An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2

by Amy Rose Bennett

  There was only one way to find out.

  Hoping she could affect a demeanor of cool civility despite the hammering of her heart, Abigail set forth for the library. Even though the door was slightly ajar, she paused to knock. “It’s Miss Adams,” she called out in a voice so shaky with nerves, it made her grimace. Annoyingly, Sir Nicholas’s distinctive baritone resonated with absolute confidence when he summoned her inside.

  She found him sitting at his large ebon oak desk, surrounded by piles of books that hadn’t been there this morning, but as soon as he laid eyes on her, he discarded the papers he’d been looking at and rose to his feet. “Miss Adams. How delightful it is to see you. I trust you are well today?”

  She bobbed a curtsy and dipped her head to try and hide her blush at his compliment. Today he was dressed as a gentleman should be in a superbly cut midnight blue tailcoat, matching striped silk waistcoat and ivory shirt, but that didn’t help her maintain her façade of composure. Sir Nicholas in the flesh was a completely different entity to the Sir Nicholas of her fantasies. How could she have forgotten his astonishing height and breadth of shoulder? How infinitely appealing his wide smile?

  How devastatingly handsome he was...

  “Miss Adams?” he prompted.

  “I... I thank you, sir... I mean... I am well indeed.” Aside from being rendered speechless. Abigail licked her dry lips. “Mrs. Graham said you wanted to speak with me?”

  “Yes.” He rounded the desk and propped one lean hip on the edge. Tight buff breeches and shiny black Hussar boots outlined his long, muscular legs to perfection throwing her off balance even more; a suspicious part of her mind couldn’t help but wonder if he both dressed and postured himself thus by design. Like a stag displaying his antlers. “Please take a seat,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby Bergère armchair directly in front of the desk. “There is indeed a matter I would like to discuss.”

  Oh, dear. That sounded ominous. Abigail frowned in confusion. Perhaps she had asked him for too much. Nevertheless, she did as she was bid, smoothing her cotton skirts with trembling fingers as she sat.

  “Do not look so concerned, Miss Adams,” said Sir Nicholas with an unexpectedly gentle smile that sent her heart tripping. “I assure you it’s nothing serious.”

  Abigail inclined her head. “I’m relieved to hear it.” Although, given her close proximity to Sir Nicholas, relieved was the last thing she felt. Instead, she was flustered and all too aware of his overwhelming masculinity, his rich sandalwood scent and the touch of his dark blue gaze as he studied her face.

  Heat flooded her cheeks again and Abigail inwardly cursed herself for her weakness. A handsome man looked at her, and her insides and her resolve both turned to blancmange. She, of all people, should know better.

  As if he were deliberately taunting her with his physical prowess, Sir Nicholas crossed his well-muscled arms over his very wide chest. “I don’t know if you’ve been informed,” he said without further preamble, “but Lady Barsby is intending to decamp to Brighton with my nieces for several weeks to stay with her sister. They leave tomorrow.”

  Despite her concerns about Sir Nicholas’s intentions toward her, and her own vulnerability in that regard, Abigail’s heart fell. She should be grateful for the respite. But perversely, she wasn’t. “No. No, I didn’t know. Brighton is quite diverting this time of year I believe,” she said, forcing a carefree smile. “I’m sure I shall quite enjoy escorting Miss Lavinia and Miss Kitty about the town. The sea air will be good for them I expect.”

  “Indeed. However,” Sir Nicholas rubbed his sharply cut jaw for a moment as if he were carefully choosing his next words, “you will not be accompanying them.”

  “Oh...” Shock squeezed the air from Abigail’s lungs. Had Sir Nicholas lied to her a moment ago when he’d said the matter he wished to speak of wasn’t serious? “Am I... Am I being dismissed?” she whispered.

  “Good God, Miss Adams. Of course not. Why on earth would you think that?” he growled. His expression softened a little when he added, “I simply have need of you here.”

