by Tess Byrnes
“My dear Miss Hawksworth,” Mrs. Hartfield exclaimed in a slightly agitated voice. “My lord, here is a partner for you for this waltz. You know Miss Lucy may not dance that one with you, although we have vouchers and shall be attending Almack’s, where I’m hopeful that Sally Jersey will pronounce her a very pretty behaved gal and suggest her as a partner for you then, but of course that will not be for some little time, and, in short,”
At this point Priscilla took pity on her employer and stepped forward.
“Thank you for the suggestion, Mrs. Hartfield, but I do not dance this evening,” she said firmly.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hartfield dismissed this notion quickly. “My lord, please join me in reminding Miss Hawksworth that she is too young and far too pretty to join the ranks of the onlookers, and must enjoy this party properly.”
“With the greatest pleasure on earth, Ma’am,” Jasper bowed, but his blue eyes were lacking their accustomed smile as he requested of Priscilla the honor of the waltz.
Priscilla, returning his cool gaze as calmly as she could, felt an unaccountable desire to burst into tears as she was led onto the dance floor. The Viscount’s grasp seemed impersonal, the pressure of his hand at her waist so slight she couldn’t be sure it remained there. She wondered where Lady Spencer was, and if Lord Hillaire’s distraction was due to having his mind on his betrothed instead.
With his arm about her, Priscilla’s treacherous memory returned to the last time she had stood within his embrace in the library at Hillaire, and where that embrace had led. The mere thought caused her heart rate to quicken, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Pushing these memories determinedly out of her mind, Priscilla looked up at the Viscount as they joined the dancers on the floor. He was looking intently down at her, a somewhat stern frown between his eyebrows. She had intended to engage the Viscount in desultory and impersonal conversation, but the unyielding look in his eyes threw her off her stride. Indeed she could think of no conversational gambit whatsoever. The two glided around the room to the strains of the waltz, gazes locked, wordless, until they neared the far end of the ballroom.
As they swung past the French doors, Jasper deftly stepped out of the dance, and led Priscilla through a doorway and out into the hallway. He tugged her into a small saloon and shut the door firmly behind them. It seemed very natural to allow him to pull her into his arms, and she raised her face as he lowered his lips to hers. Jasper’s body was warm against the think silk of her dress, and Priscilla quivered at the familiar strength in his body. She knew she should resist, but she yearned for this touch, reveled in the quick response of her senses. There was no way on earth she could have walked away, and she slipped her arms around him as he pressed his lips to hers. It was the most natural thing to return his kiss. Her mouth opened to his, his tongue teasing hers. She shivered as he trailed kisses over her jaw, down the soft skin of her throat, to the rounded tops of her breasts as they strained against her décolleté.
“My darling Priscilla,” Jasper breathed softly against her neck. “I have been longing to do that again ever since you left the Castle.”
Priscilla paled, and placed one hand over her mouth, the other against the Viscount’s chest, pushing herself away from him.
“No!” she said. “I did not mean to do that. This must never happen again. Lady Spencer is eager for your kisses, my lord. I suggest you offer them to her!” Her voice trembled, and she took a hasty step toward the French doors.
“Wait,” Jasper said urgently, detaining her with a light clasp around her wrist. “You have condemned me without a trial, Priscilla, and I think I should have the right to explain.”
“But can’t you see that there’s nothing to explain?” Priscilla said coldly. “You made love to me. You made me feel that you really wanted me, and not just a face-saving marriage. And then you went directly from me to Lady Spencer’s bed chamber.”
“I can explain that, if you will let me.”
“I have no doubt that you have come up with a ready explanation, my lord. Nothing that you say will change the vast differences between the way we think, my lord, and what we want. I have already told you that I am not a debt you have to pay. You feel that you must marry me to assuage some chivalrous conceit, but I am not in the market for the sort of marriage you offer. I am very well able to take care of myself, and I intend to do just that.” Priscilla spoke emphatically, but softly, aware of the ball going on just on the other side of the curtain, and the Viscount had to bend his head to catch them.
