Seducing the Governess

by Margo Maguire

  Mercy had strong opinions and was not afraid to share them. Helene’s coy conversation bored him.

  There was no question that Helene was pleasing to the eye. A man would have to be dead not to notice her. But Nash could not imagine enjoying her exquisitely good looks in the bedchamber. He feared she would be more concerned with maintaining her poise than sharing the kind of pleasure he’d tasted with Mercy.

  For a man who’d never thought of becoming a husband, it was irksome to realize he would have to endure his marriage rather than enjoy it.

  As long as her money was good, Nash didn’t care. Much.

  “You mentioned grooms, Lady Metcalf?” he asked. “Do you have one or two to spare?”

  “Davy Colton and Charlie French will do,” she said, glancing at Will. He nodded in agreement. “They’re good lads and they’re used to my spring cleanings.”

  “I will not deny we need the help, Lady Metcalf. And appreciate it greatly. Up till now, Miss Franklin has been doing double duty—instructing my men on what needs to be done, as well as teaching Emmaline.” He caught sight of Mercy inadvertently as he spoke.

  Her face was devoid of all color, but she had gotten up from her chair and was collecting the cups and all the rest of the trappings of their tea. Nash wanted to tell her to leave them, that the maids would see to them.

  But he remained silent, his eyes fixed on her hands, so awkward as they let the cups jangle against the saucers.

  There was nothing Nash could say to her now, so it was fortunate that Lady Metcalf was there to break the tension in the room.

  “Very good, then it’s settled,” she said, apparently unaware of Mercy’s sudden awkwardness. “Now, shall we see about choosing a dog for you?”

  She patted her husband’s shoulder and called for a footman to fetch their cloaks.

  Mercy took a sharp breath when she felt Lord Ashby’s hand at the small of her back, ushering her out to the yard behind Lady Metcalf and Emmaline. Her pulse took up a rhythm as mad as when he’d lifted her down from the barouche. Before she’d known about his intentions regarding Miss Carew.

  She scuttled away from him and caught up to Emmaline, where the little girl took her hand as if it was the only thing that kept her grounded.

  Though perhaps it was Emmy’s hand that was keeping Mercy steady, because she felt incredibly off-balance. It was bad enough that she’d surrendered to his fevered touch and honeyed kisses. Learning that he was in the midst of courting Miss Carew had shocked her to the roots of her being.

  She blinked back tears, mortified by those moments she’d spent with him on the roof. Lord Ashby had made her feel wanted, given her a sense of being desperately needed. He’d held her as though he cherished her.

  How foolish a notion.

  She did not know what she ought to do. Now that a nurse was coming to Ashby Hall for Emmy, Mercy could leave. She could go away from the man who had the power to wound her soul.

  How much worse would it be when he brought his bride to Ashby Hall?

  Mercy hadn’t any idea where she would go. There was nothing for her back in Underdale, and, like a half-wit, she had not yet made time to write Reverend Vale. He was her means of escape.

  It was not that Mercy didn’t care for him . . . She liked him very much and knew they would deal quite well with each other. He was her future, and Mercy intended to write him immediately upon their return to the Hall. There would be no further procrastination.

  Mercy kept her distance from Lord Ashby as they walked around to the back of the house. She half listened to Lady Metcalf’s little anecdotes about Hoyt and his brothers until they reached the area where the infamous oak tree stood.

  Of course Nash had rescued his older brother. He was brave and daring, and must have had a warrior’s soul, even then. But Mercy resented the wave of sympathy she felt over his terrible losses. The three Farris boys had had a life together, had shared a closeness Mercy could only imagine, having no sisters or brothers of her own.

  Though perhaps she did have some siblings, somewhere. She felt a deep regret that she would never know them, wondering at the same time if perhaps there was a way. There could be a clue to her origins in her mother’s journal, but Mercy had stayed clear of it ever since Emmy had read the first disturbing entries.

