An Unlikely Governess

by Karen Ranney

  She hurt in places she shouldn’t hurt.

  He breathed against her ear. She turned her head and brushed her lips against his bristly cheek. He’d traveled all night to be with her. He traveled in the darkness like a demon, and in the dawn light, he offered her a hint of depravity.

  Dear God, she wanted it so.

  Her lips stretched across his cheek and rested at the lobe of his ear. Her tongue licked at the very tip of it, and she felt him jerk in surprise. He pulled back and looked at her, a small smile curving his lips.

  “Are you a virgin, Miss Sinclair?”

  His fingers trailed from her waist, ignoring the press of her breasts against the fabric. His finger traced a T against her bodice just below her neck, as if to demarcate where he would next touch.

  As a taunt, it was deliberate. As a tease, it was goading.

  What did he want her to say? Touch me? She reached out and, in another daring move, adjusted his hand so it rested over her left breast.

  His smile grew wider.

  “I am a virgin, Mr. Gordon.”

  “But an impatient one, I’m thinking. Would you care to alter your state?”

  “And become like the girl in the rhyme?”

  “What rhyme is that?” He slowly moved his hand so he was cupping her breast, his thumb moving back and forth over her nipple. It drew up tight until it was no bigger than a pebble, aching and sensitive.

  “There once was a woman named Charlotte. She began as a virgin and died a harlot.”

  “Ah, virtue. Another creation of people who invent Hell, I think.”

  “Such as ministers and clergy? Such as the righteous among us?”

  “Good God,” he said in a low voice, “do you count yourself among them?”

  A shuddering sigh escaped her. “I doubt anyone could think that, with your hand on my breast.”

  “And you enjoying it.”

  “I was raised to be good.”

  “I know.”

  “I was raised to be good. I was.”

  “I know. Poor Beatrice.”

  He held her nipple with his two fingers, the touch keeping her restrained, and shivering with awareness.

  “Come to my bed.”

  “No.”

  “Come to my bed now, and I’ll lure you to do things you’ve never thought of doing.”

  “You probably would.”

  “You would enjoy it, Miss Sinclair. You might even scream in pleasure.”

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to take one step back from him.

  “I want you naked, Miss Sinclair. We’ll tease each other until dinner, then feast on one another for dessert.”

  She took another step away, her breath shallow, her blood too hot.

  Then, before he could defeat the better angels of her nature, she grabbed the books and left the room, as if he were indeed the devil.

  Chapter 18

  Beatrice retreated to the schoolroom, grateful to notice her hands had stopped shaking by the time she reached the third-floor landing. However, the feeling hadn’t gone away. Instead, she felt as if a fire was burning inside her body, the flames licking out to touch every exposed inch of skin.

  She wanted to be kissed. She wanted Devlen to whisper decadent, immoral things against her cheek. She wanted him to breathe against her ear and touch his fingertips to the nape of her neck. Perhaps trace a path with his thumbs down her throat.

  Why was it so difficult to swallow suddenly?

  She placed the books she’d taken from the library on the table, straightened her skirt, readjusted her bodice, and pressed her hands against her hair, hoping she looked more presentable than she felt.

  Robert would be here soon, and they would have a full day of learning. Perhaps, if the weather cleared, they would go outside and take a walk after lunch. Or perhaps it would be safer simply to remain in the schoolroom, a proper governess. A woman who had a strict code of behavior ingrained in her from birth and acted in a proper fashion except in Devlen Gordon’s presence.

  What was he doing now? Was he going to leave again soon, and why had he come back? Was it simply to seduce her?

  She walked to the window and pressed her fingers against her lips. Her lips felt swollen, as if she’d spent hours kissing him.

  Beatrice smiled, recalling a memory. As a girl, she’d practiced kissing the corner of her pillow late at night, a confession she’d never made to another living soul, not even Sally.

  She pressed her hands against the window, feeling the cold against her palms and feeling heated inside in contrast. The ice melted on the other side of the glass and slid slowly down to the sill.

  He’d touched her breasts and fingered her nipple. She pressed her palm hard against herself, feeling a tingling between her legs. He’d have touched her there if she hadn’t fled.

  They’d forgotten where they were. He’d not been concerned that the library was his father’s lair, or that Cameron Gordon might interrupt them any moment. Then again, neither had she.

  Dear God, what kind of creature was she becoming? One of a lascivious nature, that was certain. One who craved the touch of one man. In her very thoughts, she was becoming carnal.

  She returned to the table and sat, organizing her thoughts and forcing her mind from the scene in the library. Dwelling on it would only keep the yearning alive.

  Better to wish him gone than to crave her own ruin.

  She arranged and rearranged the books, trying to decide where she would begin—with the French poetry or the geography, or with the essays on religion? Or would it be better to concentrate on Robert’s reading?

  Thumbing through the French poetry intrigued her. She began to read aloud, not having spoken French for a while before coming to Castle Crannoch. The poem she’d happened on had a special significance, as if Providence itself was demanding she aspire to better pursuits than thinking of Devlen Gordon.

