Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Riggs is my wife’s godson,” the marquis said. “He’s here this evening at my wife’s invitation for her birthday.”

  Michael shook his head. “I saw you and Riggs at a tavern called the Crow,” he told Henry. Isabel recalled that was the name of the place the driver who had tried to murder them had made his contact.

  “The Crow is a popular place,” Henry said, “because it is so close to the government buildings. You saw us together last night.”

  “I did.”

  “Richard came to me,” Henry said, “because he’s had this change of heart. He’s decided to become responsible. Partly through your influence and partially through mine. He decided if we could change and make our lives better, then so could he. He’s accepted a commission to India.”

  “And what brought about this wondrous change?” Michael asked skeptically.

  “My sister,” Henry said.

  Isabel didn’t realize who he was talking about until they all looked at her. She took a step closer to her husband.

  “Richard fell in love,” Henry said, “with your wife. He didn’t realize how much she meant to him until you married her. He believes he could have had her if he’d made an honorable offer instead of an insulting one. He went a bit mad for a week or so. Brawled a bit and carried on. You remember how it was. I intervened. I understood how it felt to have a woman choose you, over myself.”

  “I have no regrets in marrying Isabel,” Michael announced proudly. “But Aletta would have made your life hell, Henry. She was that kind of woman. The only person she loved was herself.”

  “So his mother and I have told him over the years,” the marquis said. “She was never worth your devotion,” he told his son. “Ever.”

  “You haven’t married?” Michael asked.

  Henry frowned. “I could. I’ve not been ready.”

  The marquis grunted an opinion. “Perhaps if this woman hadn’t been murdered, my son wouldn’t have made her into such a saint. He has an obligation to his title, and still he hasn’t married. He’s the only one who even remembers who she was.” His disdain for his son’s sentiment was obvious.

  But Michael’s reaction was different. “Good God,” he said quietly, “I was such a clod.” He shook his head. “I have no excuse. I drank a great deal. I was selfish.” He paused. “I would like to believe I would not do that now.”

  Henry raised his shoulders but did not speak, and Isabel understood. He’d loved and lost and dared not risk his feelings again. It didn’t matter that the woman was not worthy of him. Unrequited love hurt.

  And suddenly, in this half brother, she saw herself.

  All her life, she had been searching for love. She’d wanted it from a mother who lived with her own bitter disappointments and from a father who might have sired her but was no parent.

  In truth, the only person who had really given a care to her comings and goings had been her stepfather. He’d educated her and provided food and shelter. He’d made her strong enough to fend for herself.

  And then Michael had come along with his dangerous quest and, without realizing it, she had let down her guard. She’d fallen in love. A love he didn’t return…but she now understood that taking that risk was better than living the shadow of a life she’d lived before. The life Henry lived.

  “Aletta Calendri sounds like she was interested in only her own desires,” she said to her half brother. “Such a person can be destructive. Your father is right. You need to go on with your life. It’s sad to realize that you’ve been mourning all these years for something that really never was.”

  He didn’t like her saying such, but Isabel didn’t care. For her, the link between them was severed. She looked at the marquis and his son and saw strangers.

  She turned to Michael. “There is nothing more to be accomplished here. They had had nothing to do with the attempts on your life.” She laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Let’s go home.”

  Michael looked down at her hand and into her eyes, and she wondered if he understood that her anger was gone. The circumstances that brought them together were no longer important. What mattered to her was her future. And right or wrong, she wanted it to be with this man.

  Maybe someday he would return her love, but for the moment, it didn’t matter. It was enough she loved.

  Her husband took her hand. “We’re sorry to have disturbed your evening.” He led her to the door.

  The marquis’s voice stopped them. “You know, you are quite an interesting woman, Mrs. Severson. Completely different than I expected.”

  There had been a time when to have received even that faint praise would have meant everything to Isabel. Now, she thought he sounded rather silly. “Unfortunately, you are not what I had hoped for,” she said, and walked out the door Michael held open for her, her head high.

  Out in the hall by the dining room, many of the marquis’s guests lingered, all agog for whatever tidbits of gossip they could gather. Richard stood back, away from everyone. Isabel mentally wished him well with his new life, but she did not stop.

  The marchioness sat near the dining room door in her wheelchair. Isabel could feel her watching them leave. She sensed the woman’s sadness, but that was not part of her life. Not anymore.

  She tucked her hand in the crook of Michael’s arm, and they went outside to the waiting hack, where he helped her up into the box as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They drove off.

