by Diane Gaston
Once when a man stood so close to her, he had forced her into a kiss. Even Lord Stonecroft had placed his wet, pulpous lips upon hers before he’d left to return to London. She’d wanted to retch. Somehow, though, if Lord Brookmore did the same, she would not mind.
What a brazen thought!
If she were herself—Lady Rebecca—instead of pretending to be Claire, could she, this moment, invite a kiss? All she needed to do was rise up on tiptoe.
Perhaps it would not hurt to be Lady Rebecca for a few minutes longer.
* * *
Garret gazed down at her face, so close to his. His heart thundered in his chest as her words echoed.
How can I ever thank you?
A kiss would be more than thanks.
The hall lamp shone on her, making her skin glow, bathing them both in light. The darkness cocooned them. Nothing else existed but the two of them, so close.
She rose, bringing her tantalising lips a whisper closer. It was enough to undo him. Garret seized her arms and lowered his lips to hers.
She tasted of claret and raspberries, her lips whetting an appetite he’d tried hard to deny. Her mouth opened to him and she placed her palms on his cheeks, holding his kiss.
It was all the encouragement he needed. He deepened the kiss and pressed her against him, against where the need for her had escalated. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers buried themselves in his hair. She returned his kisses with an ardour matching his own.
What might it be like to make love to her? Would she match his passion making love?
‘Lord Brookmore,’ she murmured in a voice tinged with both passion and anxiety.
It woke him up.
He was Lord Brookmore. Her employer.
He pushed her away. ‘Miss Tilson, I—’ Words failed. What could he say to her about what he’d done? And almost done?
He turned on his heel and strode away, back down the corridor and stairs.
Chapter Five
What had she done?
Had she risen on her toes or had he leaned down?
She’d wanted to kiss him, of that she was certain. Once his lips touched hers, she had not wanted him to stop.
She’d enticed him. How could she think otherwise? And he recoiled from her. She’d acted the hoyden and had created a disgust in him.
What her schoolteachers warned had been true—she was too forward. Too impulsive. She must take care lest she unleash the carnal impulses of a man. The man who once forced his kiss upon her blamed her for it. She had been too alluring, he’d said. But she’d been reasonably certain she’d not been too forward then and her impulse had definitely not been to kiss him.
But with Lord Brookmore? She might have enticed that kiss from Lord Brookmore. How foolish she’d been to want that kiss.
There was a knock on the door and Rebecca jumped up and rushed to the door. She hesitated. Had he returned?
She cleared her throat. ‘Who is it?’
‘The maid, miss.’ Not Lord Brookmore.
Rebecca opened the door, unsure if she were relieved or disappointed.
The young woman helped her take off her dress and assisted her with donning her new nightdress. When the maid left, Rebecca crawled into bed and buried herself under the covers.
She had very likely ruined her respite as a governess. Brookmore would discharge her; his nieces would endure another loss and she would be forced to tell him who she really was and beg for enough money to travel to London.
Worst of all, she would have to find another way to avoid marrying Lord Stonecroft and enduring his wet, disgusting kisses.
But how could she ever kiss another man after being kissed by Lord Brookmore?
* * *
The next morning Lord Brookmore had sent her breakfast to her room to avoid her, no doubt.
After she dressed again in her riding habit, she dismissed the maid and tried to eat the cooked egg, bread and cheese Lord Brookmore provided for her. Giving up on finishing the food, she picked up her new bag packed with the new dresses and fabrics with which he’d surprised and delighted her. She left the room, fearful he might have already abandoned her.
When she entered the yard, though, he stood by his horse. An ostler held the reins of another horse wearing her side saddle. As she approached Lord Brookmore mounted his horse and avoided looking at her.
The ostler helped her into her saddle and fixed her bag behind her. Lord Brookmore handed the man a coin and started for the gate. Rebecca called a quick thank you to the ostler and hurried to catch up.
She could tell already that the horse she rode was more spirited than the horses provided for her the day before, but the enjoyment of riding such a horse was dampened by the fact that Lord Brookmore acted as if he were riding alone. He said not one word to her.
Rebecca, too, stayed silent, concentrating on keeping her horse steady and keeping up with him on the busy streets of Preston. They rode past Horrock’s Mill and eventually reached the countryside.
Rebecca began this journey feeling shame about her behaviour and fear that she had lost any good opinion Lord Brookmore might have had of her. By the time the roads cleared, she felt angry. How dare he not even address what happened between them, not even acknowledge her presence? That kiss had not solely been her fault. She might have acted like a hoyden, but Lord Brookmore had not behaved as a gentleman, had he?
In any event, this silence was intolerable.
Her father might have blocked her out of his life and treated her as if she did not exist, but Rebecca would not take such treatment from anyone else.
She quickened her horse’s pace until she reached his side. ‘You must speak to me some time, sir.’
He darted a glance at her, but said nothing.
‘I did not know you would kiss me,’ she snapped.
His gaze was again fixed on the road. ‘It will not happen again.’
