Waking Up With a Viscount

by Tess Byrnes

  "Very good," the older lady sighed, reassured that her daughter's scholarship was in good hands.

  "And her water colors," she said suddenly, as a fresh concern was raised in her mind. She looked at Priscilla, and relaxed as the young woman again nodded encouragingly.

  "Well, enough said. You will have your hands full, my dear. Is there something wrong, Miss Hawksworth?" she asked as she saw a slight frown in Priscilla's expressive blue eyes.

  "No, ma’am. Only, what of her real studies? Is she to study mathematics, or the French or Italian tongues, perhaps? I can give tutelage in all those areas, as well as the use of globes."

  “Academics?" Mrs. Hartfield exclaimed, horrified. "Accomplishments are to be Lucy's real studies, as you put it. She must concentrate on those accomplishments that will make her a fit bride worthy of any gentleman."

  Priscilla compared the mental image she had created of imparting her father's precious knowledge on to a new pupil with the new vision of herself teaching pianoforte and water colors to a flighty debutante, and smiled wryly inwardly. Sighing a little, she asked Mrs. Hartfield to tell her something of her other charge. Immediately Mrs. Hartfield's worried look evaporated in to one of maternal pride.

  "My sweet Amabel! She's twelve years old and inclined to be something of a hoyden. She adores her sister, of course. But there will be time and more for you to concentrate on her studies after we have Lucy established. Amabel will learn a lot by watching your instructions with Lucy, after all. In the meantime I would like you to take your meals with the family, unless we are to have company.” She spoke as if she had already accepted Priscilla as a co-conspirator in her mission to find Lucy an Eligible, and if possible, Brilliant Match.

  Despite her disappointment at the nature of her new employment, Priscilla felt warmed. She was pleased that she was not expected to eat her meals alone in the school room, which was a fate she had been dreading. She had been welcomed by Mrs. Hartfield in a way that Carolyn had never welcomed her in her own home, and she twinkled back at the older woman. Seeing the way this radiant smile lit Priscilla's blue eyes and brought the enchanting dimples into her rose tinged cheeks, Mrs. Hartfield felt a momentary curiosity as to why this lovely and obviously genteel young woman was not wed herself. But being far too self-absorbed to maintain sufficient curiosity in anyone outside her own family for very long, she let this thought slip away again, and reached for the ornate tasseled bell-pull as more important matters took over. There was the housekeeper to consult over the week’s menu, and the question of which of her gowns would best suit the delicate confection of a bonnet just delivered by Mademoiselle Euphanie.

  A few minutes later a maid appeared at the door, and escorted Priscilla up the main stair to a small but pleasant room on the third floor. As she ascended the stairs Priscilla glanced back over the main entrance hall. The house was of very handsome proportions, and appointed in the latest style influenced by the Pharaohs. The tall windows that lined the entrance hall were hung with yellow and green silk. Plush carpets covered the floors. Taste alone, certainly not expense, had been spared in what seemed to be a recent redecoration. Priscilla had wanted to ask about Mr. Hartfield’s absence, but, of course, courtesy prohibited such curiosity.

  “I can find out from the servants,” she suddenly thought with a mischievous gleam. “How Carolyn used to complain about servants’ gossip, but now I can indulge in gossip with impunity.” However, the maid who led Priscilla to her room disappointingly showed no disposition to linger and chat, instead treating Priscilla with polite servility as she opened a door on the third floor. The first thing Priscilla noticed about her new room was the big bow window, complete with window seat, overlooking the front drive and gardens. The furniture was serviceable, rather than elegant, as befitted a paid employee’s room, but the hangings at the window were new pink damask, and the dark wood of the desk and bed had been polished until it shone warmly. Priscilla recognized it immediately as the sort of room she would assign to the dresser of an important guest, or perhaps the housekeeper’s visiting relative. She grinned wryly to herself at the realization of her new social standing, but her ready sense of humor asserted itself, and she merely smiled, cast off her bonnet, and turned to see her baggage which by some fortunate miracle had been forwarded from the Bluehaven station.

