by Diane Gaston
Except for a small bench and table near the fire. ‘How did you manage this?’
‘I told them you were my wife.’ His gaze caught hers for a fleeting moment. ‘And that you were not well.’ He settled her in the seat. ‘And, of course, I paid well for the men sitting here to move.’
She could not help but smile.
He sat next to her. ‘They were happy with the coin and we have a warm place to sit and take away the damp from our clothes.’
A moment later a harried tavern maid brought hot cider and bowls of mutton stew. Lord Brentmore pressed a coin in the woman’s hand and her countenance brightened considerably. Anna ate and drank by rote, but soon she was warm inside and out and a lassitude washed over her.
‘It has been a long time since I’ve spent more than a few minutes in a crowded tavern,’ Lord Brentmore remarked. ‘I fear we will be here for a while.’
‘I am sorry, my lord.’ If it were not for her, he would not have had to endure this discomfort.
He leaned to her ear. ‘I am Egan Byrne here. Better we not command undue attention.’
She nodded.
‘And I do not mind it,’ he added. ‘We are reasonably comfortable here.’
She was more than comfortable. She belonged nowhere and to no one, so there was some comfort in anonymity, in being the fictional Mrs Byrne.
She stole a glance at him and wondered why she’d ever felt he was formidable. Merely her employer, he’d extended himself as a friend.
But she could not think of him only as a friend. Her father—the man she’d thought was her father—had not been entirely incorrect. In her heart she was a harlot, as much as her mother had been. If she did not feel dead inside at this moment, she had no doubt that her desire for Lord Brentmore would be raging inside her.
Now it was even more crucial that she control it. How long would she remain in his employ if she came to his bed? She could not depend upon him to keep her around as Lord Lawton had her mother.
Brentmore slipped his arm across her shoulders and nestled her against him. ‘Rest, Anna,’ he murmured.
His embrace felt more a shelter than the roof over her head, but it was as much an illusion as the rest of her life had been. She shuddered in pain and he held her tighter.
If only he really were Egan Byrne and she...his wife.
* * *
She felt wonderful in his arms. A peace came over Brent that made no sense at all in the midst of this simple tavern awash in all forms of humanity. No one cared who they were here. He could hold her without worry of censure or gossip.
Best of all, the sheer numbers of eyes prevented his more dangerous temptations from coming to the fore. Still, he would have forgone even the pleasure of holding her if he could have procured a comfortable room for her.
The last traveller who’d entered the tavern loudly declared it was ‘raining stair rods’ outside. A downpour, he meant, apparently.
In the crowd he spotted two gentlemen known to him. No matter. He blended so well with the rest of the ordinary people, those acquaintances would never notice him. They might gaze at Anna, though, whose beauty had turned melancholic from her shock and grief.
He pulled his cap down to shade more of his face, just in case.
Anna straightened. ‘What is it?’
‘Some men I know,’ he replied. ‘But do not fear. They’ve entered a private parlour.’ He tipped his hat back again.
‘You will not wish to be seen with me,’ she commented.
He put his arm around her again. ‘I merely wish to avoid explaining why I’m dressed as a coachman.’
‘I wish you were a coachman,’ she said, so quietly he barely heard her.
So did he. How free he might be. Free to look upon her not as the marquess who employed her, but as a man.
‘I would make love to you, then,’ she added.
Could she see into his mind? ‘Anna—’
She hurried on. ‘I want to. It has been hard not to.’ She averted her gaze.
She was overwrought and how could she not be after the day she’d endured?
‘You should not talk of this,’ he said.
She lifted her chin defiantly, reminding him of that first interview with her. ‘You want me, too, my lord. You would bed me if I permitted. That is a man’s way, is it not? That is why daughters like Charlotte are chaperoned. If they were alone, they might permit men to bed them.’
There was truth in that. The daughters of earls were protected, but not so much from their own urges, but those of men who thought only of their own pleasure.
Lawton ought to have protected Anna. She was his daughter, as well. Damned man! He should have cared for her, not sent her off to fend for herself. He knew what could happen to unprotected governesses.
She took a deep breath. ‘I thought there was something wrong with me, but now I see I am just like my mother.’
He turned so he could face her directly. ‘Lawton seduced your mother, Anna.’
Her lovely brows rose. ‘Or did she seduce him? She was given a cottage to live in and her daughter was educated. That was much more than other servants received.’
He shook his head. ‘He should have given your mother an independent means. Set her up in a nice house.’
She placed her hand on his arm. ‘She would not have known how to run her own house.’
‘He should have acknowledged you at the very least,’ he insisted.
Her voice turned low again. ‘I expect he did not care.’ She stared into flames licking a large log in the fireplace. ‘It all makes sense now, though, does it not, why I want so much to bed you? I am like my mother.’
‘Enough talking like this.’ He gathered her in his arms again. ‘You are upset and tired. Try to rest.’
If only he were not a marquess. He’d not have to worry about damage to the children because of him. He’d not be betrothed to a baron’s daughter. It would not matter who he married. He’d be free...
He looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed and her expression was composed. She slept and he was free to relish the sight of her.
