Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  Bloody hell. He felt the early twinge of a headache and tried to rub it away as Harper brought the small barouche from the stable. Nash knew that sitting next to Mercy Franklin was going to be torture. If she decided to brave his presence this morning, he was sure she’d make certain Emmaline sat between them all the way to Metcalf’s and back.

  And it was just as well.

  Soon his two traveling companions appeared, both wearing hats and warm clothes. Miss Franklin’s brown coat covered her fine form, as she’d no doubt intended, and Emmaline’s presence provided any number of reasons for her governess to avoid meeting his eyes.

  He wondered if she would stammer again as she’d done during her retreat the previous evening. Her shy withdrawal had captivated him far more than it should.

  “Good morning, Emmaline.” He did not wait for his niece’s response, but turned his gaze directly toward the governess, so completely prim now in her demeanor. So different from the siren he’d held in his arms the night before. “Good morning to you, Miss Franklin.”

  She gave a little bow. “My lord,” she said quietly, then bent down to speak to Emmaline, who appeared surprisingly neat and clean, her shoes polished, and no holes in her stockings. Due to Mercy’s effort, no doubt.

  “ ’Tis polite to say, ‘Good morning, Uncle,’ ” she said to the child.

  Emmaline spoke softly, but at least her greeting was audible.

  “Shall we get started?” he asked.

  He opened the door to the barouche and lifted Emmaline in, then took Miss Franklin’s hand. She thanked him without really looking at him as she stepped up into the conveyance, settling herself on the far side of the seat, with Emmaline in the center, just as he’d predicted.

  Nash, who was rarely disposed to small talk, started the conversation. “Do you know anything about dogs, Emmaline?”

  “No,” she said.

  “We’re looking for a particular type.”

  Emmaline looked up at him then, but Mercy still didn’t meet his eyes. She fiddled with the buttons on her coat, then shifted in her seat in order to smooth the thick fabric of the coat securely beneath her.

  Nash could not contain a small smile. He had gotten to her as deeply as she had affected him.

  “Aye. We need a working dog. But not one we’ll keep in the house. This dog will help the shepherds herd the sheep when it’s time to bring them in for shearing. Sir William has always kept eye dogs. They’re very effective herders.”

  “Eye dogs?” Mercy asked, her curiosity finally piqued.

  She could have no idea the effect of her clear gaze, looking at him as though there were no facial defects to be seen. Her striking eyes were beautifully bordered by long black lashes, and Nash had a rushing desire to see those dark crescents resting upon her cheeks as she slept.

  He would nestle her close, tucking her head beneath his chin as he wrapped his arms around her slumbering body.

  “Eye dogs, yes.” He cleared his throat. “They can control the flock with a look in their eyes. They’re fast and agile, and so smart it seems as though they understand what you say to them.”

  Mercy tossed a skeptical expression in his direction.

  “Miss Franklin, have you ever had a dog?”

  “No,” she said simply. She had turned away again, but was blushing quite charmingly at what she thought was his jest. How he longed to make her blush with his touch. Perhaps later, he would manage another little inadvertent rendezvous with her. Not that he’d planned last night’s encounter, but he relished it nonetheless.

  “I believe we might need a demonstration once we get to Metcalf’s,” Nash said with a grin, feeling far different from the man who’d been thrown from his horse a few days before. Surprisingly enough, his headache had receded. And it was amazing to discover he could still smile. “What do you think, Emmaline?”

  “Yes.”

  As they rode, Mercy turned to a very effective avoidance technique of pointing out the various shrubs and trees they passed that were coming into bloom, telling Emmaline which ones she would like the child to draw for her “catalog.”

  “What catalog would that be, Miss Franklin?” Nash asked. She could avoid him all she liked at the moment, but they would return to Ashby Hall together, and she could not elude him forever.

  “As I once mentioned to you, I have an interest in plant life, my lord,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral and distant. “And I have started a directory of sorts—a catalog of the flora to be found here in the Lake District.”

  “And my niece is to illustrate it for you?”

  “Emmaline is a very good little artist,” Miss Franklin said, smiling down at the child. “I would very much appreciate her help in creating my catalog.”

