Bloody servants.
“I left instructions that I was not to be interrupted,” he called, buttoning his breeches. He then kissed a pale-faced Abigail and whispered, “Go into Cruikshank’s office. I’ll get rid of whoever it is as fast as I can.”
She nodded and as soon as she’d disappeared, he strode over to the library door and flung it open. A poker-faced Lawson stood on the other side.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir. But there is an unfolding situation that requires your urgent attention.”
Unless the Hall was on fire, Nicholas really didn’t give a flying fig. He raked a hand through his hair, irritated beyond measure. “Well, out with it, man.”
Lawson drew a deep breath. “A number of guests, claiming they are good friends of yours, have arrived for an impromptu house party, sir.”
Blast and bloody hell. Nicholas had been worried this might happen as soon as word got out that he’d returned from the Continent. He should have heeded Regina’s suggestion for making plans for such a contingency before she’d left for Brighton. “A number of house guests. How many?”
“At least a dozen, sir. Perhaps more. There are eight carriages in the drive. Six gentlemen and six ladies with attendant staff. A certain Lord Nash seems to be the spokesman for the group.” Lawson proffered a silver tray bearing the card of Joshua Sheridan, Viscount Nash.
Damn and double damn. It was going to be a bloody circus. Nicholas resisted the urge to look back at the door to Cruikshank’s office. He’d been at Cambridge with Nash. They’d been firm friends and indeed, partners in crime, for years. One thing he was certain of, Nash would not be put off. He blew out a resigned sigh. “Very well, show them all to the drawing room. Am I correct to assume Mrs. Graham is already marshaling the other staff and working on bedroom allocations?”
“Yes indeed, sir.”
“Tell my guests I will be with them in ten minutes.”
“Of course, sir.”
The library door shut and Nicholas retrieved his black superfine coat from the back of a wingback chair. He had to make sure Abigail was all right before he went to his room to wash and change his attire. And then he had guests to greet.
“Did you hear what all the fuss was about?” he asked when he entered the office; the door had been left ajar. He was relieved to see that Abigail’s appearance was perfectly ordinary—if one could ever describe a woman of ineffable beauty in that way. He didn’t want her to have to brave the halls of Hartfield looking like she’d just been tumbled.
Abigail nodded. “Yes.” However, the smile she offered him seemed forced. “I expect I shan’t be seeing as much of you for the foreseeable future.”
He grimaced. “I’m afraid so. But,” he took her hands in his, “you know the paperwork I was perusing earlier? It’s actually the deed for a townhouse in Half-Moon Street in Mayfair. A townhouse just for you. Cruikshank sent the document via courier. I was going to tell you later this evening.”
Abigail’s smile became genuine and she threw her arms about his neck. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Nicholas gave her a quick squeeze before setting her away. If he lingered too long, he doubted he’d be leaving anytime soon. The temptation to hold her was too strong. “You are very welcome, sweetheart. You will be in London before you know it. A week or two at the very latest. And then you won’t need to worry about appearances anymore. And I’ll have you all to myself.”
To his surprise, a troubled light flickered in Abigail’s hazel eyes. “Yes...”
Before Nicholas could enquire what was bothering her, she smiled brightly and added, “I shall stay here for a little while to see if I can put most of the shelves on the lower level to rights. There isn’t too much left to do. And I’ll finish sorting the books on the upper level over the next few days. Your guests won’t be able to find a thing otherwise. I’m sure some of the ladies like to read. And a library is very much a gentleman’s haunt at the end of the day if I’m not mistaken.”
“Thank you.” Time was ticking by and Nicholas needed to greet his guests. He dropped a quick kiss on Abigail’s forehead then headed for the door, stalwartly ignoring the urge to kiss her senseless. Pausing on the threshold, he turned back. And his breath snagged in his chest.
Abigail had turned away—perhaps she’d thought he’d quit the room already—and was gazing out of the study’s mullioned window. The rain showers had cleared and afternoon sunlight highlighted strands of gold and copper in her upswept glossy brown hair; outlined the curve of her hips and her slender thighs through the thin muslin of her gown. She was so, so lovely.
