“Get some spectacles, sir. They’ll lessen the strain on your eyes.”
That might be true, but there didn’t seem to be any cure for the troubling memories. No doubt he needed a diversion.
Nash sighed as Parker rubbed a layer of liniment into his shoulder. He closed his eyes and imagined Parker’s hands were those of Miss Franklin’s, and the scent filling his nostrils was the subtle fragrance of lilies that she wore. How much gentler would she be? How much better would a woman’s touch feel?
It had been a very long time since any woman had taken that kind of notice of him, looking beyond the scars that marred the side of his face and clouded his eye. And yet Mercy Franklin had barely seemed to perceive them. She’d looked directly into his eyes when speaking to him, never flinching at the sight of his damaged visage.
“Did you meet the governess, Parker?”
“No, sir,” said Parker. “But the lads told me she’s a comely thing, if a bit stiff.”
Aye, she was comely. The stiffness was likely due to her parentage, being a vicar’s daughter. No doubt the man had not stood for any foolishness.
As Arthur had not. Nash had not considered it before, but life must have been quite bleak for Emmaline after Hoyt’s death. Arthur had never had much patience, and, knowing Georgia, he doubted she had shown any interest in the girl—not when she’d been the one who’d engaged Nurse Butterfield.
But Nash could not be too critical. While their rearing of Emmaline might have been severe, Nash’s bordered on neglectful. He supposed he should have been more aware and attentive.
“You’ve never had a problem loosening them up, my lord, have you, now?”
“Loosening what?”
“The ladies, sir. The ladies.”
Ah. He had lost the train of conversation. “ ’Tis unseemly to seduce the help, Parker.”
“I suppose you’re right, sir.”
He knew he was right, but it didn’t stop him from thinking about Mercy Franklin coming to him in his bedchamber. He fancied her wearing naught but a pretty chemise, something completely at odds with her straight-backed demeanor.
Nash flinched when Parker dug the heels of his hands into the hollow beneath his shoulder blades and groaned with discomfort when the man started rubbing. “Of course I’m right. Besides, I need money, and the only way I can get a sufficient amount to improve this place is by marrying it. I can’t waste my time on a priggish little governess who doesn’t have what I need.”
What he meant was that Miss Franklin couldn’t possibly have the wealth he needed. Nash wasn’t so sure about the rest. Beneath her apparent severity, he’d seen a soft regard for her young charge, even though she barely knew Emmaline. She’d been smiling and chattering like a little bird when he happened upon her in the governess quarters, and Nash had been captivated by the small dimples at each side of her mouth. Fortunately, not so captivated that he missed catching her when she fell from the chair.
“Have you any prospects, then?” Parker asked.
“Not yet. But I received a few invitations when we were in Keswick today. And I’ll be entertaining here after I get things in order.”
Parker made a rude noise.
“What?”
“Here, my lord? That will take more than a wish and a prayer, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“I’m not completely without resources, Parker.”
“Of course not, my lord. The house is . . . The house can be . . . Er, have you thought of the London season? Bound to be a horde of marriageable heiresses there.”
Nash shuddered and sat up. “I’m hoping like hell to avoid it.”
“Don’t blame you in the least, my lord, but you might consider it. Going down there would be a whole sight easier than making this pile of stone presentable.”
Nash shook his head and stood. He had no intention of parading himself before a gaggle of simpering debutantes and their marriage-minded mamas. Not unless he had no other options.
“That’s enough for now, Parker. You’re dismissed.” Nash had assigned him a room near the other men, for he did not care to encourage his valet’s tendency to hover.
“Yes, sir,” Parker said, and took his leave. Nash collected the shirt he’d discarded and went into his dressing room. He looked forward to sinking into the steaming tub of water that awaited him there. All that could possibly make the evening better would be having Mercy Franklin there to attend him.
Mercy hadn’t known that the markedly carnal sensations that roiled through her veins at Lord Ashby’s touch would bedevil her all night. She could not attribute her sleeplessness to the unease and questions she’d known ever since her mother’s revelations about her adoption, or to the words Emmy had read aloud from her mother’s journal. She could not credit her new bed and surroundings, either, for they were entirely adequate. She’d been so far beyond merely tired after her day’s journey and the work she’d done to make her room ready, she should have been able to sleep.
But once in bed, Mercy had not been able to forget the melting awareness that coursed through her veins when Lord Ashby had caught her, or the shivery heat that skipped across her shoulders beneath his arm when she supported him all the way from her quarters to his bedchamber.
She knew her reaction was entirely inappropriate. Mercy had so very often heard her father preach—both in church and at home—about the dangers of licentiousness. He’d admonished her particularly, refraining from mentioning the ruin of her true mother, of course, but making it clear he believed that Mercy was more susceptible to sin than anyone else.
She’d resented his unfounded insinuations. She was as virtuous as any other young woman in Underdale, even if her father could not believe it.