  ’Twas thus those pleasures I lamented,

  Which I so oft in youth repented;

  My soul replete with soft desire,

  Vainly regretted youthful fire.

  How could she regret that which she’d never experienced?

  Besides, she didn’t want to be good, pure, or virtuous anymore. She simply wanted an ease to her life, to wake in the morning and know the day to come wouldn’t be frightening, that there was enough food to feed her and warmth to keep her from being cold. She had clothing and an occupation, and some few moments of entertainment, however she devised it. There would be, in this life she created in her mind, a purpose, even if that purpose was simply to exist without pain and without lack. She wanted nothing more than these simple pleasures, and yet it had been more than she’d had for the last three months.

  If Devlen was right and we created Hell in our minds, was it done to keep mankind rigorously constrained and proper? If Hell was not real, then was Heaven? If it didn’t exist, then were the virtues necessary to achieve an angelic state also false? Decency, kindness, purity, were these all spurious virtues?

  Or was she, perhaps, simply seeking an excuse for her depravity?

  Who was she to reorder the universe? To question all she’d been reared to believe?

  She stood and walked around the table, creating a restless circle from window to door and back again. The first time she circled she clasped her hands tightly together in front of her. The second time, her hands were at her back. The third time, she folded her arms in front of her, and on the fourth occasion, she met Robert coming into the door.

  “Good morning, Miss Sinclair,” he said, taking his seat at the table as polite and well-mannered as any young boy of her acquaintance.

  Beatrice inclined her head and looked at him and mulled over the startling thought that her pupil was becoming better mannered while the teacher was descending into madness.

  She sat as well, suddenly deciding which book she’d use to begin their lessons. She handed him a small volume with an intricate sketch of Castle Crannoch on the front cove
r.

  “Did you know your father had written a book?”

  He nodded and took it from her. With his arms rigid on the table, he held the book between both hands, studying it as if it were the most wonderful treasure he’d ever imagined. For the longest moment, he didn’t speak, and when he did his voice trembled just a little.

  “It’s the history of Castle Crannoch,” he said. “He worked on it for years and years, he told me.”

  “Would you like to begin reading?”

  He nodded and turned to the first page.

  “Aloud please.”

  At first, his voice was halting, and she wondered if she should spend some time with him on his reading. But then, he became more involved with the words, and his voice lost its hesitancy.

  “‘Castle Crannoch,’” he read, “‘was built four hundred years ago by the third Duke of Brechin. What had once been a mound of earth was transformed in two decades to a large and sprawling castle. Although no more than the south tower currently exists of the original structure, it is enough to demonstrate the building techniques, advanced for their era.’”

  He continued reading, his voice impossibly young yet filled with pride, not only for his heritage, but for the man whose words he read. She sat back and studied him, wondering what there was about Robert that was so engaging. Upon her first meeting, she could have cheerfully throttled the boy.

  When he was done with the passage she congratulated him on his reading.

  “My father taught me,” he said. “I’ve been reading ever since I was little.”

  She wanted to point out that he was still little, then realized doing so would be foolish. His grief alone had aged him.

  But even though he appeared older, he was still only seven. There was a great gulf between the responsibilities he would one day assume and the boy he was now. He was a child, despite having inherited the title and being addressed as Your Grace.

  Beatrice realized her duties might well be not those of a governess, but more Robert’s protector, especially in view of the shooting incident. How remarkably ill equipped she felt for the task.

  They spent the rest of the morning doing math problems. Here, the young duke was as adept as he had been at reading. They’d begun memorizing the multiplication tables when a knock at the door interrupted them.

  Her initial reaction was a surge of excitement followed by a frisson of fear. She both wanted to see Devlen and didn’t, needed to see him, and knew it would be foolish to do so.

  When the door opened, however, it wasn’t Devlen but a maid. She placed a tray carefully on the table between the two of them.

  “I was sent with your noon meal, miss.”

  “Is it that late?”

  “The rest of the family has already eaten. Mr. Cameron said you must be busy with your lessons to have forgotten and all.”

  The girl made a quick and perfect curtsy to Robert and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Robert jumped up from his chair, leaned over the table, and peered under one of the covers.

  “Soup. I don’t like soup.”

  “Then you’ve never truly been hungry,” Beatrice said, annoyed with him. “If you were, you’d eat anything on your plate and be glad of it.”

  “I’m the Duke of Brechin. I’ll never go hungry.”

  Evidently, her charge needed some education in something other than books.

  “You might go hungry if there is a drought and your lush farmland withers and dies. You might if your cattle grow sick and your sheep as well. You might, if cholera kills all your workers, if the castle itself begins to crumble. You are a fortunate young man now, and I pray your luck always holds. But it’s foolishness itself to think your title will protect you from hardship. You’ve had a lesson in loss already, Robert. Learn from it. You need to become as smart as you can in order to grow into your inheritance, to shield it and protect it for those who come after.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he did, his comment surprised her. “My father said the same thing.”

  “Did he? Then he would be proud of your showing here today. You’re a good student.”