  The grassy area where they stopped was within sight of Sir William on his sofa, which was obviously Lady Metcalf’s intent. He was not well enough to come out, but his wife made certain to include him, despite his infirmity. The closeness of the older couple gave Mercy a wistful feeling that did not abate even when one of the grooms trotted out of a barn with three dogs running by his side. She and Mr. Vale would surely develop the same kind of closeness that Lady Metcalf and her husband obviously shared.

  But Mercy did not think she would ever again experience the kind of passion she’d felt the night before, for anyone but Lord Ashby.

  She swallowed her dismay and turned to observe the dogs. They had glossy black coats with white markings, and they followed the young boy’s whistled commands exactly.

  “Oh look, the clouds have gone,” Lady Metcalf said, taking a seat on a chair near a heavy wooden table that had been set up by the oak tree. “Watch, Emmaline. See how they mind Davy. All he needs to do is whistle, or move his hand, and they understand what he wants them to do.”

  “You thought I was having you on, didn’t you, Miss Franklin?” Lord Ashby asked quietly.

  A burst of heat flooded her veins. “H-having me on?”

  “About the eye dogs.” At least he had the grace to appear sheepish. Having her on, indeed. Right on the roof of his run-down old wreck of a hall. And she had let him.

  “I have yet to see them control anything with their eyes, my lord.” Her voice was taut, uncompromising. She had to get through this visit, and afterward, she would see to it that there was no reason to find herself alone with him again. “So far, they’ve done naught but obey the lad who brought them.”

  Lady Metcalf let out a good laugh. “Ashby did not jest, Miss Franklin. Our dogs are quite intimidating to our poor little lambs!”

  “We’ll need a demonstration, Lady Metcalf, of course,” said the earl.

  “Certainly, you rascal. And then you can choose.”

  The dogs were enthusiastic but perfectly behaved as they approached with the boy. Emmaline edged close to Mercy when they came near, their tongues hanging out and their tails madly wagging. Obviously, they were also intimidating to shy little girls.

  Lady Metcalf told them something of each dog—their names, ages, and personality quirks—while Lord Ashby knelt to study their hips and eyes, then look into their mouths. He had a natural facility with the animals, stroking and examining with a proficiency that was no surprise to Mercy. His hands were large and strong. Of course the dogs respected his touch. She had felt it and hadn’t been able to stop herself from yearning for more—

  Realizing she was ogling the earl, she took in a gulp of air, and when she turned away from him, caught sight of Sir William watching them through the window. He was frowning fiercely, and an uncanny awareness brightened his eyes. Mercy hoped the man had not been able to sense the turmoil that roiled through her.

  Embarrassed to have been caught with her raw emotions so tightly drawn on her face, she turned toward Lady Metcalf and Emmaline. Whatever she’d shown was fleeting, surely. Sir Will could have no idea what she felt.

  Especially since Mercy herself did not really know.

  “You must watch closely, Emmaline,” said Lord Ashby. He caught Mercy with his gaze, his hard gray eyes studying her as though she were some kind of complex puzzle he needed to solve.

  “Miss Franklin, give me your hand.”

  Mercy froze inside, unsure if she’d heard him right. He must know she could not have further contact with him.

  She clasped her hands together. “I would rather not, my lord.”

  “You are not afraid of him, are you, Miss Franklin?”

  “O
f course she isn’t,” Lady Metcalf said indignantly. “Miss Franklin, show the child there is naught to fear.”

  Feeling cornered, Mercy reached out to the tail-wagging animal.

  “Approach him where he can see you. You’ll want to pet him nicely. Give me your hand.”

  The earl’s words seemed to mock Mercy, but they quaked through her nonetheless, making her knees feel slightly wobbly. Pet him nicely? Mercy told herself he was only engaging in a bit of callous teasing, but for what reason, she could not fathom.

  Her eyes started to burn and she knelt to scratch the dog behind both ears.

  “See Emmaline? Your governess has the right of it,” said Lady Metcalf. “Now ’tis your turn to try.”

  Emmaline joined her, and after a moment, seemed quite comfortable. She cast Mercy and Lady Metcalf a pleased smile, then a bashful one toward her uncle. After a month of avoiding looking at him, it seemed the child was finally warming to her uncle.