If he were indeed Egan Byrne he’d be free....
Chapter Nine
Anna had remained cosseted in the warmth of Lord Brentmore’s arms the whole night. When morning dawned full of sunshine, the tavern began to empty of its travellers, but they tarried by silent agreement as if reluctant to return to the old routines, the old identities.
Over an unhurried breakfast, Anna searched the marquess’s face for any hint he would address the loose words she’d spoken the night before. She felt her cheeks burn merely from thinking of what she’d said to him in her grief and despair.
Yet it was a reality she must accept within herself. She was her mother’s daughter, yearning for carnal pleasure just as her mother must have done with Lord Lawton.
Her real father.
If only she could talk to her mother about such yearning, discover why her mother chose to carry on a long affair with his lordship. Ask her why she’d hidden the truth from her daughter all these years.
Grief threatened to overwhelm her. She tried relentlessly to push it away. She was more fortunate than most women. She had employment. She had a lovely place to live. She had an education. And books. The library at Brentmore was filled with books.
She lifted her gaze to the man who sat across from her at the table.
She had a friend, as well as an employer, in Lord Brentmore. Likely back at Brentmore, they would return to their previous routine and the friendship would be as buried as her desire for him must be.
She pretended to eat with appetite and forced herself to talk of the trip ahead.
No more tears. No more feeling sorry for herself. Her mother was gone. Her life was what it was.
Her consolation must be the children for as long as they needed her.
* * *
After they’d eaten, Lord Brentmore asked, ‘Are you ready to depart?’
She nodded.
&nbs
p; Soon they were back in the chaise and on the road.
Anna confined her conversation with Lord Brentmore to topics involving the children. Their needs. Their activities. Ways to make their lives secure and happy.
* * *
By early afternoon they reached the inn where Lord Brentmore’s team of horses awaited him. His team was hitched to the chaise again, marking the last leg of the journey. Soon they reached the outskirts of the marquess’s estate. When the house came into view, Anna felt relief.
‘Lawd, I hate this place,’ Brentmore said at the same time.
It disheartened her. ‘Why? It is where your children are.’
He nodded. ‘It is also where my unhappiest memories live.’
She squared her shoulders. ‘Do not think of the past. Only the future. Only what is ahead.’
He covered her hand with his and his expression turned grim.
When they reached the arch, Lord Brentmore halted the chaise.
‘Why are we stopping?’ she asked.
He turned to her, and his eyes darkened. ‘To say goodbye.’
‘Are you getting off here?’ She could not drive the chaise.
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. ‘No, but Egan Byrne is saying goodbye.’
He leaned over to her and kissed her cheek.
She gasped and turned her head, offering him her lips and trembling with need to taste him again.
He indulged her, softly pressing his mouth to hers, but carefully holding back and enabling her to bank the passion that flared through her.
When he moved away again, she released a breath.
‘Back to being the marquess and the governess,’ he murmured.
She squeezed her hands together, to keep from clasping his. ‘I cannot thank you enough, my lord, for coming with me.’
He bent down and kissed her cheek again, but said nothing. He flicked the ribbons and the horses passed under the arch.
They came closer and closer to the house and suddenly Anna’s grief intensified. She’d just suffered another loss, the loss of a friend named Egan Byrne.
When they pulled up to the front door, it opened and two footmen emerged to attend to them. After they alighted, Cal and Dory burst through the doorway.
Dory vaulted into her father’s arms. ‘Papa! You are home!’
He hesitated before fully accepting Dory’s embrace. Cal stopped a short distance away as if his shyness had grabbed hold of him and held him back.
‘Miss Hill!’ Dory cried and reached out for Anna.
Lord Brentmore handed the little girl into Anna’s arms and Anna fussed over her while the marquess approached his son, drawing him into a huge hug. ‘My boy, I missed you.’
Cal wound his arms around his father’s neck. ‘Me, too,’ he said.
His father hugged the boy tighter.
‘Cal talked to Eppy and to Wyatt, too, while you were gone,’ Dory informed them.
‘Isn’t that fine!’ Anna exclaimed, realising how genuinely she’d missed the children. ‘And what mischief did you get into while we were gone?’
Dory giggled. ‘Nothing.’ Her brother actually smiled. She whispered to Anna. ‘Cal caught a toad and put it in Eppy’s pocket!’
‘That is mischief, indeed!’ And a marvellous change for him.
‘Don’t tell Papa!’ Dory whispered loud enough for her father to hear.
Anna put Dory down and hugged Cal. ‘What a prankster you are,’ she said quietly.
One of the footmen retrieved her portmanteau and the basket, the other took the horses and chaise to the stables.
‘Let us go inside,’ Lord Brentmore said.
Dory reached up for him to carry her and Anna took Cal’s hand.
As they entered the hall, Cal gestured for her to bend down. He moved his mouth before finally forcing the words out. ‘Is your mother better?’
A wave of grief engulfed her. ‘No, Lord Cal. She was too sick. She died.’
The boy’s expression turned solemn. ‘Mine did, too.’
