All eyes in the room darted to Mrs. Martin.
Time to take back control, thought Alfred. “My dear Mrs. Martin, would you say it could be done next week, with Mer—with Miss Hubert’s help? The sooner this ball occurs, Mrs. Martin, the sooner we can start the hunt for your new undermaid.”
The housekeeper hesitated, but it was clear that faced with so many opposing her, it would be foolish to continue the debate.
“Yes, it can,” she said begrudgingly.
Alfred sighed. “Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”
Mr. Walker was clapping his hands. “You are a saint, Mrs. Martin, as I think you know. The Rochdale Ball will be one week from today!”
Alfred had never known a week to go so fast. Everywhere he went, no matter the time of day, there was frantic busyness. Plates washed, floors scrubbed, all the rugs from the hallway taken outside and beaten over the lawn.
Paintings which he had never really noticed before were cleaned, taking a few layers of historic dirt with them, and his dinners became wilder as Cook practiced for the ball.
What really felt strange was how utterly unrequired Alfred was in these endeavors. In most cases, he was in the way whenever he offered to help.
Two days before the ball, he had heard the most almighty clatter down the corridor from his bedchamber, and when he had raced into a spare bedchamber to see whether Archibald had inadvertently hurt himself, it was to see Meredith, her hair tied up in a handkerchief, scrubbing the floor.
“Can I help you, Your Grace?” she had said stiffly, which may have been due to her aching back rather than the tension between them.
It had hardly encouraged intimacy, however, and Alfred had retreated from the room.
Even the ballroom floor was repolished twice. Alfred had whiled away a few happy minutes watching all the maids get onto their hands and knees to scrub before the final layer of polish was added. There was one particular maid who had a rather delightful behind, and Alfred indulged in watching her surreptitiously, knowing he would never do anything about it but enjoying the view before she turned around and revealed it was Meredith.
He had been forced to step away at that point and retreat upstairs for a very cold bath.
Mrs. Martin had finally come around to the idea that Meredith was more help than a hindrance. Alfred came upon them somewhat regularly during that week, the governess following behind the housekeeper with a notepad and pen as the latter reeled off her latest demands.
“—must not leave the pie crusts out any longer than an hour, or Tom is likely to eat them. Add a note, the sideboard in the dining room not adequately polished. And here, you can see someone’s boots have come in without even bothering to—”
Alfred was rewarded with glimpses of Meredith, but in most cases, the two ladies were far too busy to be paying any attention to someone as unhelpful as the Duke of Rochdale.
There did not seem anything Meredith could not do, in fact. Great talents, indeed.
Meredith was special. He had never encountered a woman like her, and he wasn’t sure he ever would. She was unique. Every time he thought he had understood her…
It was because of her that Mrs. Martin had been able to get the damned ball ready for the place within a week. It couldn’t be done, that was what the housekeeper had told him.
And yet before he knew it, before Alfred had really prepared himself, he was standing in his dressing room, with Kittering fussing around him. It was time to put on the most ridiculous clothes he had ever purchased—those designed for stupid occasions like this.
He pulled his cravat.
“Is it too tight, Your Grace?” said Kittering hurriedly.
“If we had it as loose as I wanted, it wouldn’t be on. You’ve done well, Kittering.”
His valet smiled at the praise as Alfred stepped toward the looking glass. He had never been one for caring much about his appearance. There were plenty of dandies and fops to cover the streets of London, of course, but that was simply not what mattered to him.
It mattered today. For some unknowable reason, one he was ashamed of, he wanted to impress this evening—not the countless gentlemen who would soon be arriving with their all-important votes for the election.
It was Meredith he wished to impress. He wanted her to see him at his finest. She had asked him not to kiss her again, and he was not that sort of master. He did not take advantage of the women in his household who may feel they were unable to say no to him.
“You look perfect, Your Grace,” said the valet stiffly. “I do not think you have looked better. Your guests await you.”
Bowing, he left Alfred standing alone before the looking glass.
“Look,” he said quietly. “You need this ball to win the election. Just be charming and electable. Ignore Mere—ignore Miss Hubert.”
The glare he gave himself was stern, and Alfred hoped that would be enough. He had no one else to force him to behave, after all.
As he swept down the staircase, Mrs. Martin appeared at the bottom of it, looking frantic.
“The carriages are arriving! They are here, the guests are here, and I haven’t triple checked that the punch is—”
Alfred reached the bottom step and took his housekeeper’s hands in his own. “Mrs. Martin, you have done wonders. I am most grateful for your excellent work, and I am sure the punch is fine. Now relax this evening, won’t you? I would not have you exhausting yourself.”
Mrs. Martin did something she had never done before and blushed. “Y-Yes, Your Grace. Perhaps I will sit downstairs with Cook and enjoy a—”
“That sounds perfect,” said Alfred hastily. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen footmen spanning out around the front door where Roberts was pulling on his white gloves. “Off you go, Mrs. Martin.”
She disappeared into the servants’ corridor as Roberts appeared. “Ready, Your Grace?”