And yet Mercy found herself yearning to feel those heated sensations again. It was as if she were fulfilling her father’s worst opinion of her. She turned over and pulled the blanket over her shoulders, wishing she had mustered the nerve to write to Andrew Vale before coming to Ashby Hall. If she’d sent him a letter right after Susanna’s death, she might now be on her way to Whitehaven, where her former suitor had his own small church. She would be en route to the life for which she’d been prepared, and not trying to sleep within the walls of a moldering old ruin of a house. She wouldn’t be wasting these precious hours in the dark, ruminating on a rude and rough nobleman who managed to set her blood on fire in spite of herself.
Staring into the darkness, Mercy decided she would not allow herself to dwell on the possibility that Mr. Vale had married someone else since the previous summer when she’d last seen him. He had been newly assigned to his church, and so he might still be getting himself established. There would be plenty of young ladies vying for his attentions, though, for he was a very attractive young man.
Reverend Franklin’s refusal of Mr. Vale’s proposal had been maddening and frustrating, but there had been nothing Mercy could do about it. And Reverend Vale had had no choice but to honor her father’s decision, or defy it and prove himself unworthy of her. There’d been no possible way for Mercy to win the equation.
She decided there was no better time to write the letter than now, but she had no pen or paper. Hoping to find what she needed in the schoolroom adjacent to the nursery, she rose from her bed and lit a lamp, then wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She went into the nursery and found Emmaline asleep but fitful, her blankets kicked askew. The fire had burned low, so Mercy added some peat, then pulled Emmaline’s blankets over the little girl’s shoulders. She gently smoothed her hair away from her face.
The child’s eyes opened. “Mama?”
“No, dear. It’s Miss Franklin. Are you warm enough?”
Mercy’s bare feet were freezing. She guessed Emmaline must be cold, too. She pulled up an extra blanket before sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“I dreamed . . . Papa carried me to Mama’s room,” she whispered, her chin quivering with distress. She reached up and clutched Mercy’s shawl tightly in her small hand.
“We were laughing, and then everything was . . . was . . . red. And I could not breathe. I jumped down, away from Papa, and ran and ran . . .”
Mercy drew the trembling child into her arms, holding her and rocking her gently until her body stilled and she went back to sleep. The poor child must have bits of memory from the time she’d lost her mother, and Mercy wondered if any of her own dreams reflected her early years before the Franklins.
She would never know.
She eased Emmaline down to the mattress and covered her, but did not leave her right away, in case she awoke or needed comfort again.
No doubt Claire Rogers would say it was not a governess’s place to soothe her charge this way, but holding this child felt exactly right to Mercy. She realized with chagrin that caring for Emmaline might be the closest she would come to motherhood, for her chances with Reverend Vale were tenuous at best.
Mercy sighed. Any other father would have welcomed a son-in-law such as Andrew Vale. He had a good living, was kind and respectful, and was exceedingly handsome, with his suede brown eyes and lovely blond hair. Mercy felt herself blush when she recalled her longing for him to kiss her.
Perhaps she had inherited an unhealthy wantonness from her mother, though surely her response to Lord Ashby’s touch had been an aberration, a reaction to a strange situation that had caught her—had caught both of them—off guard. Now she knew what a mistake it had been to offer her assistance after he saved her from falling.
Somehow, in spite of his injured ankle, he’d managed to get up the stairs and all the way into the nursery corridor. For that matter, he’d hurried to her side to prevent her fall. Mercy thought it likely that he could have gotten himself to his bedchamber.
But even now, strange sensations shuddered through her at the image of the utterly masculine earl standing beside his massive bed, looking at her as though beckoning her.
So absurd.
He was a thoroughly contrary man, his demeanor not attractive in the least. Whatever strange sensations Mercy might feel, she could easily quench them. She had much to do in the next few days, beginning her lessons with Emmy and writing to Mr. Vale, which she vowed to do upon the morrow. It would be an extremely delicate letter to which she would need to give her full attention.
She needed to know if he was yet unmarried, and if so, whether he was still interested in courting her.
When it seemed fairly certain that Emmaline would sleep through the rest of the night, Mercy tucked her shawl around her shoulders and left the nursery. She closed the door quietly and turned to the corridor, only to collide with a large, solid body.
Chapter 9
“Lord Ashby!”
Nash caught Miss Franklin’s elbow and held her there, suspecting that she wanted naught but to make a quick exit to the privacy of her bedchamber. She stood so tentatively in her chemise and shawl, her feet bare, her hair in disarray, and ready to bolt.
Every nerve in his body tightened in reaction to her.
She smelled like sweet rain, fresh and alluring—so incredibly different from his hideous nightmare of fire. He didn’t know if that was what had awakened him, or if there’d been some stealthy noise outside his room.
The candlelight cast her cheekbones in high relief. Her lashes were thick and black, beautifully framing her sleepy eyes, and Nash could easily conjure the way they would lie against her cheek in slumber. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her soft body lying against his in the darkness of night, soothing away the harsh memories that plagued him.
He took a deep breath and released her arm, resisting the urge to touch the silken, black filaments that curled over her shoulder. But the force of his desire to touch her was nearly overwhelming. “You are up rather late, Miss Franklin. Is anything amiss?” Though she clutched her shawl tightly to her chest, the visible portion of her simple white chemise seemed to glow in the candlelight.
It was as soft and feminine as he could have hoped.
