fun as well as discipline to the schoolroom, something I consider to be invaluable, and the children clearly adore you already.” He paused and she felt impelled to look at him. He did not smile, but his expression softened. “Now, tell me what books you need for their studies. I shall be sending to London for some other items; I will add your requirements to the order.”
Touched by his adroit handling of an exceedingly awkward moment, she suggested two tomes of an improving nature and also requested two novels.
“I hope you do not have strong feelings against such literature, my lord, but I do believe there are lessons for Harriet and Jenny to learn in Sense and Sensibility, as it was written by a lady, and for the boys in Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley. It has always seemed to me that we learn best when what we are being taught is expressed in a way which makes it easy to remember.” He looked at her strangely, as if debating something, but when he did not reply, she continued. “I appreciate my good fortune, my lord. I would not wish you to think I was not cognizant of the honour you do me in allowing me free access to your library. It is a wonderful collection of the literary art, but for small boys in particular, there is little to tempt them to scholastic pursuits.”
Something she could not name flickered in his eyes and his lips twisted into a sneer, yet it did not appear to be directed at her. He pushed away the remains of his rhubarb tart and once more emptied his glass.
“You must ensure you enjoy its delights, then, Miss Burcott, for my duties allow me little time for such pleasures.”
~*~
When the nursery clock chimed midnight, Amelia threw back her blankets and sat up. She had not done more than doze for a few minutes at a time since coming to bed, being occupied for the remainder of those sleepless hours reflecting on what might be troubling Lord Raftesbury. She had chided herself for her foolishness, endeavoured to empty her mind, recited the dullest poem she could remember and tried to count imaginary sheep jumping a gate, but all to no avail. With a sigh, she pulled on a pair of old, kidskin slippers and gathered up her dressing gown from the end of the bed. Slipping it on, she lit her night candle, picked it up and made her way downstairs. Perhaps some light reading would help her relax. The Corsair reposed on her night table, but she was not in the frame of mind for Lord Byron’s gloomy verse and remembered seeing a copy of Anna Maria Porter’s The Hungarian Brothers in the library. She had read it before, but so long ago she was sure it would not signify.
The house was silent and full of dark corners. As she passed down the uncarpeted backstairs connecting the nursery floor with the main part of the house, she was certain she heard the scurrying of tiny feet. Repressing a shudder, she drew her dressing gown closer about her and held the candle at arm’s length. Nothing jumped out at her, nor ran across her feet; nevertheless she was relieved to reach the entrance hall and the deep, sonorous tick tock of the long-case clock.
Stepping lightly across the flags, which struck cold through her thin slippers even though it was early summer, she went straight to the library door and eased it open. Too late, she saw the branch of candles standing on a table, an empty crystal decanter resting beside it. A brandy glass gave mute testament to the decanter’s contents, while the presence of a Hessian boot, sprawled on its side, offered up the further information that she was not alone.
A tapestry wing-backed chair stood to the right of the empty fireplace, at a slight angle to where she stood. Two large feet, one booted and one clad only in a stocking, were visible stretching away from the chair on the end of two shapely and muscled calves. Amelia swallowed, yet could not take her eyes from the sight. She knew she ought to withdraw at once, before her presence was discovered, but there was something mesmerizing about the scene, something intensely personal, as though her footsteps had been guided there on purpose. There was an overwhelming sense of sadness in the room… and then she heard a single, harrowing sob.
Propriety and good taste commanded her to leave at once. Neverthe
less, some force propelled her feet forward. As she edged further into the room, she saw that a shelf of books had been swept on to the floor, whilst another lay open, its pages crumpled, against the hearth. It looked as though it had been thrown there in either anger or frustration, as the spine was cracked. Had Raftesbury lost his wits in a drunken rage? Mayhap she should retire, and quickly; a gentleman under the influence of several balls of fire was not given either to rational thought or behaviour, as she had every reason to appreciate. If he had come to such a pass, then it also explained the sob; a deep melancholia was frequently the result of an over-indulgence of alcoholic spirits. She slid one foot backwards and twisted, preparing to depart before her presence was noticed.
“Who is there?”
Too late! Even as her mind screamed the information, she froze. The booted foot moved and it was then she realized it had been half pulled off as it flapped impotently. A white hand clutched the chair arm and a dishevelled figure peered around the curving ‘ear’ above. His neckcloth awry and half undone, his waistcoat pulled asunder, his eyes were red-rimmed and sore-looking, while his dark hair, usually so immaculate, resembled nothing so much as a magpie’s nest. The sight tugged at her soft heart. Oh, Hugo! The strength of the cry from that oft-abused organ took her breath away. That way lies only heartache, my girl, she chastised herself, but she doubted her heart was listening.
“Miss Burcott, is that you? Come into the light, so I may see you properly. From this position you would appear to be standing upside down. Unless you count acrobatics among your accomplishments, this would infer that I am as drunk as a wheelbarrow.” He paused for a moment, looking adorably thoughtful. “If that is the case – and you will probably be a better judge of that than I – you had perhaps better not come nearer.”
This, quite naturally, thawed the ice holding Amelia to the spot and induced her to run to his side.
“Oh, my lord!” she exclaimed, dropping to her knees at his side. Clearly he was far from sober, but his speech was neither slurred nor incoherent. “Whatever has brought you to this?”
Sweet Summer Kisses Page 44