  Nash noticed the wording of Mercy’s request, giving Emmaline credit for her talent and asking for her expertise without being condescending, or mentioning any lessons. He’d never been quite sure how to converse with Emmaline, but now he took Mercy Franklin’s lead.

  “It should be your decision, Emmaline,” Nash said. “Would you like to do the drawings?”

  She glanced up at him in surprise.

  “It’s your choice.”

  Emmaline’s brows came together as though she’d never had a choice in anything. Nash feared that was probably true, and his admiration for his niece’s inexperienced governess increased yet again. Somehow, Mercy had known just how to draw Emmaline from her quiet little retreat from the world.

  Riding in Lord Ashby’s barouche was the last thing Mercy wanted to do. Last night on the roof had been a breach beyond belief. Even now she blushed at the thought of what they had done, for she had been raised far better than that.

  And yet her behavior proved she was no better than what the Franklins believed of her mother.

  She’d been so rattled by her encounter with Lord Ashby on the roof that she’d been unable to write her letter to Andrew Vale. Thoughts of the earl’s touch had made logical, rational thought impossible, and she’d had to lay down her pen and postpone her writing until later. She would do it today. After they returned to Ashby Hall, she would suggest that Emmaline take a short nap, which would give Mercy the opportunity to compose her letter in private. Without Lord Ashby’s exceedingly potent influence.

  Yet here she sat in the small barouche, not two feet away from him as he drove them over hills and dales, so much larger than life itself that Mercy could scarcely breathe. He wore casual attire, dun-colored trousers and dark blue coat—the same coat he’d wrapped around her shoulders before kissing her senseless on the roof.

  The only way Mercy could distract herself from thinking of Lord Ashby’s kiss was by pointing out the fresh young shoots of the plants that were about to emerge, and talking to Emmaline about the catalog they would make together.

  But still, her eyes wandered far too frequently to Lord Ashby’s muscular thighs, resting so casually beside Emmaline’s, and his large, heavily veined hands as they held the horse’s reins. Mercy could almost feel his blunt-tipped fingers on her breasts, stroking them until she’d moaned with desire. Even now, she could taste the spicy flavor of his mouth and smell the earthy scent of his soap.

  She’d never been kissed before, not even by Mr. Vale, the man who’d asked her to marry him. Mr. Vale put his lips to the back of her hand, of course, but never anything more. And none of his touches had caused a melting sensation, the way Lord Ashby’s slightest glance could do.

  Mercy hadn’t known a kiss could make her feel so alive. The earl had a way of making her feel as though her blood was on fire, without even touching her. And now that he had touched her, she knew a deep tension, a coiling of yearning for something she could not name. It was an intense sensation of physical craving that had kept her from being able to sleep for much of the night.

  She had been right to stop the interlude on the roof, and yet she would dearly love to feel more of Lord Ashby’s caresses. She was a fool to allow herself such longings, and fully awar
e that she could never compete with fine ladies like the one who had come to visit Lord Ashby in all her pink finery. No doubt the woman had some favored social standing in the community, not to mention a substantial dowry.

  If Lord Ashby gave any thought to marriage, Mercy knew it was not with her. And any other sort of liaison would be entirely unacceptable.

  The earl clucked his tongue and their horse took them across a pretty stone bridge over a noisy little beck. On the other side of the bridge stood Metcalf Farm. Mercy found it a pleasant, pastoral setting with a large, stone manor house with its gray slate roof, nestled at the foot of the tall fell they’d just descended. There were a barn and a stable, and one other outbuilding, all enclosed within a low stone wall. Geese pecked for food at the ground near the beck, and two swans floated nearby. The house itself was surrounded by tall deciduous trees—some oak and maple, and a stand of lovely old birches.

  “When your father was a boy,” Lord Ashby said to Emmaline, and Mercy discerned a slight wistfulness in his voice, “we frequently came to Metcalf’s to play knights and villains with Sir William’s son, Jacob.”

  “My papa?” Emmaline asked, the first thing Mercy had heard the little girl say to him without being prompted. She looked up at him with more curiosity than fear.