He wanted to say something else to her, but he didn’t quite know what. Things seemed oddly strained between them, unfinished, and his heart seemed weighted with an emotion he couldn’t name. It almost felt like they’d just said goodbye. Which was ludicrous. Even though he needed to maintain an appropriate distance, he would still see Abigail each day. And as much as he wanted to when they repaired to London.
Telling himself he was being a fanciful milksop, he pushed away from the door and straightened his cuffs. Duty called. Sir Nicholas Barsby had a house party to host.
Chapter 11
A day later...
“Good heavens. What a mess.”
Abigail turned around, a volume of cartography in hand, and discovered the library had been invaded by a small flock of elegantly attired young women: the two giggling Miss Cosgroves, the sisters of Baron Belmont; the flaxen-haired Miss Horatia Sheridan, the younger sister of Viscount Nash; and her sedate chaperone-cum-companion, Miss Maude Pendergast.
Bessie had described them all to Abigail in detail over breakfast that very morning, so she had no difficulty identifying them. The other two female members of the house party, both middle-aged matrons, a Lady Edmonstone and a Lady Somerville, must have decided to linger over their tea in the morning room instead of visiting the library.
It seemed it was Miss Sheridan who’d spoken as she fixed Abigail with a cool look and asked in the same distinct, condescending tone, “Are you responsible?”
Irritation prickled beneath Abigail’s skin. Nevertheless, she bobbed a curtsy and attempted to show the correct amount of deference by maintaining a neutral expression. “Yes. I’m cataloguing all the books at Sir Nicholas’s request. But I am more than happy to offer assistance if there is something particular you are looking for.”
The young woman stepped farther into the room. Her beautifully curled, blonde ringlets framed a heart-shaped face and her morning gown of pastel blue silk and white lace was of a superior cut and style; it suited her petite frame perfectly. There was no doubt she was superficially pretty; but there was something about the sharp expression in her pale blues eyes and the line of her rosebud shaped mouth that made Abigail think she might be a calculating, exacting sort of female.
Miss Sheridan’s next words confirmed Abigail’s assessment as she asked with a haughty arch of her delicately shaped brow, “And you are ?”
“Miss Abigail Adams, the governess.”
“Abigail!” Miss Sheridan’s eyes danced with disdainful mirth. “How precious. A servant named for a servant.” Her gaze traveled over Abigail’s leaf green sprigged muslin gown—it was one of the new dresses Sir Nicholas had given her—and her amused expression changed to a frown. “You don’t much look like a governess though. And where are your charges? I was given to understand Sir Nicholas has two nieces.”
Abigail held the woman’s gaze steadily. She wouldn’t be cowed by anyone, especially someone as young as Miss Sheridan who looked no older than a debutante of eighteen or nineteen. “Lady Barsby took them to Brighton whilst I remained here to sort out the library.”
“Hmph.” Miss Sheridan suddenly looked bored and turned her attention to the slightly older woman who still hovered by the door. “Maude, see if you can find something interesting for me to read in these shambolic shelves. You know what I like. Nick seems to think there is no chance of the rain clearing so
we won’t be going boating on the lake after all. And I was so looking forward to it.”
Nick? This young woman addressed Sir Nicholas as Nick?
Abigail turned away and carefully slid the cartography volume onto the shelf. Unbidden tears pricked her eyelids and she hastily blinked them away. Horatia Sheridan could not have hurt her more had she skewered her heart with a hatpin.
Sir Nicholas had never invited her to call him by his Christian name. And she’d never dared to use it. She might know Sir Nicholas in a different way to Miss Sheridan but that didn’t matter. It was painfully obvious that there was a yawning chasm between her world and Sir Nicholas’s. Even more so now that she was a courtesan. She was an outsider. And she always would be.
“Oh look, Henrietta, Horatia. Here’s one by Mrs. Radcliffe—The Mysteries of Udolpho.” One of the Miss Cosgroves was waving a book in the air. “And there’s a raft of other novels by her too. Even more than our circulating library has. The Italian, The Romance of the Forest. One feels like reading something dark and brooding when staying in a massive, Elizabethan house like Hartfield, doesn’t one? Especially on a rainy day like this.”
