by Sara Portman
Emma pouted. “I would much rather spend this time in London introducing you to eligible gentlemen.”
Lucy laughed again. “Aren’t we disregarding a rather obvious impediment to your sponsoring any debutantes this coming season?” She glanced meaningfully at the recently replaced chamber pot.
Emma scrunched her lips together. “Well the timing is poor, I’ll grant you. , but Aunt Agatha could do it.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And I would be there to…advise you.”
Lucy laughed. “But you had a horrid debut season!” She sat down next to her friend. “Emma, your willingness to disregard all obstacles in pursuit of my happiness is why you are the very best sort of friend.” She smiled, dreading Emma’s disappointment. “You know this cannot work. Presenting me at society events full of lords and ladies will not make me any more likely to be married than I am today. I am not a worthy match for the sort of society you and the duke keep. I will be tolerated as your friend, but will otherwise be entirely out of place. That is all. No one would be queueing up to pay calls or make offers to me.”
Emma opened her mouth, but Lucy stilled her friend’s objection with a hand on her shoulder. “Besides,” Lucy said, “Aren’t well-bred ladies supposed to retire to their country houses when they’re increasing?”
Emma sniffed. “Not this well-bred lady. John is anxious to take his seat in the House of Lords and do what good he can in furthering the reform agenda. And I am not keen to be apart from him. I can be perfectly respectable remaining here, in London. Besides,” she said, displaying the first bright smile since she’d become ill that morning, “I’ve discovered the benefit of my rank is that I am less likely to be deemed ‘not respectable’ and much more likely to be considered merely peculiar.”
“If London society considers you peculiar for preferring the company of your husband, I daresay I won’t fit in at all.” Lucy paused. She regarded her friend thoughtfully. “You know, I am rather surprised you would even propose I seek a husband here. You were miserable in your first season and you never seemed particularly complimentary of the set.”
Emma nodded. “There are sharks in these waters, to be sure,” she said, finally testing the strength of her legs to hold her upright. “But there are good people hidden amongst the awful ones. I was there all along. My aunt and uncle were there. So were several other friends who proved quite supportive and helpful when Charlotte needed them.”
“Yes, well I am unlikely to marry any of the people you’ve just listed.”
Emma reached out a hand to Lucy and spoke quietly. “Is it a matter of the dowry, Lucy? Because if it is, I know that John would not hesitate to—”
“No, Emma,” Lucy interrupted. “You know it is not a matter of a dowry—not only. I would have to be an heiress of grand proportion for any of the titled gentlemen in your set to look my way. I love you, but you cannot find me a husband. And you cannot convince me that taking a post as a governess is the end of my happiness in life.” She smiled to soften the rebuke. “Let us be reasonable, now, and talk about Lord and Lady Ashby, shall we?”
“What about them?”
“They are coming to dinner this evening, correct?” Lucy prompted.
“Yes.”
“And you did say they have daughters, do they not?”
“You don’t mean to find yourself a post now,” Emma said, dropping back onto the bed to gape at Lucy. “The baby will not arrive for months.”
“But you said just last week that Lord and Lady Ashby were seeking a governess,” Lucy said with a gentle laugh at her friend’s dismayed expression. “It was that conversation that prompted the idea. Of course I will stay with you until your child is born, but there is no reason why I cannot have an arrangement settled in advance for where I shall go next. You have always spoken so highly of Lord and Lady Ashby.”
“I do think highly of them,” Emma admitted, “but it is premature to begin pursuing posts right this minute.” Lucy opened her mouth to respond, but Emma shook her head. “No, Lucy, I am quite firm on this. I know you are usually the practical one, but I am being practical in this instance. We have only just discussed this. The baby will not arrive for another five months and, frankly, you can stay on with me indefinitely after that. There is no need for haste. We should think on this more thoroughly before taking action.”
Lucy sighed, recognizing the resolution in Emma’s tone. The matter might wait for the present, but it would not wait long.
Chapter Two
Having instructed her friend to rest before the guests arrived for dinner that evening—advice Lucy was certain would not be followed—Lucy returned to the drawing room to recover both the book and shawl she had abandoned there prior to Emma’s sudden malady. As she made her way through the halls of Worley House, she lamented the loss of the opportunity to apply for the position of governess to the Ashby girls. She had never met Lord or Lady Ashby, but if Emma considered them friends, they were surely good, decent people. Though Lucy was reconciled to taking a position, she most definitely wished to avoid one in which she would be ill treated.
Several days had passed since Lady Ashby had mentioned to Emma her intent to employ a governess. She may well have already begun assessing potential candidates. If Emma insisted upon waiting much longer to aid Lucy in finding a position, this particular post was sure to be already taken.
Lucy sighed loudly as she turned the handle and pushed open one of the painted paneled doors that led to the drawing room, noting that the household staff had efficiently whisked away the remnants of tea and closed up the room after she and Emma had fled so suddenly earlier. She crossed the room to retrieve the shawl and book and, as she did so, walked through a slanted column of light caused by the late afternoon sun shining through the windows. Each of the three tall windows opposite the door created such a column, giving the room odd, striped bands of shadow and light.