He spoke this like an order, in a tone he might have used with his soldiers. He did not have to order her not to kiss him again. As if she would! Her anger was escalating and she was not sure if its source was his icy treatment of her or if it was her disappointment that he’d turned out to be just as thoughtless and cruel as other men in her life.
‘It is unfair to blame me for it,’ she retorted. ‘You kissed me, after all.’
He actually looked at her. ‘Blame you?’
She lifted her chin. ‘I fear you are trying to discharge me. Or perhaps you have already discharged me by giving me the cut direct.’
A day ago she would not have believed him capable of such thoughtlessness.
He gaped at her. ‘I am not discharging you.’
Her voice rose again. ‘Then why pretend I do not exist? Why refuse to speak to me? I am left to guess you wish me gone.’ As her father had done.
He stopped his horse. His jaw flexed. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘What else am I to think?’
He turned his horse and came directly next to her, leaning towards her. The space between them was only a few inches more than when they’d kissed. ‘Think that I behaved abominably towards you. Think that I do not know what to say to you.’
He thought he’d behaved abominably? She almost softened towards him. ‘Did you also think boorishness was preferable to a simple apology?’
‘A simple apology seemed inadequate.’ He frowned.
He turned his horse and rode on. This time she held back a little.
He had not discharged her! She could still pretend to be Claire.
Her cheeks burned with shame. She had called him a boor and here she was, nothing but an imposter.
* * *
Garret had even more reason to chastise himself. He’d assumed she would know he regretted what he’d done to her—and what he’d almost done. He’d simply made matters worse by
not speaking of it.
They stopped at an inn to change horses.
He dismounted and turned to assist her. ‘Let us get some refreshment.’
She looked down at him with a haughty expression. ‘As you wish.’
She slid off the saddle, landing nearly as close as when he’d kissed her the night before. He must keep more distance.
The ostlers took charge of the horses and Garret escorted Miss Tilson into the tavern. At this morning hour, the public room was nearly empty and Garret thought better of a private room. Best not to be private with her.
He chose a table some distance away from the other diners, helped her sit and chose the chair across from hers. He ordered tea and biscuits for them which came quickly, accommodating those patrons who needed to be quickly on their way.
She poured the tea for him.
He knew they must discuss what had transpired between them. He searched for a way to begin.
She spoke first. ‘I want you to know that I did not intentionally entice you, sir. I have been accused of such wiles before, but, I assure you, I do not know precisely what one does to entice.’
Who was it who’d accused her? he wondered in a surge of jealousy.
Jealousy? He had not the right.
He leaned towards her and spoke quietly. ‘What transpired last night was entirely my fault.’
She raised her eyes to his. ‘I must have seemed too willing. That is what disgusted you, I am sure.’
She had been willing, he remembered. She’d kissed him back and resisted nothing. She’d kissed him back with a fervour matching his own.
‘You did not disgust me,’ he told her.
She persisted. ‘But you left so angrily.’
‘Anger at me, not you.’ Let her be clear about that. ‘It was wrong of me to kiss you.’
Her gaze did not waver. ‘Then why did you?’
Why? Because she was a fascinating combination of vulnerability and strength. Because her animated features fascinated him. Because she’d been game enough to ride a whole day and never complained. He admired courage, even in small matters. She’d even been courageous enough to talk to him about the kiss when he could not think of a word to say. Because she was the first woman he’d truly wanted to kiss in a long, long time.
‘You were enticing,’ he admitted.
‘I did not mean to be!’ she cried.
He placed his hands on the table. ‘I know, Miss Tilson. I placed you in an intolerable position.’
She straightened in her chair. ‘I refuse to allow you to take all the blame.’ She touched his hand.
It made him remember her eager response to him. The attraction was strong between them, which only made it more difficult for him.
He withdrew his hand. ‘You are in my employ. A governess is at the mercy of her employer. I will not take advantage of you again.’
Something akin to self-reproach crossed her face. ‘Then how are we to go along?’ she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.
‘I will behave correctly from now on.’ He took a sip of his tea, lukewarm now. ‘And I will not stay at Brookmore for very long.’
She looked more disappointed than relieved. Even more reason why he should only stay long enough to be certain his nieces accepted this enticing governess.
* * *
They finished their tea and walked out to mount fresh horses. This steed was not as spirited as Rebecca’s previous one, but her mind was too preoccupied by her conversation with Lord Brookmore to care. The joy of the day before had disappeared and she was left with regret and disappointment. Regret that she’d not shown more restraint when he’d kissed her and disappointment that he did not intend to do so again. Instead he planned to leave.
They passed a house with a model of a ship above the door, reminding her that things could be so much worse for her—had been so much worse for Claire.
On the road the ease with Lord Brookmore that made the previous day so pleasurable was lacking. He kept a distance that was appropriate for a titled lord and a lowly governess.
The countryside they rode through was not unlike that around Reading where she’d attended school. Rolling hills, grazing sheep, planted fields. Gradually, though, it changed. The hills rose into mountains of brilliant green, glimpses of grey rock peeking through. In the valleys were lakes of deep blue water. The sheep that dotted the hills were a dusty brown, so unlike those in Berkshire. The houses, churches and other buildings were made of grey slate. From the mountains, no doubt. The countryside was lined with walls made with pieces of slate stacked one on the other.