Alfred nodded. “Ready for the onslaught.”
And onslaught it was. Alfred spent the next hour by the front door welcoming each and every single one of his guests. It was expected, and therefore he did it.
The fact that it was dull did not seem to bother anyone. It was difficult to concentrate, however, because he could see out of the corner of his eye two figures at the end of the hall watching all of the arrivals.
Archibald and Meredith. The boy was wide-eyed, trying to take in all the glory and splendor of his guests, the ladies with feathers in their hair, the gentlemen with their intricate and ostentatious cravats.
Alfred smiled. This was the first time his younger brother had been permitted to stay up to see a ball, even at the sidelines. It was a spectacular sight, even he had to admit.
He could remember the first time his father—their father—had permitted him to remain. True, it had been about twenty years ago. The fashions were very different, and the music would be considered old-fashioned to today’s ears.
“Ah, Rochdale.”
Alfred started. He had not been paying attention to whom he was greeting and found to his surprise John Talbot and his sister, Wilhelmina, standing before him.
“Mr. Talbot,” he said. It would not do to be seen as ungentlemanly toward the man who was attempting to oust him from his family seat.
Talbot smiled. “Ah, the old ‘please elect me!’ Rochdale Ball. How I have missed it.”
Alfred smiled wryly in return. “Well, it has always worked before, Talbot. I suppose giving the people what they want can win elections. My family has always found so.”
His remarks wiped the smile from Talbot’s face, though his sister simpered.
They would have continued to converse if not for the swell of arriving guests pushing them forward. Alfred could not pretend to be disappointed. The less he had to do with that maggot, Talbot, the better.
As the guests poured in, he wished he were seated with Meredith and Archibald, rather than here playing the politician.
Besides, what he wanted Meredith for was not really acceptable in polite so
ciety.
His jaw tightened as he waited for the last straggler guests to arrive. At least here, in the quiet of his own mind, he could admit what he could never say aloud.
He wanted her. He wanted to bed Meredith, make her scream with pleasure. He wanted her to be panting under him, desperate for his touch. He had never bedded a servant before. That was a line he simply would not cross. No matter how much he wanted to.
“Well done,” came a low voice. Alfred turned to see Mr. Walker smiling. “That was good, Your Grace. Now you will need to attempt to dance with as many ladies as possible.”
Alfred groaned, speaking low so Meredith could not hear. “You cannot be serious.”
“There must be some ladies here you would wish to dance with,” said Mr. Walker placidly. “Start with those, and then move on to others.”
Alfred swallowed, trying to prevent his gaze from moving to the one woman with whom he would greatly love to dance.
Meredith. She caught his eye and immediately dropped her gaze, leaning over to Archibald and whispering something in his ear. The child nodded, and the two of them rose.
His better judgment told him he was mad to even consider it, but Alfred had spent too long listening to his conscience. He could not help himself. Every part of him was drawn to her, and now he had the chance to be closer to her than before.
“Miss Hubert,” he said clearly, his voice echoing around the hall.
Meredith and Archibald halted. She curtseyed. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Why could she not call him Alfred? “Would you like to dance, Miss Hubert?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Alfred looked into the eyes of the stubborn governess before him. No? She was going to refuse him? Why, he could order her to!
But that was not in his nature, nor hers. “Why?”
The word had escaped his lips before he could stop it. Archibald was looking at them in evident confusion.
Meredith swallowed, pink cheeks now glowing. “Why? Your Grace, it would be scandalous. A duke dance with a governess at his ball?”
Her eyes darted around the hall, evidently ensuring no one else could hear them. Alfred lowered his voice so the boy would not hear his next remark.
“I would like to do more than just dance, Meredith.”
“You cannot say such—”
“What more?”
Both Alfred and Meredith looked at Archibald, forehead puckered into a frown.
Alfred coughed. He needed to remember himself. She was right. Of course, he could not dance with Meredith; that would be ridiculous. He would invite a scandal onto his name, the last thing he needed right before the election.
“You are quite right,” he said curtly. “Good evening, Miss Hubert.”
It took strong willpower to step away from her, but Alfred knew it was his only choice. As he paced down the corridor and into the ballroom, applause from his guests met his ears.
“Thank you, thank you,” said Alfred with a smile, raising his hand. “Now, the dancing must begin—and I know just the person to start it.”
He had spotted her as soon as he had entered the ballroom. That ridiculous feather in her hair dyed a raucous pink that could be spotted a mile off.
Still, it would make Mr. Walker happy and keep the gossips away from Meredith.
“Miss Talbot,” he said graciously, stepping over to her and holding out his hand. “Would you do me the honor?”
Miss Talbot, as Alfred knew she would, glanced at her brother. Talbot glared as though trying to understand why he was making such a spectacle of them and then nodded.
Miss Talbot took his hand, and the guests applauded as they moved to the center of the ballroom. Time for this damned ball to begin.
The rigor of the dance took over for a few minutes, and Alfred was not able to catch sight of her, but as he and Miss Talbot completed their move down the set, he had the time to look over at her once again—and his heart froze.