  “I must be, Miss Sinclair. I am the Duke of Brechin. ‘To whom much is given, much is expected.’”

  “Your father’s words?”

  He laughed, the first time he’d done so. “No, Miss Sinclair. Thomas of Aquinas.”

  He peered under the second cover, allowing her time to steep in her own embarrassment for not knowing the quote. “Cook has sent us cinnamon biscuits. I love Cook’s cinnamon biscuits.”

  Besides two bowls of steaming soup and the beloved biscuits, Cook had also provided a loaf of crusty bread, and a pot of tea serving both as a beverage and a restorative.

  Beatrice cleared off an area at the other end of the table and moved her chair around, bidding Robert to do the same. For a few moments they were occupied with their meal. She only had to correct Robert’s table manners twice. Both times he looked annoyed she’d done so, and she responded to his irritation with a bright smile.

  Perhaps after lunch she might address the concept of arrogance with the young duke.

  She sat back and eyed their bread. She would rather have a biscuit, she decided, and picked one up and nibbled at the edge of it. Cook had outdone herself. She closed her eyes to better savor the taste. When she opened them it was to find the remainder of the biscuits had disappeared from the plate.

  Robert smiled at her innocently.

  She wasn’t fooled. “Are you hoarding those for this evening?” she asked. “So you might have a snack before bedtime?”

  His smile didn’t dim one whit.

  “Or are you planning on eating them all now?”

  He nodded.

  “I should confiscate them, you know. Or only give one to you after you’ve completed your geography. But you’ve done so well this morning I’m going to ignore the fact five biscuits have disappeared.”

  His smile became a little less feigned angelic and more genuine.

  “I do like you, Miss Sinclair,” he said.

  “Because I let you have sweets?”

  “Partly. I also like you because you let me talk about my mother and father, and because you can keep a secret.”

  Before she could comment on that startling announcement, he stood, grabbed the loaf of bread, and went to the window. Placing the bread on the sill, he pushed open the window.

  “Robert! It’s cold outside!”

  He stood on tiptoe and peered outside, as if looking for something. He nodded once, as if he’d found it and then grabbed the bread, tearing it into little pieces.

  “But the birds are cold, too, Miss Sinclair. My father used to feed them every day. He always said God looks after the sparrows and so must we.”

  Was he old enough to have learned manipulation? Or could a seven-year-old boy know, instinctively, just how to tug at her heartstrings? Every single time she became annoyed at him, Robert Gordon did something that made her wish to weep.

  He stood on tiptoe and continued to toss the bread out the window, feeding the birds in memory of his father.

  If she had the power of God, if she were somehow blessed with the ability to raise the dead, she would summon Robert’s parents back to Castle Crannoch. Their lives had been taken too quickly and their child had nearly been destroyed because of it. But she was not the Almighty and had no such power. All she could do, in her limited way, was offer what education she’d been given, and protect the child as much as she could.

  “Let’s keep at your lessons,” she said, reaching out and closing the window, then cleaning up the bread crumbs. “You’ve given the birds the entire loaf. They’ll be lucky if they can fly.”

  “Perhaps they’ll waddle,” he said, tucking his hands into his armpits and making silly little flapping motions with his elbows. When she laughed, he pushed out his stomach and walked with his toes turned in.

  “An amazing demonstration, Miss Sinclair
. Dare I hope other lessons will be more appropriate?”

  Robert froze. Beatrice turned toward the door to find Cameron Gordon sitting there. He’d appeared silently, gliding on his leather-bound wheels.

  “Mr. Gordon.” There was no way to explain to Cameron Gordon they had been indulging in a simple bit of nonsense. Today was the first time she’d ever seen Robert acting like a normal boy.

  Robert’s uncle raised one eyebrow and stared at her.

  He and his son were remarkably alike in appearance. By looking at Cameron, she could almost predict what Devlen would look like in twenty or thirty years. But would Devlen ever be as embittered? Possibly, if his life had been altered by a carriage accident. She couldn’t help but think, however, that Devlen would’ve found a way to turn the entire situation to his advantage.

  “We were just finishing our lunch, Mr. Gordon. Thank you for thinking of us.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Robert, if you’ll be seated, we’ll begin our lessons again.”

  She glanced at Cameron. “Would you care to observe, sir?” she asked, pulling the door wider.

  Instead of entering the room, however, Cameron rolled back into the hallway.

  How had he ever made it to the third floor? By the look on Robert’s face, he wondered as well. The sanctuary they’d found for themselves was no longer inviolate.

  “I think not, Miss Sinclair. But I do expect weekly progress reports. I would like to know what Robert is learning besides levity.”

  “His Grace is seven, sir. A bit of levity is not going to alter his character. Indeed, it may add to it.”

  “You’re a very surprising woman, Miss Sinclair.”

  And one who was going to find herself dismissed if the fact he was clenching his hands on the arms of the chair was any indication. He was obviously annoyed by her comment.

  “My only concern is Robert’s well-being.”

  “I commend your loyalty, Miss Sinclair. And your diligence. Time alone will prove whether or not I’ve made a very great mistake in hiring you.”