Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  Nash could not hide from the knowledge that his face was irreparably damaged. The doctors in the field might have been optimistic about his vision returning and the ugly red scars diminishing, but Nash was far more pragmatic about it. Besides, after all he’d lost, this was trivial.

  “I had a minor accident on the road,” he said in answer to the steward’s question. “What do you want, Lowell? Have you some more bad news about the sheep? Or is it about the flooding in the west fields again?”

  “Neither, my lord.”

  Nash didn’t think he would ever become used to hearing himself called by his father’s title. As the youngest son, he’d never meant to accede to the title, which was why he’d joined the army. Bought his commission and gone to war, like a good many other second and third sons. Who would have believed his two elder brothers would die in their prime?

  A shard of pain shot through him at the thought of the two of them, gone.

  “It’s about Lady Emmaline, sir. Her new governess.”

  Figuring out what to do with his little niece was problematic. Lowell had left her in the care of the nurse hired by Arthur’s wife, but Nash had sacked the woman on sight and put Henry Blue—the youngest of his men—in charge of seeing that the child came to no harm. But Blue was inadequate at best.

  Little Emmaline barely remembered Nash, and to make matters worse, he knew his scars frightened her. So he did the only thing possible. He avoided her.

  “Brilliant. Where did you find a governess who will work for no pay?” His sarcasm was not lost on Lowell, who chuckled.

  “I fear this is an expense we must pay, my lord.”

  Nash knew he was right. And fortunately, he would not have to give the woman any money right away. That would not be required until the end of the quarter at the earliest, which would give him time to raise some cash. He hoped.

  “How does she compare to that shrew of a nurse who was here when I arrived?”

  “I have not met her yet, my lord. But I think she will be somewhat different. Her letter sounded rather more civilized than Nurse Butterfield.”

  “Is she a Keswick woman?”

  “Ah, no. If you remember, Reverend Swan’s wife spoke to me of Lady Emmaline’s situation one Sunday last month. She suggested I read the advertisements for a governess.”

  If only a governess was all that Emmaline needed. Nash remembered agreeing with Lowell’s suggestion to find a governess, but he had just arrived at Ashby and there had been so many other issues to attend to. “Now that you remind me, I do recall.”

  “I found only a few advertisements, and hired the most promising one.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman called Mercy Franklin.”

  “Mercy? What kind of name is that?” Nash wondered aloud.

  “She was a vicar’s daughter—she wrote that he is now deceased and so she must earn her fortune.”

  “Her fortune as a governess,” Nash said dryly.

  Lowell did not reply. “I understand she has arrived. Would you care to speak to her now?”

  Nash smiled for only the second time since he’d come back to the Lake District. The first occasion had been less than an hour before as he sat on his arse in the road.

  “Aye. Now would be perfect.”

  Something was a bit off, but besides encountering two of the men who’d raced past her in a haze of mist and mud, Mercy could not put her finger on it. She’d never been in an earl’s home before, so she didn’t know exactly what to expect. Surely, something grander. Not that Ashby Hall wasn’t large, for it was absolutely huge. It was just that everything inside seemed as shabby as the outside.

  There was an abundance of activity in the large kitchen, and the cooking aromas had set her stomach to growling. Mercy put aside her hunger as well as her trepidations, and went into the pantry to change.

  She felt vastly uncomfortable removing her clothes in the small closet so near the kitchen with those ruffians who’d run her off the road, but there was no help for it. She could not meet the housekeeper in her soaking wet gown. She put on her best dress, a gown of dark blue with white collar and cuffs. Without the benefit of a mirror, she took her hair out of its pins and smoothed it down before twisting it into a knot and refastening it at the back of her neck. She’d had years of practice at this, using only the tiny mirror her father allowed her—to guard against the sin of vanity. Still, he had never abided anything less than a perfectly tidy appearance.

