Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  He caught the sarcasm in her tone and heard the subtle rebuke of her own actions. “It doesn’t always work that way,” he said, keeping his voice light. “Sometimes I throw myself at them in return.”

  Her sharp glance told him she had not mistaken his meaning. “Not often,” he added, watching her closely. “It’s been a long time since a woman has caught my interest.”

  Her response was to cross her arms tightly, a clear signal that there would be no repeat of the earlier scene between them.

  He understood. What had happened downstairs had been a lapse for both of them. She had slipped past his guard, just as he had hers.

  “Lillian wasn’t in the room when I came upon you,” he said.

  “No, I discovered what she was about, and Nanny and I bundled her back up here where she belonged.”

  “So why did you return?”

  “The bracelet was a gift to Lillian from her parents. She has her father’s cunning. She can barely write legibly, but she can scheme with the best of them. She left her bracelet in your bed as proof you had compromised her. When she bragged to me about what she’d done, I was angry enough to go fetch it. The rest you know,” she finished, the corners of her mouth tightening.

  Michael nodded, realizing he felt more than lust for the governess. He liked her. No airs, hysterics, or whining. She might have fears and doubts, but she would face them. He respected the kind of courage it took to be that brave. He’d been forced to rely on it himself. It’s what had made him a man. “The candles?” He circled his hand to encompass the room.

  Again, becoming color rose to her cheeks. “A protest,” she admitted. She glanced around, and added, “A silly one.”

  He sat up, tossing the bracelet on the bedside table. “I disagree. Any act of individuality in this country is to be celebrated.”

  His words brought out the governess in her and a bit of patriotism. “A civilized country needs rules,” she responded as if by rote.

  Amused, Michael challenged, “Rules that are bent or broken to fit the needs of the rich. The poor are left with gin instead of bread while the Prince and his ilk dine on dishes prepared by French chefs.”

  “We aren’t at war with the French any longer. Nor is there a crime in enjoying their cooking.”

  “We will be again soon,” Michael predicted. “And then the taste of all those sauces will sour in the bellies of loyal Englishmen.”

  “I don’t know if you aren’t the insurrectionist, Mr. Severson,” she said stiffly.

  “I’m not the one burning all the candles, Isabel,” he replied, taking great pleasure in her name and the way the small intimacy infuriated her. “By the by, my given name is Michael. I believe we’ve moved a bit beyond formalities.”

  “I wish you would leave, Mr. Severson.”

  She combed her hair back with her fingers as she spoke, lifting it up and releasing it in a glorious mass of shining silk. The room filled with her scent. He knew it immediately and came to his feet, aching to touch her, to take her back in his arms and start where they’d left off.

  A shadow of fear came to her eyes.

  He stopped. “I won’t come closer. You have no reason to fear me.”

  She didn’t relax. “Your questions have been answered, Mr. Severson. I have nothing more to say. We are done with each other.”

  He didn’t move. “Where will you go?”

  Isabel moved back a step. “That is my concern.”

  Michael shook his head. “No, not yours alone. I played a hand in your losing your position. I wish to make some amends.”

  His words seemed to offend her. “I can take care of myself.” She nodded to the door. “Now, please, leave.”

  Michael could not leave. He wasn’t ready to let go of her, and he didn’t like the thought of her unprotected and out in the world. “Let me take care of you.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Her response was instantaneous. “I won’t be any man’s mistress,” she said, her voice firm with conviction. Her eyes grew suspiciously shiny as if tears threatened, tears her pride wouldn’t let her shed. “Do you believe you are the first to make such an offer? You aren’t.”

  “I’ve never made such an offer to a woman before.” It was true.

  His response didn’t mollify her. She wrapped her arms around her waist, holding herself close. “I suppose I can’t fault you. After all, I’ve given you every reason to think I would be willing.”

  “We were both involved,” he answered.

  Her gaze slid away from his, and he knew he was losing her. He grasped at the only thing he had to barter with—his money.

  “I can take care of you,” he promised. “You’ll never lack for anything—”

  “I’m not for sale.” Her hard words cut through the air between them.

  “I didn’t offer to buy you.”

  She met his eye. “No, just payment for service. Like the sort a draper or banker provides.”

  “I want to take care of you.”

  “As if I were a pet?” She shook her head, her doubt clear. “Or is it that you are bored and want to hire someone to keep you company.”

  Her accusations made him uncomfortable. “Isabel, be reasonable. We are both adults—”

  “You came up here to make an offer for me, didn’t you? Wanting to know more about Lillian’s schemes was just pretense. You expected me to fall into your arms. And I almost believed you were different from the others.” She shook her head as if stunned by her own culpability. “I can’t believe that after all this, I am still so naive.”

  “Isabel—”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You can’t afford my price.”

  Michael did not like being mocked, or that she had accurately read his intentions. It embarrassed him. He hid behind his own pride. “You might be surprised, Miss Halloran. I am embarrassingly wealthy. What do you want? A house, carriage and horses, jewels—?”

  “Marriage.”

  The word seemed to suck the air from him, and she smiled, knowing she’d hit her mark.