Lucy had not seen the room in such a state before. Sunlight saturated the room at midday, when it was commonly used, and by dinnertime lit tapers in the sconces would provide a weaker but equally warm source of light.
The household staff saw it this way. They saw it striped in fading afternoon sun, or fully engulfed in darkness before the sun rose or fires were lit. The tentacles of this thought took an odd, fixating hold on her. Was Emma right to caution her so sharply? Was she entering an entirely new realm? Lucy had never lived a life of privilege or luxury, but neither had she ever been a servant. Modest living and domestic service were two very different things.
It was only common sense to understand the lives of some occupants in this house would be unrecognizably different to the others depending on their station. Same house. Entirely different worlds.
She shook her head at the silly thought. She was already in a different world. She was a simple vicar’s daughter. She was no duchess, nor the daughter of a peer. Her life would not be unrecognizable because she came into a household like this one at a lesser station. Life at the parsonage house had never been so segmented. She was both family and domestic there, as were her mother and father.
As she picked up the book and shawl, she looked down and noted how the line between light and dark slashed across the front of her dress.
Where had all this fanciful thinking come from? Emma, well intentioned though she might be, was wrong—Lucy was perfectly suited to a position as a governess. Yet, after one pleading conversation, here she stood, dancing in shadows, questioning her entire future.
My goodness. She shook her head. She was too practical for that.
She stared unseeingly at the shadow-striped floor and tapped her fingers on the cracked spine of her book. Emma would come around. She always eventually came around to Lucy’s sensible view of things. It was one of Emma’s best attributes, really. But would it be too late? Here—this evening—was a very good opportunity with a very good family.
Hmmm. She shifte
d her weight between her feet and continued the rhythmic tap of her fingers along the book in her hands. Perhaps all was not lost and she could at least build some sort of a start. She could not very well introduce the topic of needing a position at dinner, of course, but perhaps she could offer to play—exhibit her qualifications in pianoforte. Then the evening would not be a total loss.
“Are you lost?”
Good heavens.
Lucy spun about to discover she was not alone in the drawing room. She blinked. A man rose from a chair in the shadow-shrouded corner of the room and took several steps toward her. She could not make out all the details of his features, but he was tall and finely dressed.
She blinked again and looked back at the doorway through which she had come. Had he been there the entire time and she’d not even noticed him?
A heavy weight began to congeal inside her. She’d been staring at shadows and daydreaming like a ninny and had made a perfect idiot of herself in front of none other than Lord Ashby.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said in her most sensible tone, rushing to repair his impression that she must be a half-wit. “I was just retrieving my things. I had not realized the dinner hour was so nearly upon us.”
“Oh, I don’t believe it is upon us quite yet,” he said. “Worley summoned me early so that we might meet before dinner.”
His response was not unkindly given, and the tightness that had bunched around Lucy’s neck and shoulders upon his greeting unwound a bit—though not entirely. Of course he had come early to meet with the duke. They were political allies, were they not? They must meet regularly. Where was her head? If Lord Ashby had arrived only for dinner, he would be accompanied by his wife.
“It appears His Grace is a bit delayed, however,” he said, stepping forward into the slash of light.
She couldn’t help but notice he was younger than she’d expected. How old were his daughters? Perhaps his wife was determined to raise virtuosos and wanted musical instruction to begin very early. All the better, she thought, to secure a position for years to come.
She smiled pleasantly at him. “I’m very sorry you’ve been made to wait, my lord. No doubt the delay was quite unexpected, as I’ve always observed His Grace to be quite considerate.”
“Indeed,” was his only reply.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” she said, nodding politely and gathering her book and shawl more tightly to her. She was conscious of wanting to make a positive impression with Lord Ashby, but how precisely did one go about doing such a thing after he had caught her woolgathering?
“I have the sense it is I who has disturbed your private thoughts, rather than you disturbing mine.”
Lucy groaned inwardly and felt the flush rising in her cheeks. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. It seems I was preoccupied.”
“No apology is necessary.”
He smiled at her. It was not a dismissal. It was…kind. Perhaps she hadn’t disturbed him. Perhaps he had waited some time and was happy for the distraction, however insignificant. He stepped back slightly and, even in the dim light, Lucy could see it was to allow his eyes to drop all the way to her feet before returning to her face as he took in her full measure. She squared her shoulders and did her best to appear both pleasant and deferential, as she presumed one should when being evaluated by a prospective employer.
“Are you always such a daydreamer?” he asked finally.
“I am not,” she assured him firmly. “I am usually quite sensible, as a matter of fact. I have always been reliable, I assure you. My mother has relied upon me from a very young age in aiding her in her work with parishioners in my village. I was never wayward or flighty as a child.”
A smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “No?”
“No, my lord, not at all.”
His only response was a mildly dubious lift of one brow. How was it that lords always managed to seem so…lordly? Lucy had simply stopped gaining height at the age of thirteen. She had felt small compared to nearly every person she had ever met, but compared to this broad-shouldered man who towered over her in heavy boots and dark coat, she felt positively elfin. How did one project competence and sensibility under these conditions? Heavens, but this was an unfortunate beginning. She had to salvage this somehow.