  There had been many rules at St. Martin’s rectory. Reverend Franklin had required that Mercy be silent until spoken to, and spend one hour every evening on her knees while she read a passage of Scripture that he had chosen for her. She was not allowed to read any material or participate in any activity without her father’s approval.

  The reverend had believed that the only pleasure to be taken from this life was in strict and pious behavior, and atonement for one’s sins. Not that Mercy had ever had a chance to commit any. She had been a conscientious and obedient daughter who’d served her father’s parish in every way he’d seen fit.

  She just hoped her work on Sundays with the youngsters would help her know what to do with the earl’s niece.

  Kitchen sounds and smells met Mercy as she stepped out of the pantry, and she carried her wet things toward the voices. “Here, let me take all that,” said Henry Blue when he saw her carrying her wet coat and the one mourning gown she owned. “I’ll lay it all out by the fire, miss.”

  “Does the housekeeper know that I am here?”

  She made her voice sound as confident as possible, although her stomach was churning as it had been ever since receiving Mr. Lowell’s offer of employment. Not even the difficulties she’d faced after her mother’s death had unnerved her as much as having to move so far from the home she’d always known, to a position for which she had little knowledge and no real experience.

  At least she’d had a few informative letters from her friend Claire Rogers, who’d moved away from Underdale more than a year ago to London to become governess for a wealthy family there. It was Claire’s letters that had given Mercy the idea of advertising for this position, and a few hints on how to comport herself once she landed a post.

  “Housekeeper, miss?” the young man asked, sounding puzzled. As though he’d never heard of such a person.

  Mercy’s heart sank. “Yes. Isn’t there a . . .” She moistened her lips. “Who is to give me my instructions?”

  “Mr. Lowell knows you’re here. I went to tell him while you were changing clothes. I’m to take you to the library straight away and . . . well, I’m sure he’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do.”

  She eyed her wet clothes, neatly laid out on the hearth, and her traveling cases standing nearby, and wondered if she could possibly make this dark, bleak place her home. Bolstering her resolve, she followed Henry Blue and faced the fact that she had no choice but to stay at Ashby Hall. The Franklins had no other relations on whom Mercy could rely, and she didn’t know who her own people were, either.

  On her deathbed, Susanna had not been able to recall the name of the man who’d brought Mercy to them all those years ago, but she’d certainly remembered him hinting at her origins. Mercy felt a weight in the pit of her stomach at the memory of her mother’s disapproving words.

  Only a fallen woman would abandon her offspring, Susanna had said as she lay pale and trembling beneath her bed linens with fever and chills. Mercy’s adoptive mother had kept her wits throughout her illness, but the lung fever had robbed her of most of her breath. She had said little during her last hours of life, but in her last moments, had revealed the most significant piece of information Mercy had ever learned.

  With that extraordinary revelation, bits and pieces of Mercy’s childhood had come to make some kind of sense. It brought a new dimension to Mercy’s understanding of her parents’ strictness. Considering what the Franklins believed of her mother, it seemed obvious they had feared Mercy would succumb to the same temptations
that had caused her own mother’s downfall.

  And yet she would have thought marriage to a bona fide clergyman was exactly what they’d want. What better way to keep their adopted daughter on the straight and narrow path? But her father had refused Reverend Vale.

  Mercy suddenly thought of the man who’d been thrown from his horse and understood how a woman might be persuaded to surrender to such a man’s dark good looks and brooding manner. The horseman was temptation personified.

  But Mercy was nothing like the mother who’d abandoned her. She had the wherewithal to resist any man, in spite of what her adoptive parents might have thought of her or her true mother.

  Following Henry through a maze of stone corridors, Mercy slowed, her worries and trepidations getting the best of her. She did not doubt that the fallen horseman had been part of the barbarous group that had nearly knocked her off the road near the turnstile. And two of those men were in the kitchen now.

  “Miss?” Henry asked when he realized she was no longer following him.

  Mercy gave him a wavering smile and caught up as she prayed the injured horseman was not the man who had hired her. She had been anything but respectful to him, and he had made at least one undignified remark. The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks as she thought of his words, so inappropriate for a man to make to a maiden, and a stranger at that.