The road led them up a mountain and when they were near the top, Rebecca stopped her horse and gasped.
‘It is lovely,’ she exclaimed, gazing down at the scene. ‘The mountains and lake.’ So green and blue.
He turned his horse to amble next to hers. ‘We call the valleys dales. The mountains with grazing land are fells and the lakes are waters or meres. Several of our words like these are from the Vikings who once settled here.’
‘It looks like a foreign land.’ She made a small laugh. ‘Not that I’ve seen any foreign lands. It looks unlike any place I’ve ever been.’
He moved his horse back on to the road. ‘It is unlike any other place.’
It was the sort of place that could change a person, Rebecca thought. Her grim outlook lifted a bit. This land offered hope.
They stopped in a village to change horses. These buildings, too, were constructed with the grey slate, contrasted with a few that were whitewashed. The lack of colour in the buildings merely set off the green of the fells and the blue of the waters.
See? She was already speaking in this new foreign tongue.
Their road skirted a long lake.
Lord Brookmore inclined his head towards the lake. ‘Windermere,’ he said. ‘The largest lake in England.’
It did seem to stretch for ever.
When the lake was no longer in sight they reached another village with the lovely name of Ambleside. Ambleside had the same stone buildings built on the rises, twists and turns of the land.
He pointed to a little house built on a bridge over a small river. ‘See the Bridge House? It is a cobbler’s house and has been here over one hundred years.’
He seemed to relax in these surroundings, places that must be as familiar to him as the landscape and villages around her father’s estate and those around her school in Reading. She welcomed his ease of manner.
They left the village behind and entered a lane lined with ferns and shrubbery and trees so tall that the mountains disappeared from view. Their horses’ hooves clip-clopped over a stone bridge spanning a stream, its water creating music as it tumbled over rocks.
Lord Brookmore quickened the pace. ‘We are almost there.’
The wooded lane opened into fields again where cattle grazed. In the distance appeared a great house, built, of course, with the grey stone she’d seen everywhere this day. The house had a tower in front, crenelated like the castles of old, and another on the wing of the house.
‘Brookmore House?’ she asked as they approached, knowing it could be nothing else.
‘Brookmore House,’ he repeated with pride.
They passed through a wrought-iron gate and followed the road to a circular courtyard. There was no grand entrance to the house, merely a large carved wooden door. As they neared, the door opened and two footmen and a female servant emerged.
‘Good day, m’lord,’ the woman called. She eyed Rebecca with a puzzled expression.
‘Mrs Dodd. I hope you are in good health.’ Lord Brookmore dismounted.
‘I am, sir,’ she responded. Mrs Dodd was at least forty, a sturdy woman with a crisp apron and cap and an efficient air about her.
The footmen each took hold of a horse.
Lord Brookmore turned
to Rebecca. The look he gave her set her heart to skittering.
She slid from the saddle.
Lord Brookmore addressed the footmen. ‘We will need our bags. Tell Mr Lloyd to return the horses to the coaching inn.’ His tone was matter of fact, even friendly. Her brother would have sneered at the men and barked out orders.
The footman holding Rebecca’s horse handed the reins to the other and started unfastening her bag from the saddle.
Brookmore gestured for Rebecca to step forward, which she did.
He presented her to the female servant. ‘Mrs Dodd,’ he said. ‘This is Miss Tilson, the new governess.’
‘The governess!’ Mrs Dodd exclaimed, looking her over again.
He turned to Rebecca. ‘Mrs Dodd is the housekeeper.’
The woman in charge of the maids, the cook and the kitchen staff. But not the governess. A governess was not a servant, but was answerable only to who hired her.
Mrs Dodd nodded to her. ‘How do you do, Miss Tilson.’
Rebecca smiled at her. ‘I am a little fatigued, but quite in awe of this lovely place.’
The door opened and out dashed two little girls followed by a tall, thin, impeccably dressed man who Rebecca would wager was the butler.
‘Mr Glover!’ said Mrs Dodd disapprovingly.
‘There was no stopping them.’ The man panted.
Rebecca felt as though reality struck her full in the chest. She would be the governess to these girls. And she did not know how to be a governess!
She took in a deep breath. How hard could it be?
The two girls looked less like sisters than she and Claire had. The older girl seemed all legs and arms and was as dark-haired and serious as her uncle. The younger girl was tiny, sturdy and blonde and seemed bursting with excitement.
She remembered their names. Pamela and Ellen.
Pamela, the older girl, faced her. ‘Are you our new governess?’
Why be nervous? This was a little girl.
Rebecca made herself smile. ‘I am. And you must be Miss Pamela.’
The girl assessed her carefully.
The younger one bounced forward. ‘I am Ellen!’
‘Are you?’ Rebecca squatted down to her level. ‘I am—Miss Tilson.’ She’d almost said Lady Rebecca.