  “Aye. And a serious young boy was he.”

  “Am I . . . am I like him, Uncle?”

  The earl gave a contemplative smile, and Mercy’s heart contracted tightly at his melancholic tone. He did not often appear vulnerable, but Mercy knew it must be very painful for him to think of the brothers he’d lost. “Aye, I believe you are.”

  Lord Ashby appeared weary, as though he had not slept in a fortnight. And yet, for some reason Mercy did not understand, his demeanor was far less stilted when he talked to his niece now. And Emmaline was not quite as stiff with him as she’d been before. Perhaps it was the mention of Emmaline’s father, which brought back fond memories for both of them. Clearly, this outing had been a very good idea for the two of them, in spite of Mercy’s misgivings.

  A well-dressed, silver-haired lady came out of the house when they pulled into the drive, and hurried toward the barouche with two footmen behind her. The woman smiled broadly when she saw Lord Ashby, and bighearted warmth seemed to spill from her deep brown eyes and plump bosom.

  “Nash Farris, you rascal!” she called out as she approached the barouche. “ ’Tis been a full month at least since your return to Ashby Hall, and only now do you come to visit!”

  “Scold me all you want, Lady Metcalf,” Nash replied with a pleased smile, “for I truly deserve it. Though I might ask why you and Sir William have not come and graced my hall with your presence.”

  The lady sobered. “If you must know, my Will is not in the best of health of late.”

  “I regret to hear it,” Lord Ashby said gravely. “Perhaps our visit is not—”

  “Here now! Of course it is! He’ll be so happy to see you, lad.”

  Mercy smiled at the lady’s obvious affection, but could not think of Nash Farris as a lad at all, not with those shoulders, that hard chest, or the rasp of whiskers she’d felt during his kiss.

  Before a groom was able to come over and assist, Lord Ashby opened the door of the barouche and jumped down, then lifted Emmaline to the ground. “This is Emmaline, Hoyt’s daughter. Emmy, say hello to Lady Metcalf.”

  Emmy cast a surprised glance toward her uncle at the use of her pet name, then quickly greeted Lady Metcalf in her usual shy manner. The dame took Emmaline’s hand and chattered about Nash having such a lovely little niece.

  But Lord Ashby had already turned to Mercy.

  She felt her heart thud in her breast in anticipation of his touch. He placed his hands upon her waist and hesitated for an instant, probably not long enough for Lady Metcalf to take note, but Mercy could not have been more aware of every moment his hands were upon her.

  He swung her down to the ground and released her, turning to face Lady Metcalf. “With us is Miss Mercy Franklin, Emmaline’s new governess.”

  Mercy bowed properly, although she did not feel even slightly respectable at the moment, not when a rash of utterly carnal thoughts and objectionable yearnings were coursing through her, entirely against her wishes.

  But Lady Metcalf welcomed Mercy warmly in spite of it, then turned to Lord Ashby, taking hold of his arm and looking directly into his scarred face. Her expression was one of deep concern. “What happened to you, lad?”

  Mercy was surprised by the direct question. She’d heard no one else speak so candidly to the earl. Except perhaps herself, and she was determined to curb her unruly speech.

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A wall exploded and caught me by surprise.”

  A wave of horror flowed through Mercy at the thought of such a violent attack and the earl being in the thick of it. Her throat tightened at the thought that he might have been killed.

  “It was that last horrible battle, wasn’t it? Waterloo.” Lady Metcalf reached up and patted his face as a mother might do to an ailing child.

  The earl shrugged and took her hand gently away from his face. Mercy did not think Lady Metcalf had caused him any pain, but it seemed he was uncomfortable with the attention given his scars. “Aye.”

  “We were so fearful for you when we heard that nasty little Frenchman had the brass neck to leave his island prison and start up again,” she said, shaking her head. “Well, come in and say hello to William before he drags himself up off the sofa to see for himself who’s here.”

