The Governess and Mr. Granville

by Abby Gaines

She shook her head as she fanned herself. “Dominic came to ask some silly question about what time supper will be served.” Serena guessed it was a cobbled-together plan to interrupt his sister’s waltz with Beaumont. “Mr. Beaumont told him he was anxious to have a private conversation with him, and the next moment Dominic whisked him off to the library.” Marianne grasped her hand. “Serena, dearest, do you think he plans to propose?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dominic and Beaumont sat in the library, in armchairs on either side of the fire that a footman had hastily stoked. Molson had brought a tray of drinks. When Dominic offered him a brandy, Beaumont requested water instead. Dominic poured two glasses of water and handed one to the other man.

  “I must thank you for your hospitality,” Beaumont said.

  Dominic nodded. He hadn’t expected a direct approach just yet. What was the man up to?

  “Or should I thank Miss Granville?” Beaumont asked.

  Dominic forced himself not to stiffen at the mention of Marianne. “What are you trying to say, Beaumont?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m under the impression you don’t welcome me as a guest,” he said with a faint smile. “I wish to remind you that the Ramsays—” his mother’s family “—have always been friends of the Granvilles, and I hope that will remain the case.”

  “Thank you,” Dominic said. “I have great respect for your uncle. If you’re a man in his mold, then I don’t doubt the friendship will continue.” He limited himself to a subtle emphasis on the if. Because despite what he’d told Serena, one didn’t accuse a man of ungentlemanly conduct without hard evidence.

  “Might I ask what I’ve done to deserve such a guarded reception?”

  The man was practically inviting the accusation!

  “Since you ask,” Dominic said, “I’m glad not to have to dance around the subject. I’d appreciate the opportunity, Beaumont, to hear your version of the stories that have reached me from London. I don’t believe in condemning a man out of hand.” Belief or no, he was uncomfortably aware he’d done just that.

  “By stories, you mean gossip,” Beaumont said.

  “Let me be frank.” He was starting to speak like Serena, Dominic realized. “You have a reputation as a drinker, and a gambler beyond your means. A womanizer.”

  Beaumont swirled the water in his glass. “I won’t deny that in my younger days I did some wild things. Regretted most of ’em...but not all,” he added, with an honesty that Dominic found both admirable and annoying.

  He himself hadn’t been entirely lily-white as a youth—who had?—but he’d been blessed to marry Emily at a young age. Before he could get into much trouble.

  Which made him think about Serena, and the shocking news that she’d been betrothed to another man. The thought had kept him awake most of last night.

  “You’re hardly an old man now,” Dominic pointed out. “How long ago were these younger days?”

  Beaumont grinned. “I’m twenty-five. Perhaps I meant my spiritual youth.”

  Dominic had a vague recollection of Bible verses about infancy as Christians, and the like. Was that what he meant?

  “I hear your father was a drunkard,” he said.

  Beaumont’s smile twisted. “You’re well-informed. The family tries to keep that information private. But yes, my father drank himself senseless every day for the first sixteen years of my life, at which point, having frittered away the family fortune, he had the decency to die and set my mother free.” Beaumont leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared into the fire. “Too late, of course. By then my mother had a nervous condition that the doctors couldn’t do much about. She died six months later.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dominic said.

  “If you’re worried I have bad blood,” Beaumont asked, “would it help if I told you I’ve given up strong drink? I find it impairs my judgment...leads to those gambling debts you mentioned.” He took a drink of water, as if to prove his point.

  Dominic didn’t know whether to believe him. “If all you are to me and all you plan to remain is a neighbor, then I don’t much care what you drink or how much you gamble. And I agree, youthful follies ought to be left behind as a man matures. My concern is for your friendship with my sister. Frankly, Beaumont, your more recent history of making up to heiresses is unpardonable.” Even if his father had squandered the family’s wealth.

  Beaumont examined his perfectly manicured fingernails. “Unpardonable? Really? I was under the impression that God forgives all. And before you accuse me of hypocrisy, as Miss Somerton did...”