  “That’s my price, Mr. Severson,” she taunted. “Are you willing to meet it?”

  “No.” Michael had assumed that one day he’d get married, but that day was a long way off. He still had his name to clear, and, when he did marry, he had assumed it would be for all the right reasons—fortune, prestige, and power.

  “I know,” she agreed as if reading his thoughts. “It is too high a price; however, you aren’t the only one with a vaunted opinion of himself.”

  Michael winced. “Your tongue is sharp, Miss Halloran.”

  “It needs to be, Mr. Severson.”

  He had to agree. “I like you, Miss Halloran.”

  “I take that as a compliment, sir.”

  “It is.”

  For a moment, they looked at each other in perfect accord. Michael moved first. He pulled out his card from his fob pocket and offered it to her. “I’m sorry for my role in this evening’s work. Obviously, I was an unwitting stooge. Please, if you find yourself in need of a friend, contact me. My office is in a warehouse on the West Dock in London. Haddon and Severson. Or I have a house in Mayfair.” He paused and added, “I’ll expect nothing in return.”

  She studied him a moment as if searching for a sign of deception. He waited. Moments passed, then she took his card. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he answered, and she actually smiled. It was a shy, slightly rueful expression that made him wonder if he was about to make a serious mistake walking out of this room.

  Michael was no fool. If ever there was a danger sign to a man, that was it. He moved to the door and opened it. “Good night,” he murmured, almost afraid to look at her again…but then he couldn’t help himself. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him?

  It wasn’t. If anything, she was more lovely to him now than when he’d first walked into the room. She stood surrounded by candlelight, her dark hair curling past her shoulders, her bare toes peeping out at him from beneath h
er skirts as one finger traced the edge of the card she held in her hand. Her defensiveness was gone.

  “Good night, Mr. Severson.”

  “Good night,” he repeated more for himself than her. It took all his self-control to leave the room and shut the door.

  For a moment, he stood outside, tempted to go back in. The draw between them was strong. His kisses had broken her resistance once. He could do it again—except he wouldn’t feel right about himself. And eventually, she would hate him.

  What was done was done.

  He started down the hall. He was a third of the way to the stairs when he heard her door open. She called his name. “Mr. Severson?”

  Michael turned.

  The candles from her room flooded a square on the hall floor in which she stood. “Did you murder Aletta Calendri?”

  Her question caught him off guard. People went out of their way not to mention the murder. No one ever asked.

  “No.”

  She nodded as if he had confirmed something in her own mind. “I couldn’t imagine you as a killer. Good night, sir,” she murmured, and shut the door.

  Michael stared at the point where she’d stood, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Well, at least one person in England had the courage to speak of Aletta to his face.

  However, it wasn’t until he’d made his way down the stairs, that he realized she had called Aletta by name. Time had passed. Usually when he overheard the gossip and whispers that followed him, they spoke of a murdered “woman” or occasionally “actress.” Few remembered the woman’s name…but Miss Halloran had.

  A niggling sense that there was something he should know about her, some connection he was not making, gave him pause…and yet, he could think of nothing. He was certain he’d never before laid eyes on her.

  Downstairs, all was quiet. Apparently the others had gone to bed. It had to be close to three, and they were all planning to go hunting at dawn on the morrow. Sooner or later, even the most hardened gamester had to have sleep. Michael wondered if Wardley had settled matters with his wife.

  A footman slept, leaning in his chair at his post in the hall. A few candles still burned, but a good number had been snuffed.

  Michael walked to his room and wondered why he stayed in England. After three months, he had made no progress in clearing his name. If anything, matters were worse. His presence in London had revived interest in Aletta’s death but no results. He’d attempted to look up court papers. There were no records. They had disappeared, and the people who had known Aletta had died or moved to parts unknown. Every door, every avenue concerning the murder was closed to him, and he was growing bloody tired of being the outsider. Perhaps his interpretation of the dream had been wrong. Perhaps he was a fool to have returned.

  He opened his bedroom door, then stopped. Riggs sat in the chair with his feet propped up on the bed. A brace of candles on a table beside his chair provided the room’s light. He swung a half-empty wine bottle between two fingers of the arm he dangled off the side of the chair. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  Michael closed the door. “Out.”

  He didn’t like Riggs, but the man, so far, had been his only entry into Society. They had attended school together. At one time, around the period of Aletta’s death, they’d been gambling companions. However, the subsequent years had not been kind to Riggs. Lines of dissipation and disappointment were etched deep in his face and soul.

  Michael also knew he was being milked for every copper Riggs could get off him; but having been a younger son himself, he understood what it was like to be expected to play Society’s games and live on London prices without any expectation of income. “What are you doing here?”

  “Staying in,” Riggs said, mocking him. He raised the bottle and took a swig like a man who wanted to drink to forget.

  “I’m tired,” Michael said. “We’re hunting tomorrow, right? I’ll see you then.”

  Riggs didn’t move. “You were with her, weren’t you?”

  Michael didn’t need to ask to whom he was referring. Nor was there mistaking the jealousy in the man’s eyes. “I was.”

  Riggs started laughing, the sound almost painful.

  “I fail to see the jest,” Michael said.