  The trunk and both bandboxes had already been unpacked, and stood ready for a groom to come remove them to a storage area. Priscilla opened the closet and surveyed the contents. She had packed carefully, selecting from her somewhat frivolous wardrobe at Pleasance all her most somber gowns. They were still a little too well-cut and fashionable for an ordinary governess, but from her little knowledge of her new employer, Priscilla was already fairly certain Mrs. Hartfield would not notice this. She had also brought two of her newest ball gowns. This had been a last minute impulse, because the gowns were new and had not been worn, and Priscilla had not wanted to leave them for Carolyn to discard. Priscilla selected an evening gown of apple green with short puff sleeves. It had a slightly darker ribbon accent, with a matching ribbon for her hair. She laid the dress out on the bed and removed her traveling dress with some difficulty as she was not accustomed to dressing without the assistance of her maid. When she finally stood in her chemise, she gazed down with new-found horror at the padded corset she and every other lady wore to disguise their curves and preserve the columnar lines of the current mode. “How shall I ever lace myself up in the morning?” she thought in despair, and then told herself firmly, “Nonsense. Hundreds of women do it every day, and you will just have to learn, Miss Hawksworth!”

  Donning a ruffled pink and white floral wrapper, Priscilla sat down at a mirrored dressing table and combed through her brown locks, brushing them until they shone, curling the ends around her fingers, and catching them up in the ribbon that she threaded through the silken mane. She looked objectively at the lovely, youthful image in the mirror, and wondered if she should instead twist her hair up into a tight, severe chignon. She attempted this, but without her dresser she was unable to achieve anything but a loose knot with wispy tendrils escaping all around her face. They framed it charmingly, making her appear younger than ever, and definitely not in the style she had envisioned. She smiled ruefully at the effect, and then allowed the tresses to fall back into the original, simple style. Her blue eyes looked back at her from the mirror as a sudden thought struck her.

  "I don't even know what color his eyes are!" she remarked aloud, and then blushed as she realized that while her hands had been busy attempting to create a hair style appropriate to her new station, her mind had been reliving the events of the previous night. She put one hand to her lips, her fingers brushing over them, reliving the feeling of his lips on hers. As her body remembered the feelings she had experienced, Priscilla sighed deeply. She had obviously missed out on some very important instruction, not having a mother to talk to. Clearly there were things that happened between a husband and wife that Priscilla was not knowledgeable about. Amazing things. And now Priscilla had taken a step that removed her from marriage forever. As a governess, she was not likely to ever contract an eligible connection.

  She wondered if the old gatekeeper had found his master, and hoped that his hurts had not been serious. If she had met the handsome man in the ordinary way of things, would she have ever felt his lips and hands on her body the way she had? A smile touched her lips at the memory, and she shook her head at her own reflection. “Damn and blast,” she repeated ruefully.

  Perhaps Carolyn’s strictures concerning her character had been correct after all, for she had not only failed to faint genteelly when presented with an unconscious man, but she had then had the temerity to lie down beside him, and when he crossed the line, she had crossed it with him. And if she were honest, she would do it again in a heartbeat.

  That had not been the first time a gentleman had kissed her. During her season in London, several young bucks had managed to maneuver Priscilla into a secluded spot at a b
all or party to press their suit. Only once had Priscilla been so caught off guard that her suitor was actually able to achieve his aim and kiss her. Priscilla had to admit that she had been curious and might have been able to avoid it if she had chosen. That kiss had been nothing more than the meeting of two pairs of lips. It was well meant, but caused no response in Priscilla. The handsome stranger she had rescued from the alley had caused all manner of responding feelings, however. Amongst them a reprehensible regret that she had leapt out of that bed as quickly as she had done. In fact she should never have climbed into it in the first place, she scolded herself sternly.