She took a step back. “No, I— Emmaline was having a nightmare and so I—”
“She must have had a very loud nightmare if you heard her from your bedchamber.” He wondered if Miss Franklin’s little foray across the corridor had been the cause of the sounds that woke him.
“She— My lord, might we discuss this upon the morrow?”
The governess took another step back, and Nash allowed himself a moment to peruse her lushly feminine form.
He gathered his wits and reined in his lust. “Did you hear anything when you left your room, Miss Franklin?”
“Hear anything?” she asked curtly. “No. All was quiet.”
She glanced around as she spoke, and Nash could not help but relive those moments in his bedchamber when he’d felt a compelling desire to lift her into his arms again and take her to his bed. But she was a proper young lady, and quite rightly uneasy in his presence.
“You heard no doors closing?” he asked, tamping down his frustration. “No footsteps on the stair?”
“Nothing. I-I don’t even know why I could not—”
“Could not what, Miss Franklin?”
“The house is strange to me. I am unfamiliar with its normal creaks and noises.”
“Then you admit there might have been something?”
A faint line appeared between her brows. “Yes— No. I do not know, my lord.”
Nor did Nash, but he could not seem to help badgering Mercy Franklin. “All is well, then? There is nothing you need to report about my niece?”
She appeared baffled at his abrupt change of subject. “No, my lord. N-nothing is wrong,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the floor is cold and it is entirely unseemly for me to be—”
“Not at all, Miss Franklin. I’ll bid you good night. Unless you’d care to assist me to my bedchamber again . . .”
“Since you arrived here on your own two feet,” she said acerbically, “I trust you can go back the same way.”
Mercy stood with her back against the inside of her tightly closed bedroom door and forced her breathing to return to normal. She felt heated and chilled all at once, the sensations of her restless dreams coming back in force. She could not believe she’d actually hoped Lord Ashby would touch her again, perhaps draw her close and say something quite . . . quite . . .
Oh, how ridiculous. She’d never been a fanciful girl, but Lord Ashby brought out the worst possible inclinations in her. Not only was her body far too sensitive to his presence, he somehow made it impossible for her to govern her wayward tongue. It did not matter that he’d put her in an untenable position, keeping her in the shadowy corridor in her nightclothes while he asked his questions. She was in his employ and needed to be mindful of her place.
Mercy had never been inclined to display such insolence as she did with this exasperating man, and yet she knew his irritating manner was no excuse for her behavior. No doubt her friend Claire Rogers would chide her for her impertinence. Yet the earl seemed to derive some satisfaction from mocking her. How ought she to respond to that?
By avoiding him altogether.
With some careful planning, Mercy might be able to evade him for the duration of her employment at Ashby Hall, which she hoped would not be long. And if she encountered him again, she would take care to follow the strictest protocol.
In other words, she would hold her tongue.
Once Mercy wrote to Mr. Vale, she did not think it would take much time for him to send his response. Perhaps only a fortnight. Mercy doubted Lord Ashby possessed any such sense of etiquette. Clearly, he had no awareness of proper social decorum, as demonstrated by their inappropriate interchange just now.
In any event, Mercy had not heard any sounds out of place in the house, and wondered if Lord Ashby had concocted his tale of rogue noises for the purpose of detaining her outside her bedchamber, wearing naught but her chemise.
That possibility was really quite infuriating, and Mercy’s blood boiled at his inconsideration. She had no doubt he’d enjoyed her discomfiture.
She climbed into her bed and gave the bolster a violent shake before yanking the blankets up to her shoulders. If the earl had intended to be maddening, he could not have been more successful.
She just wished he did not make her body quiver with an awareness that created an unwelcome heat in the core of her being.
When morning came, Mercy washed and dressed, then listened for sounds of footsteps going past her door before broaching the corridor to walk across to the nursery. She did not care to encounter . . . anyone . . . on her way to Emmaline’s room.
The arrangement of rooms at Ashby Hall was quite different from the house Claire Rogers had described in her letters, and completely unacceptable in Mercy’s opinion. But it was not a governess’s place to demand a change. She could not tell the earl to move the master’s bedroom away from the nursery any more than she could order him to stay away from her.
Nor could she quell the nervous anticipation of another midnight meeting outside her bedchamber.
In direct opposition to such a daft notion, she’d dressed in a modest frock, a gown of celery green with a high neck and sleeves that fell just below her wrists. She brushed and pinned her hair carefully, leaving no loose ends to give anyone the wrong impression.
When Mercy entered the nursery, Emmaline was still in her nightclothes, kneeling beside her bookcase, looking at the picture book they’d read the night before.
Mercy wondered if she ought to discourage Emmaline’s fascination with her mother’s book. Perhaps her attachment only encouraged the kind of dreams that had upset the child’s sleep the night before.
And yet the book was one of the few items Emmaline had of her mother. It did not seem right to take it away when the girl had already lost so much.
If Mercy owned something of her true mother’s . . .
She wished she knew more about the woman who’d borne her, and knew it was time to delve into Susanna’s journal, even though the passages Emmaline had read were disturbing. Mercy could not help but suspect the rest would be just as difficult to take.
Seducing the Governess Page 8