“Everything I said to you in the library that night was the truth, Priscilla,” Jasper said in his deep voice. “And I felt your response. I know you felt what I did and every bit as deeply as I did. But you are not wrong when you say that I feel obliged to offer marriage to you. That was true from the start. You put me under an obligation to you when you stepped in to help me that night on my estate, and that has not changed. No gentleman could accept that sacrifice and just walk away.”
“I already told you to put that out of your mind.” Priscilla said in a ragged voice. “I will not be a debt to be repaid.”
“I understand, believe me,” Jasper hurried on. “Let me explain, please.”
“No, stop. Please stop.” Priscilla’s voice finally broke. “You are saying what you think must convince me to change my answer, but it is not to be believed. I have given you my answer, and to continue this is ungentlemanly.” She pulled a dainty lace handkerchief from her bodice, wiped her eyes, blew her nose quite heartily, and took a breath.
“I believe this must be goodbye, my lord,” she said coldly, holding out her hand.
Jasper took her small hand in his, pressing his lips to it, but then retaining it in his grasp. “It cannot be goodbye,” he said simply. “But I will let you go for now, my dear. I am not the scoundrel you think me, Priscilla. Remember that if you need me, or need my help in anyway. I am yours to command.” He bowed formally, and Priscilla pulled her hand free and, without looking back, left the room. She took a deep breath and then reentered the ballroom.
She was immediately aware of a subtle change in the room. Some of the guests seemed to be trying to look at her without being caught looking. As she moved towards Mrs. Hartfield, she was aware that a group of women who had been talking fell silent as she approached. With her confusion evident in her eyes, she looked around the room, and her gaze fell on the very satisfied face of Lady Spencer. That lady shot an evil smile Priscilla’s way, and she kissed her gloved hand and blew the kiss towards Priscilla before turning and sweeping from the room.
Priscilla felt the color drain from her face. Obviously Lady Spencer must have betrayed her secret. She was the only one, other than Priscilla herself and Lord Hillaire, who knew of her indiscretion at Hillaire Castle. Feeling herself to be the object of every person’s scrutiny, Priscilla tipped her chin up and strode across the room.
Mrs. Hartfield greeted her with a smile that showed that she had not yet heard the circulating rumors. Grateful for the reprieve, she gave the excuse of a headache and, trying to hold her head high, she escaped from the ballroom.
Reaching the relative sanctuary of the first floor, Priscilla, passing a shaky hand across her brow, she headed for the staircase, and the sanctuary of her room. But as her foot touched the first step, a shrill voice cried out behind her.
“You see, Richard! I told you it was Priscilla that I saw leaving the ballroom in the sole company of a male. I predicted she would come to this pass, and so she has!”
Priscilla turned, pale and unbelieving. Could this night get any worse, she thought to herself incredulously? There in Mrs. Hartfield’s hallway she turned to see the angry face of her sister-in-law, and standing just behind her, the ruddy one of her brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“I don’t know by what charade you are present in this house, Priscilla, but it will be my duty to tell Mrs. Hartfield the truth about how you have been imposing upon her, and then to remove you to the prote
ction of your brother’s house,” Carolyn proclaimed triumphantly. She turned to Richard, who stood silently behind her. “You would have it she’d sought some sort of genteel employment somewhere. Ha! I can tell you what sort of employment she’s been up to!” Carolyn’s shrill voice had begun to attract the attention of the footmen standing at the entrance to the ballroom.
“You are lucky that your brother is willing to take you back, my girl,” Carolyn hissed a little more quietly, glancing over her shoulder at the interested footmen. She smoothed her gloves and smiled reassuringly at the young men of the household, who knew and liked Priscilla and would have been most happy to come to her rescue. Almost unconsciously, Carolyn straightened the discrete lace panel that converted one of her utilitarian looking ball gowns into one appropriate for an expectant mother.