  "Well, what else could I have done?" her sensible self replied. “I couldn't let him catch his death of cold. And I certainly couldn't have left him lying in that horrid lane. Still, if I had only known that his hunting lodge was but a few miles down the road, I'm sure I could have continued on." She was oddly glad that she hadn't known. As long as the whole thing remained her secret, her reputation was safe. All she had done was render aid to an injured and helpless man. A very handsome, very skilled, helpless man.

  Remembering the strength in his limbs, and the harsh look on his face when he had struggled to rise in the lane, Priscilla found herself doubting that her unknown stranger found himself helpless very often. In her mind’s eye she saw the dark lashes resting on the chiseled cheekbones, wondering if his eyes were blue or brown. Shaking off these thoughts, Priscilla rose and slipped into her gown, struggling a little with the fastenings. Finally ready, she slipped into green slippers that matched the ribbon in her hair, and, arranging a fine Norwich shawl around her shoulders against the slight chill of the evening. She rang for the maid who had shown Priscilla to her room to lead her down through the maze of halls and galleries to the dining room.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “But Hawkie, I cannot be expected to stand in the receiving line looking like an overgrown chicken!” Indeed, the lovely young girl standing before priscilla had a point. The astonishing number of frills and ribbons on the creamy yellow ball gown did lend it the appearance of a buff orpington.

  Priscilla bit her lip to suppress a bubble of mirth, and replied in a somewhat shaky voice, “Lucy, dear, I beg you not to exaggerate so. This gown is a little, um, overly embellished, but you do not resemble a chicken in the slightest.” She studied the girl with a critical eye. “I do think we could remove a few of the ruffles and bows and improve the appearance of the gown immensely.” She saw the doubting look in her charge’s eye and bent herself to the task of reconciling Lucy to her mother’s choice of ball gown.

  The first weeks of Priscilla’s appointment as governess to the Misses Lucy and Amabel Hartfield had sped by at a rate that Priscilla would not have previously believed possible. She had been used to a leisurely existence full of books, and country walks. She had not imagined that the introduction of two young girls into her orderly existence could cause such pandemonium, but a very few weeks as a governess had taught her otherwise. She had little time to dwell on the interesting events of her journey to Hartfield manner. Fortunately she also had no time to dwell on the consequences of her flight from Pleasance either.

  Her arrival in the school room had been anticipated with misgiving by the young occupants. Lucy and Amabel had dealt summarily with a long succession of unsympathetic governesses. They had come to regard any of this community of educators as the enemy, coming among them only to force them into a rigid routine of learning. Priscilla had come as a pleasant surprise. Her youth and lively sense of humor had immediately appealed to the younger girls, who had quickly dubbed her ‘Hawkie’, and just as quickly fallen into the habit of not only believing her every utterance, but filling conversations with “Hawkie says...” Lucy’s private dread of appearing in society as a raw country girl had lifted immeasurably as she took hint after hint from Priscilla’s more polished ways. And Amabel accepted her eagerly, following direction given with humor where she had flouted rules set down with domination. Priscilla was amazed and pleased that her two young charges had adopted her so completely, and cherished hopes of instilling some dreaded academics into their education before too long. But first they must clear the hurdle of Lucy’s first country ball.

  Mrs. Hartfield, surprisingly, had enthusiastically embraced Priscilla’s tentative suggestion that Lucy be given the chance to move from children’s gatherings to mingle a little at some country parties before being launched into society. In fact she had been so enthused that she had immediately given orders to the kitchen and the garden to prepare for the first party to be held at the hall in some time. Mrs. Hartfield, it turned out, was a wealthy widow of long standing, Lucy’s maid had eagerly confided once she had gotten to know the new governess, who seldom entertained, more through a general lassitude than through nursing a broken heart. Suddenly energized by the bright spirit that Priscilla had brought into the house, she had the ballroom scrubbed and polished, and sent out cards of invitation to as many families as could be located within a day’s drive. She hoped to get as many as fifty couples, and planned to spare no expense to make her party a success. Her cook, overjoyed to show off her talent to the local families, hired several girls from the village to help prepare for the event. Dresses were ordered from the dressmaker, and with Mrs. Hartfield’s exuberant participation in the design process, the finished products were found to be a little overblown.