  Mercy looked up at him and noticed that his expression was as somber as she’d ever seen it. And as his gaze bored into hers, the persistent, unwelcome fever she’d felt with him on the roof returned to warm her blood.

  There were decisions to be made. Once she wrote to Mr. Vale, she needed to be patient and wait for a reply before doing anything else—such as advertising for another post. Not that she’d had a great deal of luck with the first one. Mr. Lowell’s query was the only one she’d received.

  Mercy took a deep breath and concentrated on Emmaline. That was her task at the moment, not worrying about her exit from Ashby Hall.

  “Come around and look at Dexter’s eyes,” the earl said to his niece, and Emmaline actually did as she was told. “His are both clear and sound—not like mine.”

  Emmaline looked up into her uncle’s eyes without recoiling at all. “Does it hurt you?”

  “Not anymore,” he replied quietly, and Mercy’s heart clenched tightly in her chest.

  “Will you part with Dex?” the earl asked Lady Metcalf, and Mercy knew he realized that Emmaline’s question was the most important thing that had occurred on their outing.

  So did Lady Metcalf. “I’ll give you all three. On loan, of course,” she said.

  But Lord Ashby refused her offer. “We need no more than one. Our herd is badly depleted, so I won’t need quite so many sheepdogs until I can build it back up.”

  “I see. Davy, take Dex out to the field and show Lord Ashby what he can do.”

  They watched the dog crouch low to the ground as he rounded up the sheep on the nearby hillside and started to drive them toward the stone wall. “See how he controls the sheep, Emmy?” Lord Ashby remarked.

  “Perhaps what he is doing is protecting them, my lord,” Mercy said impulsively.

  He gave her a curious look. “Are you suggesting the dog has some affection for the sheep, Miss Franklin?”

  Mercy shrugged. “Maybe it is all just a game to him, and he doesn’t really care one way or the other.”

  Chapter 21

  Nash would have enjoyed his morning spent with Emmaline’s governess a great deal more had Sir William not mentioned Helene Carew. It had spoiled Mercy’s mood, and rightly so.

  Nash was a cad.

  There was no denying it. And the only way he could make amends was by making sure she was introduced to a few likely bachelors at the ball in Keswick. She needed a suitor—someone appropriate and available.

  “When will Dexter come to Ashby Hall?” Emmaline asked, and Nash realized the change in her attitude toward him was real. She was far less timid than before, her voice stronger, her speech more direct. Nash did not know what kind of magic Mercy and Edwina Metcalf had worked, but his niece was far more relaxed with him now.

  Which was not the case with her governess.

  “Later today, I think,” Nash replied to Emmy’s questions, casting a sidelong glance at Mercy. She kept her eyes on the road ahead. “He’ll come with the grooms Lady Metcalf is sending to help with the housework. I imagine they’ll bring him along with the nursery maid.” The housekeeper was unable to come to Ashby Hall until the morrow.

  They had gone to Metcalf Farm just for a dog, and now he found that his haven was about to be invaded by servants—competent servants who would turn Ashby Hall into the kind of place he believed he wanted: a suitable setting for a house party.

  Nash’s headache had flared back to life with Sir Will’s untimely announcement about Miss Carew, and he still felt Mercy’s fury.

  He’d told them he hadn’t yet proposed to Helene Carew, but that did not make his offense any less galling. Mercy had every right to be incensed, for no honorable man would ever trifle with a woman—an innocent woman—as he’d done with Mercy.

  But he had not been able to resist her. She’d been a force to be reckoned with from the moment he’d first encountered her in the road, and he knew he would always compare Helene—or any other prospective bride—to her. She was a fiery swallow of fine Scotch whisky to Helene’s bland draught of cow’s milk. One intense and passionate, the other chalky and dull.

  “You and Lady Metcalf seemed to get on well, Miss Franklin,” he said. “I suppose you told her all about the dismal state of affairs at Ashby Hall.”

  “Not at all, my lord.”

  “No need to prevaricate.” He should not even try to engage her in conversation. What could he do but pursue a wealthy woman for his bride? It did not matter how wildly he might desire Mercy Franklin.