  Serena had done that? Dominic could just imagine it; his heart warmed at the thought of such typical, outrageous impetuosity.

  “...I’m far from perfect, but my faith is real, albeit recent.” Beaumont drank again and grimaced. “This water is awful stuff. If there’s anything that could drive a man back to brandy... Do you believe in second chances, Granville?”

  Dominic groaned.

  Beaumont eyed him strangely. “A few months back, I encountered a band of Methodists in Hyde Park early one morning. I was returning home from a night out, somewhat the worse for wear, and they were starting their day with a dawn worship service.” He looked mildly revolted by the concept. “Somehow—I admit, my memory is indistinct—we ended up talking, and an hour later I’d given my life to the Lord.”

  It was the last thing Dominic expected. “You’re telling me that since then you’ve been a reformed character?”

  “Since then I’ve been one of God’s works in progress,” Beaumont corrected him. “The drinking I gave up easily enough. But total reform ain’t that easy, Granville.” He stared moodily at the fire. “I still like a wager, though I know I shouldn’t.”

  “Which brings us to the fortune hunting,” Dominic said.

  Beaumont barked a laugh. “I won’t deny that my financial circumstances will necessitate my marrying a lady with a decent dowry. Which makes me no different from half the ton. In return, I can offer my name, which is a respected one, if you overlook my late father, and a degree of personal charm that I’m told makes me pleasing company.”

  “But now you’re Sir Charles’s heir, not just the penniless Mr. Beaumont,” Dominic said. Was it possible he’d been wrong? That though Beaumont was, by his own admission, far from perfect, he was on the right road?

  Beaumont shifted in his chair. “Sir Charles’s legacy means I can no longer be called a fortune hunter, at least not to my face. But the fact is, Granville, I’m not a man of simple tastes.”

  “A way of saying you’re extravagant.”

  Beaumont lifted one exquisitely, expensively coated shoulder. “I spent my early life in seclusion, tucked away in the country with my drunken papa. It’s fair to say that when at last I made it to town, I quickly grew to enjoy the pleasures of that society. Many of which are expensive.”

  “So Sir Charles’s fortune isn’t enough, and you still hope to marry for money.”

  “For convenience,” Beaumont said. “Is it your view, Granville, that a convenient marriage is a wicked thing? If so, you’ll be shocked to hear what people are saying about this house party of yours.”

  “I admit, sir, I desire a convenient marriage for myself,” Dominic said through clenched teeth. “But I’ll state that intention clearly to my bride. Although I have every intention of honoring my wife in accordance with biblical instructions, I won’t be feigning a romantic attachment.”

  “Very noble,” Beaumont said. “I only hope to discover a similar strength of character in myself.”

  “Tell me your intentions with regard to my sister,” Dominic demanded. “Isn’t that why we’re here, in this room? So you can ask to court her?”

  Beaumont shook his head. “I wanted to address, as best I can, the doubts I see on your face every time we meet. I accept that I may not have succeeded,” he admitted. “But as for Miss Granville, at twenty-five she has no need of your permission to court. Or to marry.”

  “
Have you told her you need to marry money?” Dominic demanded.

  “Money is always a consideration in the ton,” Beaumont said. “But it’s not the only one.”

  “You can’t tell me you pay so much attention to my sister because her appearance attracts you. That you haven’t noticed her high color?” An understatement of description.

  “Of course I have,” Beaumont said. “I admit, at first I found it distracting. But then I saw past that and, well, I like her. She has a fine mind, a sweet disposition. If you ignore the redness, she’s pretty.”

  Dominic wanted to believe him. “She blushes like that all the time, you know,” he said, with a mental apology to his sister. “Apparently not when she’s alone, but the rest of the time. I don’t even know what she looks like in her pale state.”

  Beaumont’s face was impassive. “I assume she has consulted doctors?”