Miss Cosgrove was joined by her sister, Henrietta, and Miss Pendergast on the far side of the room near Mr. Cruikshank’s office, whilst Miss Sheridan drifted over to the chairs by the fireplace, closer to Abigail. She ran a finger along the back of the cerise and ivory striped sofa—the very same sofa Abigail and Sir Nicholas had made use of yesterday.
Abigail reached for another cartography book on the nearby piecrust table in order to hide her blush or any other telltale signs of unseemly emotion.
But it seemed Miss Sheridan was determined to make her presence felt as she soon declared, “Hartfield is certainly massive, and dark. Take this room for instance.” She made a gesture encompassing the whole library. “If I were the mistress of this house, I would replace all these blackened oak shelves with golden oak or beechwood. And there are far too many books. Horrible, dusty old things.”
Abigail’s lips flattened. She didn’t trust herself to speak politely so she continued shelving atlases, geography texts, and travel guides. Besides, she was certain Miss Sheridan wouldn’t be at all interested in what she had to say on this or any other matter.
Clearly fond of the sound of her own voice, Miss Sheridan continued to make pronouncements about how she would refurbish the library. “And the ceiling. Indeed all of the ceilings in Hartfield are just so oppressive. Look at all those dark beams and those carved corbels and crests and ugly Tudor roses. And that mantelpiece with its dreadful creatures. Wolves and lions that look like gargoyles; it’s enough to give one nightmares.” She tapped her sharp little chin. “Marble and plaster work, and silk wallpaper, that’s what’s needed. And gilt furniture. I would burn that cumbersome desk too.”
Abigail could barely suppress her annoyance. How dare this young woman come in here and criticize the furnishings and the interiors of this beautiful house. And the audacity of her to imagine that one day, she might be the mistress of Hartfield.
Abigail’s breathing faltered and she gripped the shelf in front of her. Oh, God. How silly of her not to realize that Miss Horatia Sheridan—or indeed either of the Miss Cosgroves, or even Miss Maude Pendergast—might be husband hunting right at this very moment. And Sir Nicholas—quite probably one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors—was the quarry.
He was a baronet, wealthy beyond measure, not quite thirty with the physique of an Adonis and the face of a dark angel. A brilliant lover.
And she, Miss Abigail Adams, was not suitable marriage material. Would never be suitable. Men like Sir Nicholas didn’t marry their mistresses. They married young virginal debutantes like Miss Horatia. Pretty and accomplished and socially well-connected with just the right noble pedigree and a sizeable dowry.
It was a confronting, indeed painful epiphany that she would always have to share him with someone else. That he would never be truly hers.
Could she live with that?
She didn’t know. The best she could do was cling to the hope that Sir Nicholas wasn’t in the market for a wife at the moment. At least then she would have him to herself, even if it were only for a year or two. She didn’t want to let him go. Not yet, not when they’d only just begun.
Abigail drew in a shaky breath. It was time to face the terrible truth. A truth she had been trying to ignore for days. She’d done exactly what she’d sworn not to do. The most foolish thing imaginable for a woman in her position.
She’d fallen head-over-heels in love with Sir Nicholas. It seemed a broken heart was inevitable.
* * *
Three days later...
The fine weather had returned but there was nothing fine about Nicholas’s mood as he lay on a picnic blanket in the shade of a horse chestnut. His mood was as dark as a thundercloud.
Logic dictated that he should be content. This was the first time in four days that he’d found a moment of peace and quiet. Right now, Nash and most of the other gentlemen were on the lake with the ladies, rowing them out to a small island in the center to see a small medieval tower folly. There hadn’t been enough space in the rowboats for everyone so he’d opted to stay behind with the Rowland brothers, but they’d since scarpered off to the stables.
He sighed disconsolately and sat up, elbows on his drawn up knees and stared out across the water; the picnic had been set up on the edge of a small, lakeside copse half way between the Doric temple folly and the boathouse. The rowboats had disappeared from view and he was now quite alone, thank God.