  “Very well.” She turned and looked directly in his eyes without flinching. “Lady Metcalf asked some pointed questions, and I answered them truthfully. Far more truthfully than . . .”

  Far more truthfully than he’d been with her. But she stopped before voicing the words, in respect to Emmaline’s presence, no doubt, because Nash had not known her to mince words before.

  “Lady Metcalf and my mother were very good friends,” he said.

  Mercy nodded. “Yes, she spoke fondly of Lady Ashby. Your mother, I mean.”

  “I know who you meant.”

  There was color in her cheeks and her hat was not particularly effective at keeping her hair contained as neatly as she seemed to prefer. Nash could almost feel the silken strands whipping against his fingers.

  He looked back to the road and tried to put his wayward thoughts into some semblance of order. Fate had decreed many abhorrent events in Nash’s life, and would soon force him to spend his life shackled to a beautiful but insipid source of capital.

  Facing the reality of his future caused him no end of frustration, and he turned to Miss Franklin and spoke bluntly. “There is to be a subscription ball in Keswick on Sunday. The whole district will attend. I’ve bought you a ticket.”

  Nash kept his eyes on the road, but felt Mercy turn to look at him.

  “I have no interest in going to any ball, my lord.”

  “Everyone from Ashby is going.” His tone left no room for refusal.

  “But not I.”

  “You are not going to defy me, are you, Miss Franklin?”

  He turned and cast a glance at her. If sparks could have burst from her eyes, they would have done so then. But she held back, apparently unwilling to engage in a contest of wills with Emmaline as a witness.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. Nash didn’t know if he could force Mercy to attend the ball, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to go. He envisioned every bachelor in attendance swarming around her, bringing her refreshments and asking to be her dancing partner.

  And Nash had no interest in witnessing it.

  But then, it was not necessary for him to go—not unless Helene and her father would be in attendance.

  He swore silently but viciously. Nothing about his return to Ashby had been simple. Perhaps he should just forget about the estate and go back to Lord Wellington. Surely the victor of Waterloo could use an adjutant who had battle experience.

  A storm was threatening when they returned to the Hall. But it was no worse than the fury
Mercy felt within.

  How dare Lord Ashby order her to attend the Keswick ball. She had absolutely no interest in socializing with anyone in Keswick. In fact, the sooner she was able to leave Ashby Hall and this district, the better.

  Tears welled in her eyes when she thought of Nash going to the ball, dancing with Miss Carew. What did he think she would do? Welcome the chance to watch him court someone else after he’d seduced her so thoroughly the night before?

  She curbed her anger. Emmaline was not at fault here, and Mercy had a duty to deal fairly with the child. Just because her uncle was a scoundrel—and because Mercy had allowed herself to succumb to her attraction for him—was no reason to take out her temper on his niece.

  Mercy and Emmaline went up to the nursery, and while Mercy sharpened a pen tip and took out a clean sheet of foolscap, Emmaline sat down with a book on her lap, but did not open it.

  “May we read more of your mother’s journal now?” she asked, yawning.

  The question knocked the wind from Mercy’s lungs. “Not now, Emmy,” she managed to reply. “I have a letter to write, and you need to read a few pages of Pilgrim’s Progress. Then perhaps Ruthie will have arrived and you can show her around the nursery.”

  Emmy nodded. “I like Lady Metcalf.”

  “Yes, I could see that. She is very kind, isn’t she?” Mercy remarked. “And she has a very winning manner.”

  Emmaline toyed with the edge of the book, then looked up at Mercy. “Why won’t you go to the ball, miss? My uncle . . . He wants you to go.”

  Mercy clenched her teeth. She did not know what Emmaline’s uncle wanted, other than to court another woman while he made improper advances toward her.

  And she had succumbed, mightily. She could not go to a ball where she would be subjected to the sight of Lord Ashby dancing with Miss Carew and every other eligible lady in the Keswick district. His duty to the earldom had become quite clear with Sir William’s words. He needed a wealthy wife.

  “I haven’t a ball gown,” she finally said. Even Emmaline would understand that she could not attend a ball wearing any of her plain day dresses.