  As they walked through the dim, medieval corridor, their footsteps echoed hollowly. “The library is just through there,” said Henry, pointing to a set of pocket doors that had darkened with time.

  “Thank you,” Mercy replied as Henry took his leave. She stood outside for a moment and checked to make sure her collar was straight and her hair well contained. She gave a brief knock at the door, and a blond man with a nicely trimmed mustache answered. He was only a few inches taller than Mercy, but solidly built, and possessed of an engaging smile.

  “Miss Franklin,” he said as he stepped aside for her to enter. He bowed with an impressive flourish. “I am Philip Lowell. Welcome.”

  Mercy felt almost giddy with relief. In spite of the fact that there was no housekeeper to conduct her interview, at least Mr. Lowell was not the blackguard on the road. “How do you do, Mr. Lowell.”

  The man was handsome in a conventional way, with a healthy, ruddy complexion. His light hair was thick and fashionably cut, and his smile hinted at charm to spare. Though Mercy sensed that he would find favor with every young lady in the parish, she found nothing intriguing about him, felt no pull of attraction.

  It was clear proof that her father had been entirely wrong about her propensities.

  The room behind Mr. Lowell was large and dimly lit. The beveled windows were in need of a good washing, but the number of books on the shelves made Mercy’s eyes grow wide. She wondered if Lord Ashby would object to her borrowing some of these volumes for her own personal reading. She did not care that they gave off an odor of dust and disuse, or that the deep red draperies were in need of a good beating. Having met Mr. Lowell, her misgivings eased, and the possibility occurred to her for the first time since her arrival at the turnstile, that Ashby Hall might suit her very well.

  The smell of the peat fire permeated the room, and when Mr. Lowell led her farther into the library, Mercy was startled to see a man sitting in an overstuffed chair near the fireplace, with his leg conspicuously elevated on an ottoman.

  A great rock, the size of a Castlerigg standing stone, lodged in her throat, and Mercy wished she could go away and hide. Instead, she pressed one hand to her breast, closed her eyes briefly, and forced a composure she did not feel, chastising herself for neglecting to consider this possibility.

  And yet she never would have thought an earl would be quite so . . . She gulped when the word earthy came to mind. He did not appear at all the way she had expected a nobleman to look, with his plain, gentleman’s clothes and lack of ornamentation.

  And yet it was this stark, strapping physicality that made him so very intriguing. It was what made her knees go soft like pudding when her eyes drifted to the sensual mouth that was quirked in the vaguest hint of a smile.

  Chapter 5

  Mercy reined in her unseemly reaction to Lord Ashby, aware that he would likely dismiss her on the spot. He could not possibly want to hire an insolent, cheeky—

  “Lord Ashby has a few questions for you, Miss Franklin.”

  Lord above! Why could she not have kept a civil tongue in her head? She could very well have assisted the man quickly and gone on her way. But no . . .

  The earl tipped his head, which happened to be turned slightly so that his scars were not visible. His profile was even more striking than she remembered it. “At your service,” he said.

  Mercy knew that was patently untrue, but she kept her peace for a change.

  “You’ve come a long way, Miss Franklin?”

  She was grateful he did not refer to her dreadful conduct on the road. “Yes, my lord. From Underdale.”

  “Ah. At the seashore.”

  Mercy nodded, her mouth suddenly too dry to speak. If only she could have assisted him without having to tuck his leg so indelicately under her arm . . . If only he had not mentioned her . . . derriere.

  She felt a prickle of some unfamiliar and untoward sensation creep up her spine.

  “Mr. Lowell tells me that this is your first governess post.”

  Mercy swallowed the Castlerigg stone, but it lodged heavily in the pit of her stomach. Clearly, he intended to torture her before dismissing her. “That is correct, my lord.”