Once upon a time, he would have been thrilled to host a house party like this. Nash and his cronies—Belmont, Somerville, Edmonstone and his cousins, the Rowland brothers—were all capital fellows with similar tastes and interests to his own. They’d toured his stables and admired Oberon and his other fine thoroughbred horses, had ridden hell for leather with him around the countryside when the weather had permitted, fenced and boxed, and stayed up until all hours joking and drinking and smoking cigars whilst playing cards and billiards. But for some reason, Nicholas was bored beyond measure. Indeed, he chafed at the bit to see them all gone from Hartfield.
Then he could have Abigail all to himself again.
God, how he missed spending time with her. He craved her to a degree he’d never anticipated. Indeed, he’d been so frustrated and needy, he’d gone to bed with throbbing bollocks every single night since the house party had begun and self-gratification hadn’t done a thing to take the edge off. He supposed that could be the main reason underlying his foul mood.
That and another simple fact—he missed Abigail’s radiant smile.
He’d barely seen Abigail over the last few days apart from a fleeting glimpse of her as she’d disappeared up the servants’ stairs or as he’d passed her in the Great Hall or the Long Gallery. On those few occasions, all he’d given her was a brief nod and she’d curtsied to him and the others of the party, her eyes downcast, her expression appropriately polite and devoid of any real emotion. He’d felt like the lowest heel but if any of his friends suspected he was tupping the governess—well, he couldn’t stand the idea that they would look down upon her.
Of course, the women of the party couldn’t hold a candle to her. In fact, most of the ladies were just plain annoying. Especially Nash’s sister, Horatia. The blasted chit set his teeth on edge every time she batted her fair eyelashes at him or threw him a simpering smile. She was even more tiresome than Belmont’s jabbering sisters, Henrietta and Thomasina Cosgrove.
If he wasn’t careful, he was sure Horatia Sheridan was waiting for an opportunity to throw herself at him. She had that predatory gleam of the hungry debutante in her pretty blue eyes; a look that made him want to run a mile. But he refused to be caught in the parson’s mousetrap by someone as irksome as her. He’d rather face Nash on the dueling field than marry her and that would be dashed inconvenient because he really did like the fellow.
Leaning back on his elbows w
ith another sigh, he studied a butterfly that landed on the toe of his boot. What he wouldn’t give right now to have Abigail here with him. He’d share what was left of the champagne with her, feed her strawberries dipped in clotted cream. She’d lick her lips and then he’d kiss her and she would taste more divine than anything she’d eaten or drunk.
He groaned and his cock jerked as he thought about what they’d do next, right here on the rug. Maybe he should go back to the house and seek her out. He’d feel better if he could kiss her, hold her, see her smile. She’d finished organizing the library several days ago, so he’d try her bedchamber first. It was risky but he was going mad.
“Oh, Nick. I’m so glad you’re still here.”
Bloody hell. It was Horatia Sheridan.
Nicholas climbed to his feet and his stomach clenched with cold dread when he saw her advancing toward him across the grass, her pink muslin skirts billowing in the slight breeze. The baggage was alone. “And may I ask why you are still here?” he said in the driest, most quelling tone he could manage. It was the tone of an older brother admonishing his sister. “And where is Miss Pendergast?”
Horatia dipped her head beneath a low bough of the horse chestnut as she joined him beneath the leafy canopy. “Oh, she has a megrim,” she said with a small shrug. “Too much sun probably. I walked her back to the Hall instead of going out with the others. But it’s such a lovely day, I decided I didn’t want to waste it cooped up inside after all.” She tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet, removed it, then cast him a provocative smile. “Besides, I thought you might like some company.”
Nash was a bloody fool. He needed to keep a better eye on his sister. Even though it felt like his jaw might crack, Nicholas somehow managed to say, “I’m afraid I was just about to go back to the Hall.” He inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Sheri—”
Before he knew what she was about, Horatia launched herself at him and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Oh, Nick. Don’t go. Please kiss me. I’ve been dreaming about you, about this for so long.” She closed her eyes and pursed her lips, offering her mouth to him like a five-year old offering a kiss to an elderly relative. Blast her to hell, he really didn’t need this. But how to extract himself?
An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2 Page 11