  Momentarily stunned, Abigail blinked. Surely Sir Nicholas wouldn’t be brazen enough to suggest anything improper... But then again... Maybe that’s why Mrs. Graham had been so hostile. “Might I ask, in what capacity?” she asked when she managed to find her voice.

  Sir Nicholas made an expansive gesture with his hand. “Hartfield’s library has been terribly neglected over the years. I don’t know about you—for I’m sure Lady Barsby has given you free reign here—but I cannot find a dashed thing. There is no cataloguing system to speak of. Not that I can fathom at any rate. I want you to sort it out.” He cast her a crooked smile as if he was suddenly aware how arrogant he sounded and added, “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No. I wouldn’t mind,” replied Abigail carefully. “And of course, I will do as you ask.” After all, she really had little choice. “I only hope I can live up to your expectations. I’m a governess, not a librarian and as such, I have never taken on such a project before.”

  Her gaze traveled around the enormous, beautifully appointed chamber; there were two levels of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves absolutely crammed with all manner of leather bound tomes. Sir Nicholas was correct in assuming she had been permitted to explore the books, ostensibly to find suitable texts and reading material for her pupils. And she too had noted there was no cataloguing system to speak of. Searching for a particular book was akin to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack most of the time.

  “I’m certain you won’t disappoint,” Sir Nicholas said softly and Abigail willed herself not to blush for the third time since she’d entered the room.

  And failed.

  The baronet clearly noted the effect he had on her too, curse him. A knowing glint sparked in his deep blue eyes and his smile took on a rakish tilt. “Now, to the other matter,” he added as he pushed away from the desk.

  Other matter? “I assume you are referring to my list of lost items.” Abigail straightened in her seat. She desperately wanted to appear unaffected and businesslike despite her telltale high color. “If I have asked for too much—”

  “Not at all,” replied Sir Nicholas, reaching down behind his desk. With a grand flourish, he produced a beautiful poke bonnet trimmed with an abundance of ivory silk ribbon and a basket containing several items. “In any case, I hope these will do.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Abigail rose to her feet and pressed a hand to her chest. “I don’t know what to say, except thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”

  She took the basket from Sir Nicholas and noted with genuine astonishment that aside from a roll of fine parchment, there was not one, but three scent bottles—lavender water, rose water, and lily-of-the-valley.

  “You’ve probably noticed there are several items missing—the fabric, buttons, and thread to begin with,” Sir Nicholas remarked. “But then, I have also noted that you neglected to include several things on your list. Like your gown and shoes.”

  “Oh, please do not worry about them,” Abigail said as she lifted the bonnet to admire a cluster of exquisitely rendered silk rosettes on one side of the crown. “It’s not your fault—” She had been about to add she was the one who was responsible for ruining her dress when she’d jumped down from the stile, but the less said about that incident the better. Sensing Sir Nicholas’s gaze upon her face—and feeling more than a little self-conscious—she returned her attention to the contents of the basket.

  “Be that as it may, I wish to replace every item that was lost or ruined yesterday, Miss Adams,” Sir Nicholas said gently. “Simply think of it as noblesse oblige if you are bothered by the notion you are in some way indebted to me. You hinted at that yesterday, but I assure you, you are not.”

  Abigail at last braved a glance at Sir Nicholas. “Thank you. That eases my mind a little. I only hope—” She bit her lip, inwardly cursing herself for her near slip of the tongue. It’s not as if she could say, I hope the servants
do not believe I am your doxy. Even though Mrs. Graham certainly does.

  “I’m intrigued,” Sir Nicholas said. A devilish twinkle lit his eyes and her pulse began to race. “What do you hope?”

  “I hope you have not gone to too much trouble,” concluded Abigail. Mentally, she consigned the man to Hades. She resented the fact Sir Nicholas constantly made her feel all at sea—even now gratitude warred with exasperation and another overwhelming surge of reluctant but undeniable attraction. The man’s uncanny ability to stir her in so many different ways was frustrating in the extreme.

  However, Sir Nicholas appeared to be satisfied with her response as his mouth tilted into a smile that would probably make even Mrs. Graham’s heart flutter. “Think nothing of it, Miss Adams. It is my pleasure.”