  They’d not gone long before Michael reined the hack horses to a halt. He faced Isabel. “I want you to know you made a choice back there in Elswick’s library. You chose me.” He said the words almost defensively.

  “I know,” she said, meeting his gaze with a steady one of her own.

  “I won’t let you go,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “And I may never clear my name, Isabel. I may have to leave England. I won’t leave you behind. I’ll take you with me, even if I must carry you kicking and screaming and vowing to hate me all your days.”

  Isabel heard what he didn’t say…and thought what fragile creatures we all are, needing love and yet so afraid to open ourselves to its possibilities.

  She was not going to be afraid. Not any longer. She would take the risk.

  “I could never hate you, Michael,” she said. “I love you.”

  Sixteen

  “You love me?” Michael repeated dumbly as if amazed.

  She nodded. “I admit, it is rather foolish of me—”

  “No,” he broke in. “It is the least foolish thing you’ve ever done. You love me?” he had to repeat, wanting to hear the words from her lips one more time before he could believe.

  “I love you.”

  If the heavens had opened with choirs of angels, Michael could not have been more overjoyed. He stood, right there in the box, the world suddenly aglow with possibilities.

  “Even after all the mistakes I’ve made in my life and with you?” he had to ask. “No, wait. Don’t answer that. Don’t ever say another word.”

  She listened, wide-eyed.

  “I know,” he admitted. “I’m acting like a madman and yet, suddenly, everything makes perfect sense. For the first time in my life, it all matters.”

  Michael reached down, took her by the arms, and brought her up for a kiss. He kissed her long and kissed her hard. Right there, in the middle of the street, standing in the hack’s box, and he didn’t care who saw him.

  When he was done, she had to lean against him for support. She loved him. Almost reverently, he brought his hand up to her face, awed that this beautiful, vibrant woman loved him.

  “Michael,” she whispered, “let’s go home.”

  Home. She’d used the word before, but now it meant something.

  The anger that had been inside him for so long evaporated. He hadn’t even realized it had been there until it was gone, and he felt new and whole.

  All because of this one woman.

  “Let’s go home,” he agreed and, after they�
��d both sat, picked up the reins and could have flown the hack back to their house.

  Bolling opened the door. If he was surprised to see his employer driving a hired vehicle, he didn’t betray it by look or comment.

  Michael placed his hands around Isabel’s waist but didn’t set her on the ground. Instead, he lifted her in his arms and carried her into the house.

  “See to the vehicle, Bolling,” he tossed out as he passed the butler.

  “To whom does it belong, sir?”

  “I believe it is mine now,” Michael said, climbing the stairs.

  Isabel had her arms around his neck. “Do you remember the last time you carried me up stairs?” she asked slyly.

  “As if it were last week,” he answered, and she smiled.

  Isabel. His wife. His love.

  He reached to open the bedroom door but it opened for him. The maid who had defied him earlier stood waiting for her.

  “Becky, I won’t be needing you tonight,” Isabel said calmly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid ducked her head and slipped around them.

  “Is there anyone else waiting for us?” Michael asked.

  Isabel laughed. “We don’t have that many servants.”

  “We’ve seen them all tonight,” he vowed, and kicked the door shut before setting her on her feet. Her maid had a fire burning in the grate, and the bed was turned down. Candles burned on the side tables.

  Isabel rose on her tiptoes to kiss him, but he pulled back. “No, not yet. There is something I must say, and if I don’t do it now, my courage will leave me,” he told her.

  “What is it?”

  He took her shawl, which, even after the adventures of the night, still shimmered with the golden threads, and tossed it aside. He pulled off her gloves, taking his time, putting the right words together in his mind.

  Holding her left hand, he said, “I want us to start our marriage from this night on. This is the day we shall remember as our wedding date.”

  “Why is that?” she asked, watching him carefully.

  Michael didn’t flinch from meeting her eye. “Remember when the Reverend Oxley told us that we were the celebrants of our own marriage?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I am calling upon the sacrament here and now, Isabel. You mean everything to me.” No words he’d ever spoken had been more heartfelt.

  “You are my family,” she said simply. “I was hurt when I thought you used me and, yet, I love you. I have no pride around you.”

  Michael went to his knees in front of her. He pressed his lips against the gold wedding band, before saying, “Isabel, I love you.”

  Her breath caught in surprise. She came down to him. “What did you say?”