  “Many,” Dominic admitted. “The condition is a combination of shyness and nerves and a physical response, each feeding the other. The doctors say there’s nothing they can do.”

  “I presume these herbs she’s forever gathering are an attempt at treatment,” Beaumont said.

  Dominic nodded. “They don’t work.” He downed the rest of his water and leaned forward. “If you think, Beaumont, that your marrying my sister will convince me to relinquish those hundred acres your family is so anxious to get back, I swear to you now, I’ll never let you have them. And your family name is no greater than ours, nothing to attract my sister. So the conveniences you envisage won’t come to pass.”

  Beaumont’s mouth tightened. “I can live without the land, Granville—it’s well known your sister has five thousand pounds a year. And though my name may not offer any advantage over yours, the fact is, Marianne—Miss Granville—has few prospects for marriage. She seems to me the sort of lady who would want to marry and to have children, and proximity to Woodbridge Hall would be a real attraction. I assure you I’d be a kind husband.”

  “Whenever you found your way home from the gaming tables,” Dominic sneered.

  Beaumont flushed slightly. “We’ll see. I may yet get past that habit, with the Lord’s help. But the biggest factor in my favor, Granville, is that your sister cares for me.”

  “She deserves better than anything you will ever be,” Dominic growled. “If you care for her at all, stay away from her.”

  The other man dropped his gaze, and for a moment Dominic thought he’d gotten through.

  Then Beaumont pushed himself out of his armchair and stood. “The fact that you have a handful of children in need of a mother doesn’t make your marriage of convenience any more honorable than mine. So spare me the sermons, Granville. I intend to marry Marianne.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The last house party guests left at noon the day after the supper dance, with, it seemed, no proposal of marriage being offered. At least, that’s what Serena took from Mrs. Evans’s and Lady Mary’s determinedly cheerful farewells.

  Dominic’s glowering mood could have meant anything.

  After his meeting with Beaumont, he’d gone back on his plan not to openly interfere between Marianne and her suitor. He’d been so shocked by the man’s blatant admission that he was after Marianne’s money, he’d had to tell her.

  Serena hadn’t been present during that conversation, but Marianne had reported it to her. She had accused Dominic of trying to ruin her chances of marriage, of exaggerating Beaumont’s financial needs while downplaying the man’s genuine liking for her.

  “Beaumont is perfectly right,” she’d told Serena. “Fortune is never irrelevant. It doesn’t matter that he needs my money, if he truly cares for me. Dominic should appreciate his honesty.”

  “But has Mr. Beaumont been that honest with you?” Serena asked.

  “No,” Marianne admitted. “But he hasn’t spoken of marriage to me, so the time for that honesty hasn’t yet come. I trust him.”

  Her trust was stretched beyond comfort over the following days. Rain set in, making the children fidgety, and confining Marianne and Serena indoors. The showers weren’t so heavy as to deter a determined suitor from paying a call, but Beaumont didn’t arrive. Serena wasn’t sure how her friend was taking his neglect, as Marianne spent much of her time in her room, pondering her chessboard.

  On Friday morning, more than a week after the guests left, Serena walked into the breakfast room to find Dominic still eating.

  He uttered a polite greeting. The one good thing about Beaumont’s infamous behavior was that Serena and Dominic were united in their desire to protect Marianne from hurt, which meant they’d been able to put aside any embarrassment over that kiss they’d shared. At least, most of the time, in Serena’s case.

  Dominic didn’t look up from the letter he was perusing as Serena helped herself to some ham and cheese, and a baked egg. She nodded her thanks to the footman who offered to pour coffee for her. The servant left the room as Dominic set down his letter and picked up the next one.

  “From the Earl of Spenford,” he said, surprised.

  Serena set down her knife and fork. “If he’s writing to say it’s not acceptable for me to act as Marianne’s companion, tell him to stay out of your business!”