  “Tell me: How have you occupied yourself for the past twenty . . . whatever . . . years? And what qualifies you to be my niece’s teacher?” He allowed his glance to rove over her form for a moment, and the prickle in her spine settled into her lower back.

  Mercy could not allow him to rattle her.

  “I lived with my parents in Underdale. My father was vicar at St. Martin’s Church.” No need to tell the arrogant man that she wasn’t really Reverend Franklin’s daughter, that the Franklins suspected Mercy had been her true mother’s immoral misfortune. “He died last summer. My mother passed away only recently.”

  “My sympathies, Miss Franklin.” He spoke softly, and a rogue shadow crossed his brow. But then he took a deep breath and addressed her again. “You appear sufficiently stiff-backed to fill the role of governess. Stringent discipline, and all that. Tell me, Miss Franklin, I assume this post was not your first choice of avocations. Were there no opportunities for you to marry in Underdale?”

  “My lord . . .” said Mr. Lowell in a cautionary tone, but Mercy turned to him and spoke before he could continue.

  “ ’Tis quite all right, Mr. Lowell. I do not mind setting Lord Ashby’s mind at ease.” She returned her full attention to the earl. “I received two proposals of marriage in Underdale, but both were rejected by my father.”

  Ashby scowled, the expression reminding Mercy of the harsh looks he’d given her while lying injured on the road. “On what grounds? I cannot imagine that there were two scoundrels in all of Cumberland who would vie for the hand of a vicar’s daughter.”

  Mercy clasped her hands together, feeling altogether out of her element. Her life had been thoroughly fixed and predictable in Underdale—at least, until the deaths of her parents. The people of the parish knew the Franklins well, and afforded her the respect and deference she was due. But here at Ashby Hall, her life would be subject to the whims of her employer.

  And he was a rascal at best.

  “The first young man was a local fisherman who my father believed would be unable to provide for me as he saw fit.” She was not ashamed of her past or of James Morland’s proposal. He was an honest, hardworking man with a small fishing boat of his own. And he’d courted her quite properly. Mercy had done naught to earn disdain from anyone, not even a roguish earl.

  “And the second?”

  Mercy shook her head slightly and hedged. “My father was vague in his rejection of Reverend Vale.”
<
br />   “Vale? Another reverend? I wonder . . .” He looked at her speculatively, and Mercy resisted the urge to squirm. “But here you are, Miss Franklin, ready to teach my niece.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said, and suddenly realized what had seemed so “off” about the house. She had not seen any women here; no housekeeper, and not a maid in sight. Henry Blue had addressed Mr. Childers as corporal, and the men on the road had worn old army clothes. They seemed to have turned the place into an army installation. Not quite what she would consider an appropriate environment for a young girl.

  “You have not yet met my niece, Miss Franklin. How do you know you’ll be able to manage her? Or that your severe manner won’t terrify her?”

  “Severe mann—” She stopped and took a deep breath, moistening her lips at the same time. She needed this post, at least temporarily. “I’m sure I’ll fare much better with your niece than a battalion of soldiers can do.”

  “Correction. Former soldiers,” he said, confirming her suspicions.

  “And ruffians, at that.” A muffled sound came from Mr. Lowell’s direction, but Mercy did not turn to look at him.

  For some reason, Lord Ashby brought out the worst in her. She wished she possessed better control of her tongue before those brazen words had a chance to slip out.

  Perhaps she wanted him to dismiss her before she could even begin.

  In any event, there’d been absolutely nothing wrong with her manner prior to meeting Lord Ashby. And since her parents had dictated her mode of grooming and dress, she knew they were perfectly proper, in spite of the fact that she was not wearing her mourning gown at the moment. It had been soaked in the rain and was drying by the fire in the kitchen.

  She sighed inwardly and decided she must try to redeem herself.

  “I would not call my manner severe, my lord. ’Tis merely sensible. Beyond that, I spent much of my time with the parish children and we got on well enough. Famously, in fact. I am sure your niece and I will carry on just fine together.”