Anna crouched down and hugged him, tears pricking her eyes. ‘I know.’
* * *
As the days went on, they returned to their previous routine and the children thrived. Cal spoke more and more, and Dory calmed down and became less vigilant and protective of her brother. Their former confinement made them hungry for new experiences. There was nothing they would not try and they soaked up information like sponges.
For Anna, though, everything seemed slightly askew. During the day she often felt as if she were standing beside herself, watching what she was doing, what she was saying, what she was hearing. She often declined riding with Lord Brentmore and the children and Lord Brentmore spent more time at his correspondence and estate business.
In the evening, she and Lord Brentmore still dined together and still discussed the children, but always Anna sensed the tension between them, borne of all they did not say.
Anna tried to convince herself that everything was as it should be, that she would soon be content again, but at times a restlessness overtook her that was nearly as unbearable as her grief. Sleep was nearly impossible. When slumber finally came, she dreamed she was running and running until she reached the sea.
Just as he said he had done as a child in Ireland.
The happy memories he’d promised her never came and her desire for him never abated. At times she feared she would go mad if he did not touch her. If he did happen to touch her, she felt the touch in every part of her. That was enough to drive her insane.
Perhaps she should be locked away as a maniac in Doctor Stoke’s asylum.
She was merely masquerading as sane, although she was reasonably certain no one could perceive her struggle. She could teach her lessons while her mind wandered back to Lawton or to the library below where Lord Brentmore wrote his letters. She could converse at dinner about the children, share anecdotes about them, make plans for them, while remembering the meals she and the marquess shared in the inn. She could bid him goodnight after dinner and confess to be sleepy when she knew she would stare at the ceiling for hours.
This night her thoughts turned to the future and all she could see was more bleakness and loss. He would not stay at Brentmore Hall for ever. Eventually he would return to London and take his place again in society. His visits here would become shorter and less frequent. She’d be alone.
Anna got out of bed and paced the room, hoping to tire herself.
It did not work.
She must train herself to think of him only as an employer, nothing more. She must distract herself. Fill her mind with something other than how he smiled, how he moved, how his lips had felt against hers.
This was ridiculous! She snatched a candle from the table and rushed out of the room, without bothering to put on her slippers or wrap a robe around her. She padded her way down the hallway to the stairs, headed for the library. Books had filled her imagination as a child—perhaps they could fill her mind now and crowd him out.
She wanted a book about some faraway place where people unlike herself lived lives totally different from her own. Perhaps the marquess’s library had Captain Cook’s Voyages Around The World, which would certainly fit the bill.
No. She had a better idea. She really did not wish to read. She wished to sleep. A glass of Lord Brentmore’s brandy might bring her sleep. Perhaps he would not mind just one glassful missing. Perhaps he would not even notice.
Somewhere in the house a clock struck two, its chime echoing in the silence and making her jump. The library door was ajar and inside the room the coals in the fireplace still glowed.
She crossed the room and placed her candle on the cabinet, which was kept stocked with brandy. She opened the cabinet door and took out a bottle and a glass. She poured a full glass and quickly drank it down, almost choking from its warmth.
‘Anna?’ A voice came from the sofa in front of the fire.
Lord Brentmore’s voice.
She almost dropped the
glass.
He sat up. He was in his shirt-sleeves. His coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth were tossed on a nearby chair. ‘What are you doing?’
There was no sense lying. He’d caught her in her theft. ‘Drinking brandy. I could not sleep and I thought brandy would help.’ Servants were discharged for stealing spirits from their employers.
He rubbed his face. ‘Brandy rarely helps.’ He peered at her. ‘I thought you said you were tired tonight.’
She was tired to the point of exhaustion. ‘I was. I am. But I cannot sleep.’
He groaned. ‘And I fell asleep on the sofa. We are like bookends, facing opposite ways.’
His analogy was apt, she thought. Together they held things in place, but were never meant to meet. To touch.
‘I—I know this looks like theft.’ Her hand shook. He could end her employment. ‘I was feeling quite desperate.’
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he stood. ‘You are welcome to what I have.’ He walked over to her. ‘But what is amiss?’
‘Nothing is amiss,’ she replied. ‘I cannot sleep.’
‘It is not like you.’ He felt her forehead. ‘You are not warm.’
She was now. His touch enflamed her.
His gaze swept down her body and his hand slipped to her shoulder. ‘What keeps you awake?’
Her limbs felt like melting candle wax under his fingers and his gaze. ‘I—I do not know.’
‘Or you will not say?’ He put his arm around her. ‘Come. Sit with me. Tell me. Pretend I am Egan Byrne. Tell me what makes it so difficult to sleep.’
He sat her down on the couch and leaned her against him. She could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her nightdress and his shirt. She wanted to discover what his bare skin felt like beneath his shirt.
‘Talk to me, Anna,’ he murmured.
What could she say that he would believe? She could not say the truth.
That she ached for him, although she’d confessed that very thing to him at the inn.
‘At—at night thoughts consume me. About my mother. About Lawton. About all of it. About being alone now.’ She did think about such things...and more.
He held her tighter. ‘You are not alone.’