  Pleasure. Oh, why did he have to use that word? A word that brought to mind all the wicked yet deeply pleasurable things she had been thinking about doing with the man ever since their very first encounter. Things she should not be thinking about.

  But as Sir Nicholas’s dark blue eyes held hers, the atmosphere in the library suddenly became charged with undeniable sexual awareness. The air practically sizzled with it. When his gaze slipped lower to her décolletage, Abigail’s nipples pearled and her breath caught. It was like the storm of yesterday afternoon had descended upon them again, and Abigail was perilously close to being swept into a maelstrom she had no hope of escaping. Desperate to flee the temptation both his words and expression suggested—she was now in no doubt her employer desired her—Abigail picked up her new bonnet and basket and murmured in a breathless voice, “Well, if there’s nothing else...”

  Sir Nicholas dragged in a deep breath as if he too needed air before he replied, “Ah, but there is. I want you to go to Mrs. Graham’s office. Mrs. Thorpe from the draper’s in Hedgecombe is waiting to take your measurements for a new gown. And she will also make whatever garment it was you were intending to sew. As for your lost shoe, one of the gardeners found it in the grounds earlier this morning. It is now with the village cobbler and a new pair should be ready within a few days.”

  “Again, I don’t know what to say, sir, other than thank you,” Abigail said. She supposed she should also thank him for her new room, but the idea of discussing bedchambers suddenly seemed like a topic she should avoid at all costs.

  As she turned and exited the library with her brand new bonnet and basket, it wasn’t with a sense of relief or delight, but trepidation. Dealing with her rampant physical attraction to Sir Nicholas was difficult enough. But his acts of kindness made him even more appealing. Dangerously so. She didn’t want to desire him and like him.

  An inviting pathway to ruin seemed to be opening up before her, and God help her, she prayed she was strong enough not to take it.

  Chapter 5

  Nicholas Barsby, you are going to burn in hell.

  For what felt like the thousandth time that morning, Nicholas tried to focus his attention on the account ledgers, agricultural reports and various items of correspondence strewn around him on the desk in his steward’s office and not on the movements of the delectable Miss Adams in the library beyond. To be more precise, it wasn’t what Miss Adams was currently doing that was so distracting—removing books from the shelves and sorting them into great piles all over the floor, and whatever surface she could find—but what he imagined doing with her. The constant ache in his groin was bloody maddening.

  To make matters worse, after yesterday’s meeting in the library, he was now certain Miss Adams was attracted to him, at least in a physical sense. When she’d first cast him a frankly admiring glance from beneath her long brown lashes, whenever he’d flirted with her and she’d blushed, his fascination with her had deepened. There was one electric moment in particular when their gazes had locked that had convinced him Miss Adams’s desire might be as powerful as his own.

  He sensed she wasn’t a virgin.

  That didn’t mean he should seduce her, but brute that he was, it seemed he couldn’t stop thinking about her in a sexual sense. If he were honest with himself, the reason Miss Adams wasn’t on her way to Brighton right now was quite simple—he wanted her. Badly.

  Christ, he was even jealous of the footman who had been tasked to help Miss Adams lift some of the heavier books or those out of reach. If the footman and the well-meaning but ancient steward, Mr. Cruikshank hadn’t been here for every blasted minute of the last three hours...

  Nicholas blew out a heavy sigh, silently lamenting yet again, that Cruikshank reeked of tobacco and the fusty smell peculiar to the unwashed elderly. The connecting door to the library and the office window had been left wide open in an attempt to reduce the room’s stuffiness, but to no avail. Beneath his cambric shirt, sweat trickled down Nicholas’s back. Although it wasn’t de rigueur by any means, he’d discarded his morning coat and had rolled up his sleeves. But then he’d never been one to observe the expected proprieties.

  As soon as his business with Cruikshank was completed, he’d be heading straight for the lake. With Regina and his nieces gone from Hartfield, he could enjoy a peaceful dip without the worry of being stumbled upon. Particularly now he needed to cool down in more ways than one.