Meredith was no longer alone. A gentleman was speaking to her, a smile on his face and a rather leering look in his eye.
Talbot. John Talbot was speaking to his—to Meredith. Alfred could not make out the words, not from here, but was that a smile on her face? Fiery jealousy rushed through him like he had never known before. What did Talbot think he was doing, talking to his—his governess!
“Everyone expects it, you know.”
Alfred’s attention was drawn hastily back to the dance. “What?”
Miss Talbot was smiling. “Us. Uniting the houses, Talbot and Carmichael.”
He stared as they stepped together, hands touching. Not this old suggestion again…
“Our marriage would create a new dynasty, one without the squabbling of our ancestors,” she said softly, her eyes focused on his own.
Alfred could do nothing but nod curtly. There was no response he could make to that other than ‘no,’ which was what he felt but knew would be an insult.
Miss Wilhelmina Talbot? She was fine, he supposed, in a bland way. Though the marriage had been suggested a number of times—first by his father, most recently by Mr. Walker—he simply could not summon up the interest in her.
The dance came to an end, with the onlookers applauding the musicians genteelly.
Miss Talbot appeared to be a little flushed. “Your Grace, why do we not—”
“You will have to excuse me,” said Alfred hurriedly, bowing and walking away.
There was only one thing on his mind, and that was Meredith. Pushing past guests in his attempts to get to her, when he finally managed to reach the musicians, she was alone.
“Where is Archibald?” he snapped.
Meredith raised her eyebrows at his tone. “Why, gone to bed. It was far too late for him to be awake, but I wished him to see the beginning of the first—where are we going?”
Alfred had grabbed her hand and was pulling her none too gently out of the ballroom and down the corridor.
“Your Grace!”
Alfred ignored her. Blood was rushing through his veins, pounding so loudly he could barely hear her. Only when he had pulled her into the library and slammed the door behind him did she speak again.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Alfred saw the anger in him reflected in her eyes. “I don’t want you speaking to him.”
“Him?”
He had to get his temper under control. He had to make her understand. “John Talbot.”
Meredith opened her mouth, closed it again, and then said stiffly, “I think you will find, Your Grace, that I can talk to whomever I like!”
Alfred took a step toward her. “What did he say to you?”
Clearly, there was something in his manner that made her realize this was far more important than mere jealousy, though that, too, was clouding his judgment at the present.
“He…” Meredith licked her lips, and Alfred tried not to concentrate on them but her words. “He was telling me about you.”
Alfred closed the gap between them. “And what did he say?”
It was clearly something licentious, for Meredith’s cheeks colored before she managed to say, “He said…well. That you bed your servants. That I should be careful of you.”
Alfred swore under his breath.
“Your Grace!”
His mind was overwhelmed, utterly incapable of understanding where this rumor could have come from. It sounded to him like the sort of nonsense Talbot always came up with.
“I have never done such a thing before,” he said quietly. “But then, I have never wanted to. Not until now.”
Meredith stepped back. “No,” she whispered. “We mustn’t.”
“I am determined,” he said. “Unless you ask me to stop…”
“Alfred,” Meredith whispered.
The kiss was deep, passionate, untamed. Alfred poured all his frustrations onto Meredith’s lips, and she responded with just as much passion. All the control she had used to keep away from him was now gone.
“Meredith…”
She was warm and passionate, everything he wanted.
“No.”
Alfred dropped her as though he had been burned. “I did not mean to…”
“No, you did nothing wrong,” Meredith said. “No, I could not…I must not…Archibald will need tucking in.”
She stepped away from him before he could reach her, before he could stop her; Alfred watched Meredith slip out of the library.
Damn. He needed to get a hold of himself.
Chapter Thirteen
September 13, 1812
When Meredith opened her eyes from the comfort of her bedchamber in the eaves of the abbey, there was a smile on her face.
How could there not be? She had barely managed to fall asleep before dawn after the ball. The moment she had drifted into slumber, her dreams filled with the most wonderful scenes.
Alfred. Alfred, riding alongside her, laughter on his lips and joy in his eyes. Alfred, no longer a member of Parliament for Rochdale, but free and happy to do what he wished with his life. Alfred, kissing her passionately as they sat on the sofa in the drawing room…
Perhaps she should not indulge in such wild dreams, but they were the only place she could be as free with Alfred as she wished when she was awake.
She could not just lie here thinking such things. It was Sunday, and Alfred had already agreed with the Reverend Michaels that the Rochdale house would not be attending church today. She needed to get up and on with her chores.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Meredith sensed the early morning air. She had left the curtains open as she always did. There was something about waking up to the sunrise every morning, and as she stepped over to the window, she opened it and breathed in.
Fresh air. It was only today that a scent of autumn was in the air. The heat of the summer was gone.
“Miss Hubert!”
Meredith whirled around. It was Mrs. Martin. She did not know about the kiss, did she? The housekeeper had never bothered her before in her rooms, only to deliver the looking glass, and that had been with a most begrudging air.
“Miss Hubert?”
A Governess of Great Talents Page 16