  The dress in which Lucy now found herself was of a lovely pale yellow taffeta, but truly with enough furbelows for ten such gowns. Mrs. Hartfield had been delighted with the result, and indeed Lucy was a pretty enough girl to carry off almost anything. Her hair was only a few shades darker than the taffeta itself, her eyes luminous and green. A short upturned nose and a sprinkling of freckles were most bemoaned by her mama, but gave her the enchanting appearance of a sprite. With her lovely looks and a very large portion, Mrs. Hartfield had good reason to suppose that Lucy would do well during her season, if she conducted herself accordingly.

  “Hawkie,” Lucy now wailed. “The guests will be arriving in but a few hours. And Mama says I must make a good impression, because there are several large house parties in the area, and she has received many acceptances with requests to bring their guests. Mama says that Jasper Hillaire will be here.” The reverential tone in which Lucy uttered this last brought the quick smile to Priscilla’s eyes.

  “Is that so indeed?” she inquired, in a voice that showed how impressed she was by this statement, eyes bright with laughter. “Well, that is something, and quite changes the whole matter.”

  Lucy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are teasing me!” she pronounced. “I believe you don’t even know who Lord Hillaire is!” she said incredulously.

  “I believe you are correct,” Priscilla replied, laughing. “And indeed you must make a good impression, but not for any member of the Peerage, my dear, but in order to put your guests at their ease, and make them want to invite you to their parties next season.”

  “You’re just saying that because you haven’t seen the Viscount,” Lucy said with a sparkling look in her eyes.

  “Well, unless we start working on your dress, we’ll neither of us get to see him,” Priscilla replied dampeningly. “Step out of it carefully, if you please.”

  “What about your ball dress, Hawkie? Did Mama order a dress for you? Are you to be a chicken too?” Amabel spoke up from the corner of the room where she had been sitting, hoping to observe all the activity without notice. Lucy was all too likely to banish her little sister from the room just when things became interesting, as Amabel was very aware. But her concern that her Hawkie be appropriately gowned overcame her fear of being ejected from the room.

  “Indeed I trust not, Amabel. Luckily I brought a gown with me,” Priscilla replied, aware that her own gown of pale shimmery pink gauze was too fine for a governess. She hoped that by dressing her hair plainly, and wearing a shawl around her shoulders, and trusting in Mrs. Hartfield’s preoccupation with her own offspring, she would escape
without notice.

  “There,” she proclaimed, as she removed a last ribbon from the bodice of the yellow gown. “You must admit, Lucy, that this improves your gown immensely.” She shook out the gown and held it against Lucy. “This color is just perfect on you,” she said with satisfaction. “Now ring for your maid, and I’ll come in after I’m dressed to help with your hair. We must make haste! Come and help me dress, Amabel,” she said, taking the younger girl’s hand and hurrying away to her own chamber.

  A few short hours later Priscilla placed Lucy in the receiving line and strolled around the slowly filling rooms. Mrs. Hartfield had caused the rooms to be filled with flowers, with canopies of palest blue muslin over the doorways. The impression of being in a garden created by this decor was augmented by the lovely perfume of the roses, carnations and other blooms culled from the Manor’s impressive hothouses. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, Priscilla knew that the excitement of a ball, coupled with her new found sense of freedom had combined to cause her to be in her best looks tonight, for all her attempts to play the governess. There was an element of risk involved in attending the ball which she reveled in. She might be recognized by an acquaintance from her own season. But with the best will in the world, Priscilla could not bring herself to hide in her room, while everyone else danced and feasted below. It seemed an age since her own season in London, and although she had been a success, she could not think herself unforgettable. She had been brought out by an obliging Aunt, who was undoubtedly genteel, but with a limited acquaintance. Priscilla had gone to Almack’s and all the best parties, but she had not been known to every member of the Ton, or so she consoled herself.