Richard cleared his throat noisily, and then uttered in a husky voice, “Are you alright, ‘Scilla? We were so worried about you.”
“Oh, Richard, I’m fine, really,” Priscilla said shakily. “I am truly sorry for worrying you.” She came forward to him and clasped his slightly damp hands in her own, smiling up at him despite the uncomfortable thumping of her heart. “I have been employed here as governess to Mrs. Hartfield’s two daughters.” She ignored a skeptical snort from Carolyn, and continued to address herself to her brother. “I would have told you, but I feared you wouldn’t understand. I would much rather earn my own keep than accept a marriage such as the one you had arranged for me. I am indeed sorry to have worried you, though. Didn’t you get my note?”
Richard smiled at her, a smile full of the doting fondness of an older brother for his smarter, prettier little sister. It was a smile that never failed to irritate Carolyn.
“Your note?” Carolyn repeated scornfully. “A chicken scratch that said you had left to take a situation, and we shouldn’t worry about you? Who would hire you? You had no references, no experience. Does Mrs. Hartfield know who you really are?”
Priscilla’s brief hesitation before answering was all Carolyn needed.
“Just as I thought,” she almost purred. “You have been deceiving this poor woman, and it is my duty to undeceive her.”
“It is no such thing,” Priscilla objected quickly. “I may have pretended to have references, but everything else was the truth. Papa taught me more than any of my old governesses ever knew. And Mrs. Hartfield has been very satisfied with my work.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” Carolyn sneered, and swiftly changed tactics. “But what of that man I saw you closet yourself with in the ballroom?” she inquired snidely. “You have no more notion of how to conduct yourself with propriety than you ever did, Priscilla. Your brother and I knew better when we arranged your marriage, and you had better believe we still do.”
Priscilla felt the familiar feeling of suffocation that inevitably accompanied Carolyn’s plans for her future. She struggled to maintain her calm facade as her sister-in-law continued acidly.
“Richard spoke with Sir Harry just a few weeks ago. He managed to convince him that you had been genteelly employed, and upon your return would be happy to accept his offer of marriage. I am relieved to say that the offer is still open to you.” Priscilla looked at Richard who imperceptibly shook his head, pleading with his eyes for understanding. She knew his weakness, and that she could not expect any help from him.
“Carolyn,” she began in a quiet, earnest voice. “Doesn’t the fact that I left the safety of my home to take an uncertain position earning my own living indicate to you the depth of my desire not to marry Harry Greenwood? I feel that I am following my father’s wishes in not accepting such a marriage. Indeed, I am more firmly convinced than ever that I will not accept a marriage that is not founded in mutual love. There isn’t anything you can say that will make me change my mind.” She tried to look convincingly at the sour woman before her, hoping the shaking in her knees was not perceptible.
“Let us not bring your father, rest his soul, or mawkish talk of love into this, Priscilla,” Carolyn said grandiloquently. “I believe that after I have spoken to Mrs. Hartfield tomorrow she will understand your true nature, and will no longer wish to employ you to influence her young daughters. Your brother is within his rights to remove you to your home, and if necessary, we shall use legal means to do so! Come, Richard. We shall return first thing in the morning, Priscilla. Be packed and ready to accompany us home.”
Richard’s head remained slightly bowed and he did not meet Priscilla’s eyes, but merely held his wife’s wrap for her, and escorted her from the house. Priscilla turned and slowly ascended the stairs as if in a dream. She entered her bedchamber and perched upon the window seat, staring blankly out at the bleak, cold night. Several link boys stood in a group on the pavement below, rubbing their chilled hands, and swapping stories about the easy gelt thrown to them by the Quality inside. A few carriages had been brought round, the coachmen walking their teams to ward off the chill night air. Priscilla saw none of this. Her mind was filled with the dueling images of Sir Jasper’s stern face bidding her farewell, and Carolyn’s smug triumph as she skillfully caught Priscilla firmly in the trap of the wedding plans she had made for her sister in law. Couple with this the whispering and pointing from those who had heard the rumors Lady Spencer was setting about, and the future was starting to look fairly bleak.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, but suddenly Priscilla was aware that she could make out the dark outline of the buildings against the sky as the dark night lightened towards morning. Stirring, she tried to stretch limbs that were stiff from sitting still so long in the cramped window seat.