  “Of course you don’t,” Riggs said, with an edge of superiority. “You haven’t a clue.”

  “A clue to what?”

  “Who she is.” Riggs rolled up onto his feet, taking a moment to steady himself before facing Michael. “You have no idea.”

  “Are we talking about Miss Halloran?” Michael wanted to clarify.

  “No other,” Riggs answered. “I knew she was here with Wardley. Thought it would be amusing to bring you here, too. However, I didn’t anticipate your reaction to each other. Aren’t I the fool?” He took another drink.

  Michael shook his head. “You are going to have to speak plainly. I’m too tired for riddles.”

  Riggs lowered his bottle. “I thought you were a quick one, Severson. A smart mind. And yet, what you seek is right beneath your nose, or beneath you, as the case may be.”

  “I won’t let you insult Miss Halloran,” he said quietly.

  There was a long moment of silence. Riggs was drunk enough to take up the unspoken challenge. Michael wouldn’t have minded a fight. He was in the mood to break someone’s neck, and Riggs would do better than most. Few would miss him.

  “Hall-o-raaaannnn,” Riggs said, rolling the syllables out.

  Michael frowned. What nonsense was this?”

  “Halloran!” Riggs barked at him.

  “I know the governess’s name. What the devil does it matter?”

  “Come now,” Riggs jeered softly. “Do you not know Elswick’s family name?”

  Halloran. “God, I’m an idiot.”

  “I won’t argue,” Riggs said into the mouth of the bottle before he took another drink.

  Michael shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense. What is she to Elswick?”

  “A daughter.”

  “He doesn’t have a daughter.”

  “An illegitimate daughter,” Riggs answered as if playing a trump card. “There is many a bastard who uses the sire’s name.” He turned the bottle upside down. It was empty. He dropped it to the floor and stumbled to the door. “I leave the rest up to you, Severson.”

  “Wait.”

  Riggs turned.

  “Why?” Michael asked.

  “To see if you can do better. I tried the lady. She wasn’t to my liking.”

  Michael doubted that. He knew an empty boast when he heard one.

  “An illegitimate daughter is the best I can do,” Riggs was saying boozily. “You’ll have to find your own way after that.” He leaned against the door. “What you do with this tidbit of information is up to you. Of course,” he sighed, “I do expect compensation for my services.”

  “It’s the way of the world,” Michael answered, silently adding, with the exception of one headstrong governess.

  Isabel did not sleep that night. She blew out most of the candles shortly after Mr. Severson left, somewhat embarrassed at being caught in her pique of independence. It didn’t take her long after that to finish packing what little she owned. She spent the last hours before dawn attempting to write a letter to her stepfather, asking him if she could return to his home until she could find a new position. The right words failed her.

  Their relationship was strained. Perhaps it would be best to show up on his doorstep without warning and judge by his reaction if she should stay or go. She hated returning home a failure once again.

  She was so miserable over returning to Lancashire a failure, she’d even toyed with the idea of writing the marquis—and rejected it. What could she say? Dear Father, you don’t want to know me, but I need a roof over my head.

  She’d never asked him for help, and she would not start now.

  Instead, she counted her money. She could have used the wages Mr. Wardley owed her. As it was, she had just enough
to make it to Higham and to pay her way for a month or two.

  By the time dawn arrived, she’d convinced herself she would find a new position. She had to. Perhaps in Manchester, far from London, she could find a genteel family who wouldn’t ask for references.

  An hour later, she’d washed her face and styled her hair into the tight chignon she felt made her look older. She put on the one item her mother had passed down to her, a green velvet bonnet with yellow ribbons. In its day, it had been quite fashionable and very expensive. It had also been a gift from the marquis, and her mother had treasured it.

  For a second, Isabel thought of Mr. Severson and his offer and felt a temptation to accept it.

  Except what would she be left with? Would she be like her mother and have nothing but a worn hat and a bastard daughter to remember him by?

  Isabel picked up her valise and left the room.

  Out in the hall, she took a moment to say her good-byes to a tearful Nanny. They hugged and wished each other well. Lillian was still fast asleep.

  Downstairs, Isabel took her leave of the other servants, most of whom she didn’t know well. She ignored the few smug looks sent in her direction. No, she wouldn’t be able to find a position in this area. Servants gossiped, and the story of last night’s scene would quickly spread through the parish.

  The nearest village where she could catch the post was a good five-mile walk. She didn’t mind stretching her legs a bit. Mist clung to the ground, and there was a chill to the spring air that added to the melancholy of her departure.

  The gardeners were already at work with the lawns, and the grooms were bringing up horses from the stables to carry the hunters out into the fields. Mr. Wardley enjoyed hunting pheasant. He prided himself on being a crack shot and having the best bird dogs.

  All too soon, he and his guests would be coming out of the house, and the thought was enough for her to hasten her step toward the brick pillars marking the entrance to the drive, especially when she saw one of the grooms leading a team of flaxen-maned chestnuts pulling a sporty phaeton. It was the vehicle in which Mr. Severson had arrived. She didn’t want Richard or Mr. Severson to see her leaving.