  Dominic greeted that instruction to be rude to a peer of the realm with the lift of an eyebrow, which somehow lightened the atmosphere. He broke the seal, unfolded the missive, began to read. “The earl and countess are to host a ball on June 6,” he said. “Your parents and sisters are to attend.”

  “Constance mentioned the ball. I had a letter from her just two days ago,” Serena said.

  “Lord Spenford wishes to surprise his wife and her family with your presence,” Dominic said. He frowned. “What a peculiar idea.”

  “To invite me to my own sister’s ball?” Though in truth, she hadn’t expected an invitation.

  “The element of surprise,” he explained.

  “I think it’s romantic,” Serena said. “What a relief!” At Dominic’s questioning glance, she explained, “The earl’s marriage to Constance was one of convenience.”

  “You allowed your sister to enter into such a union?” he asked, feigning shock.

  “She didn’t ask my advice, so I forbore to give it.”

  “Very restrained of you,” he murmured.

  “Not to mention the wedding was too sudden for a letter from me to have reached her in time,” Serena confessed. “Constance and Spenford didn’t know each other well before they married, though Constance has long admired the earl.” Serena wondered if she’d said too much, though she’d stopped short of the whole truth. Which was that Constance had been infatuated with the Earl of Spenford for years, for reasons Serena had never understood. She’d always found the man too proud.

  But a husband who would arrange such a surprise for his wife... “I think perhaps he loves her,” Serena said happily.

  “You draw a long bow to reach that conclusion.” Dominic held out the letter. “Spenford has invited me and Marianne to accompany you to the ball. A courtesy, since I haven’t seen him in five years.”

  Since Emily died and Dominic withdrew from ton life, Serena guessed.

  “A generous courtesy,” he amended. “Would you like to attend?”

  “Would I like to travel to London, one of the world’s greatest cities, and attend a sparkling ball in the presence of all those who are dearest to me?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I can see you’d hate it.”

  “If you think Marianne can spare me...”

  “Maybe we can convince her to accept the earl’s invitation,” Dominic said. “I must say, I’d be pleased to remove her from the neighborhood while Beaumont is here.”

  “She’s still undeterred by your revelation of his character,” Serena said. “I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before he turns up at the door.”

  “The problem is, I suspect that in his own way, Beaumont is sincere,” Dominic said. “She senses that. But I don’t want my sister ba
nkrupted and brokenhearted while he learns to live out his new faith.”

  “No,” Serena agreed. “I know some people commence their Christian journey from a worse place than others,” she mused, “but I don’t think I’ve ever considered how difficult it might be for them to give up their old ways.”

  Dominic picked up the earl’s letter and read it again.

  “Do you want to attend the ball?” she asked him. Her mind became filled with an entrancing picture: herself, held in his arms, whirling to the strains of a waltz. He hadn’t stood up for even a country dance with her at their own supper dance, so to assume he would waltz with her at the Spenford ball was, as he would say, drawing a long bow.

  “I enjoy London,” he said. “I’d be pleased of the excuse to visit. And I have business that would be more easily accomplished there than from here.”

  “And,” Serena said, prompted by the need to inject some realism into the fanciful picture in her head, “you could continue your hunt for a wife. Surely there must be a lady in all of London...”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” he agreed.

  Serena felt as if someone had doused her with cold water. She picked up her coffee cup and held it to her mouth, letting the warm air rise over her suddenly chilled face. She took a sip.

  “The young man you promised to marry,” Dominic said. “What was his name?”

  She choked on her coffee, grabbed her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. By the time she said, “Alastair Givens,” she sounded perfectly calm.

  Dominic had watched that little performance with what appeared to be detached interest. “Yours wouldn’t have been a marriage of convenience?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “He was a suitable match for you?”

  “His father is a gentleman of comfortable means,” Serena said. “Though Alastair was the second son.” If they’d married, they wouldn’t have been wealthy, but certainly wouldn’t have lacked the necessities and a few luxuries.

  “I suppose your parents approved the match at such a young age because he was going away to war?” Dominic asked.