“You are probably wondering who I am,” she said. “My name is Lucy Betancourt. I am…” She paused. She had begun to say she was a friend of the duchess, but amended her words. “I am at Worley House as companion to the duchess during her confinement.”
“I am sure she is quite grateful for your companionship.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Perhaps because he seemed so kind, or perhaps because his expectant look demanded some continuation of the conversation, she added, “I am sorry to have intruded upon your wait, my lord, but perhaps it is fortuitous that I have done so.” Lucy smiled brightly at him, then faltered. Would Lord Ashby would prefer a stern governess? She amended her expression to a more neutral, less happy one. It would not do to appear overeager, after all.
She thought idly as she stood, not quite smiling at the man, that Lady Ashby must be a particularly lovely woman. He was handsome enough to have set thousands of lashes fluttering across London before he was married, and with his title to match, he would have had his pick of ladies. His eyes were the dark gray of smoldering coals.
Those eyes, she realized, were staring at her in patent confusion. “Fortuitous in what manner?” he inquired.
She immediately regretted her choice to speak boldly, though the quirk of his brow did appear more amused than annoyed. There was no help for it now.
In for a penny, as they say…
“I am so terribly sorry to be presumptuous, my lord. I mean only that I am…that is, circumstances are such that I find I must…” Lucy’s flush deepened, and she understood quite clearly in that moment why one should wait to be introduced. She looked up at the imposingly tall man with dark eyes and hair too perfectly unstudied to be accidental and knew without question that she was making an absolute fool of herself.
She had to get through it, now that she had begun. Pleasant, but not eager, she reminded herself. Serious, but not stern. “As a matter of fact, I had been hoping for an introduction as…well, you see, once I am no longer needed here, I will be in need of another position.”
Her revelation did nothing to remove the confusion from his expression. A startling thought occurred to her. Did gentlemen even become involved in the selection of a governess? Would Lady Ashby handle the entire matter without ever even consulting her husband? Oh, why hadn’t that occurred to her earlier? Why had she even spoken?
She felt the heat in her cheeks concentrating into burning splotches. Even as she knew she appeared more foolish with every word, she continued speaking, somehow unable to stop. “My lord,” she said, stepping forward, “I apologize. It was very unconventional and impulsive for me to approach you in this manner, and I am sorry for it. It was poorly done of me, but I assure you I am not usually impulsive. I had hoped to make a positive impression when first we met.” She smiled bravely up at him, wishing fervently that he would somehow at least see the good intention behind her error.
Again, the eyebrow danced. This time his dark eyes danced as well. “Did you, now?” he asked, seeming just a bit more curious than before she’d explained.
She relaxed just a bit. At least he could see the humor in it. She considered it a boon that she had not been summarily dismissed. “Of course, my lord. I’m sure you can understand my desire to gain your favorable opinion.”
“You desire my favorable opinion?”
“Certainly.” She tilted her head to the side and peered up at him. “On what other basis would you select me, my lord?”
Chapter Three
Select her?
Bex Brantwood peered down at the pixie-sized person who stared back up at him with
wide frost-blue eyes that matched her frock and decided he must have misheard the girl. “Select you?” he asked.
She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth, which was just as sweetly pink as her cheeks at that very moment. It was quite pretty, that blush, on an angelically pale complexion underneath a halo of silver-blond hair. She looked like a fairy sprite—an odd, nonsensical fairy sprite who had wandered distractedly into the room and then calmly requested that he select her.
Select her for what?
Her brow furrowed in consternation and she wrung dainty hands. “I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I? I’ve never pursued anything quite like this before and I’m afraid meeting you unexpectedly prompted poor manners on my part. I should have waited until we were properly introduced. Normally my manners are quite respectable, I assure you. My parents do not move about in society much beyond our small village, but I have been a longtime companion to the present duchess and am quite capable of presenting myself well in all levels of society; you would have no need for concern there.”
“I assure you, miss, I was not at all concerned regarding your manners.” He did, however, have grave concerns regarding her mental state. What the devil was going on here? She seemed to have no shortage of words, yet somehow the more she spoke, the more muddled the entire situation became. The girl—no, woman, he corrected, taking in her full appearance as his eyes adjusted to the dim light—behaved as though she were interviewing for a post. And cocking it up a bit in the process.
“You seem to know considerably more of me than I know of you,” he observed.
“Oh, of course, my lord,” she gushed, clasping her hands in front of her. “How thoughtless of me.” She ran her hands down the front of her frock and took a deep inhale of air before beginning. “I am the only daughter of the vicar in the village of Beadwell. I am, as I said, a longtime friend of the Duchess of Worley. I play both the pianoforte and harp and am widely read. At four and twenty, I have recently concluded that it is well past time I cease to be a burden to my parents and make some arrangement for my future, so you can understand how fortuitous it was to learn that your visit to the duke and duchess would be coinciding with my own.”