  When Miss Adams entered his line of sight and bent over a pile of books affording him a wonderful view of her gorgeous arse—the thin white muslin of her skirts did little to hide her curves—he nearly groaned aloud. A hot wave of unexpected and completely irrational jealousy surged within him when he noticed the footman frankly admiring her rear as well. The cheeky bastard. Perhaps tomorrow he would task one of the maids to help Miss Adams, or better still, he could offer his assistance.

  Yes, he was a bad man.

  “Sir Nicholas, I draw your attention to the entries in this ledger,” said Cruikshank, pulling him out of his salacious daydream of pleasuring the governess from behind as she leaned over the arm of the striped sofa by the fireside, her skirts rucked up about her waist. “It concerns the income and expenses for Bridgewater House over the last year. The last tenant’s lease ended in March, but I am confident we will have another expression of interest very soon.”

  Nicholas glanced to where the steward pointed with one crooked finger. “Yes. Very good,” he said, without really studying the figures. Cruikshank had been the steward at Hartfield for as long as Nicholas could remember. And because he was so damned good at his work, it meant Nicholas could be an absentee landlord for the most part. Which suited him well. At nine-and-twenty, he believed he still had quite a few years of doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted before he even thought about taking a wife. If he ever did.

  There was certainly something to be said for living the carefree existence of a well-moneyed ton buck. He was not ready, at all, to get leg-shackled to a ‘suitable’ wife with innumerable lady-like accomplishments; a young, gently-bred woman from a most respectable family with good social standing and all of the right connections... Someone like Regina perhaps. Nicholas grimaced. A woman like her would either bore him to tears or worse still, harry him ‘til kingdom come.

  He definitely wasn’t going to act the part of a prudish old woman like his late brother Benjamin had, which, in the end, hadn’t done him any favors, God rest his soul. Benjamin and both his parents had been taken from this world too soon—Benjamin at the age of thirty, his mother in childbirth when he was but a boy before he’d even been breeched, and his father, when he was in his first year at Cambridge. No, Nicholas Barsby would live the life of a bachelor to the full, because tomorrow this life might be over.

  He looked up from the ledger and at that moment, Miss Adams bent over again, but this time she was facing him and he caught an eyeful of her glorious cleavage. She wasn’t amply endowed in the chest area, but Nicholas got the distinct impression her breasts were high and round and as firm as Persian pomegranates. He wondered what color her nipples were: the dusky pink of peaches; the rich red of summer raspberries or perhaps a soft apricot. His mouth began to water and his a
lready half-aroused cock stirred. Sweet Jesus, he was a mess. He definitely needed to cool down. Now.

  Cruikshank turned the ledger’s page. “Now, sir, you can see here—”

  “Yes, yes.” Nicholas waved his hand impatiently and got to his feet. “I can see everything is in order. As always, you’ve done a first-rate job, but I have other business to attend to.”

  “Of course, sir. Only—”

  “Later, Cruikshank.” Nicholas strode out of the office, gave Miss Adams a curt nod and quit the library. He might appear rude but he didn’t trust himself to speak to her without stammering, drooling or even worse, making a wildly inappropriate suggestion.

  As he made his way toward the Great Hall and then the grounds beyond the front door, he realized his mad obsession with Miss Adams had to stop. But for the life of him, he didn’t know how.

  He ripped off his neckcloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat as he marched across the lawn toward the north end of the lake. He was lying to himself. Of course he bloody knew what he should do to end this insane craving for the governess. There were three options.

  He could send her away to Brighton.

  He could abscond to London and spend a week at his favorite King Street brothel sampling the abundant pleasures on offer until he found a courtesan he particularly liked.

  Or he could proposition Miss Adams and have his wicked way with her. Even though there was smoldering fire in the woman’s gaze whenever she looked at him, he doubted she’d acquiesce. She had a tart tongue and from what he’d seen, she wasn’t afraid to use it.

  God, her mouth... What he wouldn’t do to taste it... Taste all of her...