“Carolyn and Richard will present themselves to Mrs. Hartfield as soon as she is receiving in the morning,” she thought with a feeling of near panic. “She and Lucy will know that I have been, well, less than honest with them. Plus by now they will have heard the rumors as well.” Priscilla hid her face in her hands as the color flooded her cheeks. It hadn’t seemed like lying, her adventure. It had been an escape, a way of taking some control over the course of her life, a luxury not allowed to most single females, certainly not those with modest fortunes. But the impending revelation of her masquerade cast a very harsh light over it. Deception, Carolyn had called it. Priscilla stood up impetuously and strode across the room.
She found herself at the wardrobe, pulling dresses haphazardly onto the bed, before a plan was even formed in her mind. She only knew that she could not do as Carolyn commanded her to do. Marriage to Sir Greenwood was just not possible. The thought of Sir Harry putting his hands on her was repulsive. Kissing her. Doing the things that Lord Hillaire had done. No. She had successfully secured one post, and there would be another situation for a governess, she reasoned. One even farther from home and from London.
“Really,” she told herself. “I was foolish to come here. Even having lived secluded, I still have acquaintances. And Carolyn proved herself more determined than I had imagined not to be defeated in her plans.” Priscilla shuddered slightly as she remembered the cold look in Carolyn’s eyes.
She straightened her shoulders, and selected a dark traveling dress from amongst the dresses on the bed. She had some difficulty fastening the buttons in her haste, but within a reasonable time she was dressed and a small carpet bag, the portmanteaux and trunks having been removed to a storage area, was packed with a change of clothes along with her night things. She carefully hung the other dresses back in the wardrobe, crept toward the door and listened. She judged it to be somewhere around four o’clock in the morning, and the servants, some only newly abed, would be arising in another hour or so to continue the overwhelming task of cleaning up after the ball, and to prepare breakfast and start the new day’s work. Pausing in the hall to leave an envelope upon the table, Priscilla let herself quietly out the front door, allowing the latch to click behind her. She hurried along the cobbled street, ignoring the calls from the street vendors readying their carts for the day’s trade, heading in the direction of the G
eorge and Dragon in Charing Cross, and a Mail Coach out of London.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jasper awoke to a beam of weak, white, winter sunlight streaming through a chink in the curtains and onto the bed. He groaned and turned his face into the soft linen pillows, but it was useless. He could not recapture sleep. A discreet knock sounded at the door, heralding the entrance of Travers, his valet. This individual, who entered the room as softly as a cat, was dressed in somber black, fitted very closely to a trim figure. His years numbered somewhere above fifty, and he had been in the employ of the Viscount’s family all of Jasper’s life. While this gave Travers’ a position of some privilege, he was a very correct gentleman’s gentleman, and never was guilty of presuming upon this. At least, never so that his employer noticed. He came in now carrying a tray upon which rested a cup of coffee. He knew that his master never took chocolate, just as he knew that on all mornings except Sunday his master dressed for riding, and that it was useless to ask if he could tie his master’s cravat for him.
“Good Morning, Sir,” Travers intoned in respectfully hushed accents as he set the tray down upon a small table beside the huge mahogany bed. The Viscount only answer was a muffled groan, but he swung his legs out from under the bed clothes, to sit on the edge of the bed. He rubbed one hand over his stubbly chin and then reached for the coffee, taking a deep, revivifying gulp.
“Put out my riding clothes, Travers,” he ordered unnecessarily, with a great yawn.
“Your Lordship wishes to receive his morning visitor in his riding dress,” Travers responded as if stating a commentary upon the weather. “Very good, my lord.”