  Lord Ashby seemed to forget their purpose of acquiring a dog when Lady Metcalf took Emmaline’s hand again and started for the house, warmly enveloping the little girl into her motherly warmth. “William took ill last June,” Lady Metcalf said, “only a week before Arthur’s accident, or we’d have been up at Ashby Hall, doing what we could . . .”

  “What happened? What ails him?” the earl asked with obvious, deep concern.

  “He suffered a stroke. Lost the power of speech for a time, and he’s still got some weakness on one side.” Lady Metcalf sighed. “He’s not been the same since that day.”

  “Are you sure our visit won’t affect him adversely?”

  “Heavens, no. He’ll be like my old Will again when he sees you.”

  Mercy could not imagine Nash’s frown growing any darker. It was clear he hadn’t known of Sir William’s illness, and it troubled him.

  Lady Metcalf spoke to Emmaline. “Did your uncle regale you with tales of the times he and your father caused havoc with my son here at Metcalf Farm? No? Well, we’ll just have ourselves some tea and I’ll see what I can remember about those scoundrels. I’ll tell you all their secrets,” she added with a wink.

  Emmaline was clearly overpowered by the warm and wonderful lady, and found herself unable to withdraw, as was her wont. Mercy gave her an encouraging smile when she looked back for reassurance.

  “Lady Metcalf will help loosen her up,” Lord Ashby murmured close to Mercy’s ear, and shivers of awareness coursed through her nerves. “No one can keep their reserve in the old girl’s presence.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Ah, I stand corrected. I believe there might be two ladies who can cause me to lose my reserve, Miss Franklin.”

  Mercy’s eyes shot forward, and she was hardly able to trust her ears. He was flirting with her!

  “Thank you for making my niece presentable,” Lord Ashby said quietly, setting Mercy off balance once again.

  “It was nothing, my lord.”

  “Aye, it was. Laundry is no simple affair, and we both know it.”

  Mercy could always count upon Lord Ashby to say or do the most outrageous things, and she dearly hoped he would not make reference to her lapse with him on the roof. She would die of embarrassment if he mentioned it.

  She knew she should have found some excuse to avoid this outing. Riding so close to him in the barouche had been difficult enough, and now they were to behave as thoug
h naught had passed between them the night before. She had to pretend she was unaffected by his proximity and his simple thanks for seeing to Emmaline’s clothes.

  And yet Mercy hadn’t had any choice but to accompany Emmaline on this trek with her uncle to visit the Metcalfs. Emmy would likely have resisted going if her governess had not come along. And since Mercy had not known what the situation would be at Metcalf Farm, she’d thought she ought to be there in case Emmy needed her.

  Having met Lady Metcalf, Mercy now knew that her presence was unnecessary. Lady Metcalf radiated the kind of warmth and kindliness Mercy had always wished her mother had possessed, and she saw that Emmy could not resist the older woman’s genuine affection.

  “William, my dear!” Lady Metcalf called as they entered the house. “We’ve company. You will never guess who has come to call!”

  The servants took their coats, and they all retired to a small sitting room at the back of the house. There were three wide windows across the far wall, with a view of the sheep-dappled fells beyond. Facing the windows was a frail-looking man—little more than a skeleton, Mercy thought—half reclining on a divan. His white hair was thin and mussed, but his muddy brown eyes brightened when he caught sight of Emmaline. He looked up at Lady Metcalf, and Mercy noticed that one side of his face sagged slightly.

  “What have we here, Edwina?” His voice was not strong, but Mercy could see that he had once been a force to be reckoned with.

  “ ’Tis Hoyt Farris’s girl. Is she not the image of her lovely mother?”

  “Aye, that she is. Joanna was a beautiful lady—just like her daughter, it seems.”

  “And bringing her to visit is Nash. The pretty young lady with them is Miss Franklin.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Franklin.” He turned to Lord Ashby. “Nash Farris, you young bounder—so you’ve finally decided to take a wife!”

  Chapter 19

  Mercy felt her face burn with mortification. She started to deny it, but Nash—Lord Ashby—laughed aloud and prevented her from speaking. He went to Sir William and went down on one knee beside him, taking his hand in a firm grip. “It is going to take far more than a beautiful face to get me to the altar, Will.”