  “Words I never thought I would say to anyone. Words I once thought meaningless. I love you.” He repeated them again because the sound of them filled him with such a sense of wonder. “I believe I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. You may have lusted for me, as I did you, but love—?” She laced her fingers with his. “Love came when we weren’t looking,” she said quietly. “It humbled me to realize I couldn’t be angry at you, not when I loved you.”

  “Through you, I’ve learned to forgive. I can let go of the past, Isabel, but I don’t ever want to lose you.”

  He lifted her hand and looking into her eyes said, “I, Michael Andrew Severson, take you, Isabel Halloran, for my lawfully wedded wife. To love and cherish, to honor all the days of my life.”

  Her eyes shiny with unshed tears, she replied, “And I take you, Michael, to be my husband. To love you and honor you and keep you close to my heart—”

  “Please, never let me leave that place,” he requested, his own eyes burning. “I have been in such darkness. You are the light, Isabel. Together, we are one, and no one can tear us apart.”

  “Not even ourselves,” she whispered.

  “No,” he agreed. “We chose each other.”

  “We choose to love each other.”

  “May God bless our union.”

  Isabel smiled, and he didn’t think anything could be more dear to him than his wife’s smile. He leaned forward to seal their vows with a kiss.

  Isabel met his kiss. Their lips touched, and it was as if a current flowed between them. Anything was possible.

  They had always been compatible as lovers…but now their lovemaking took on deeper meaning. They took their time undressing each other. He knew where she tickled. She understood how to master him. There was laughter and kisses and everything there always had been, and yet it was not the same.

  It was more.

  They soon found themselves in the bed. Michael settling himself between her legs, feeling the draw of her heat. Her body curved to meet his. He was, physically, a powerful man, and right then his desire for her was most evident.

  She smiled, knowing.

  “I love you,” he vowed, entering her. He filled her deep and knew that being this connected to her gave life meaning.

  They began moving, the dance as old as time—but for them, this night, it was new and fresh.

  She held him closer, her lips against his shoulder, and repeated his name over and over. Had it ever been like this between them? He couldn’t recall. Together they moved toward completion—and yet, when it came it was nothing that they’d ever experienced before.

  The earth rocked on its foundations. Time lost meaning. She cried out his name, and he swallowed the sound with his kiss.

  His sweet, brave Isabel. She meant everything to him. Without her, he would be lost.

  And she knew it. Once he’d not believed in love. Now he whispered his love to her over and over.

  What was happening between them wasn’t just nature but creation.

  Isabel hugged him close, humbling him with the generosity of her love. His senses were full of her. Never before had he felt so vital and alive.

  Slowly, they drifted back to reality together, and it was still as sweet.

  Michael slid off her but cuddled her close. He reached for the bedsheets, pulling them up over their bodies. Gently he kissed her temple, her eyes, her cheek, her chin. “My wife,” he murmured sleepily.

  She nestled close to his chest, her hand possessively on his hip. “My husband,” she answered. He smiled, his eyes closed, and together they fell asleep.

  Isabel woke to discover her husband awake and studying the ceiling. She pushed her hair back. The candles burned very low. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I had the dream again. I didn’t think I would have it now.” He turned to her, shadows in his eyes. “Why does she come to me now?”

  “Tell it to me.” She listened as he repeated everything as it had been before. “Perhaps you had it again because of the attempt on your life,” she suggested.

  “No, I’m missing something. She’s warning me that it isn’t over.” He looked to her. “I want it to be over.”

  “I know.” She rested her hand on his chest.

  He brought it up to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “I love you. I don’t want anything to hurt you.”

  “It won’t,” she said. “Dreams are also the sign of a vivid imagination.” It was a pat response she’d often given her young charges when they couldn’t sleep.

  “Ask Alex. He will tell you a dream can foretell one’s destiny.”

  Isabel raised herself up to look down in her husband’s face. “Not this one,” she said fiercely. “This one is your past.” She brought his hand to her breast, right above her heart. “I am your future. Set your demons to rest, Michael. Let me guard you.”

  Michael held her long and hard before rolling her back on the mattress and making love to her again. However, after he had fallen asleep, she was the one who lay awake studying the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

  Silently bartered with Aletta’s ghost. Let him be. “He’s mine,” she whispered.

  There was no answer.

  But deep
in her woman’s soul, Isabel knew that sooner or later, there would be a reckoning.

  Isabel refused to fear the future. As the weeks passed, she had discovered her place in the world. It was beside Michael…and it was enough.

  In turn, he appeared to have entered a new stage of his life. He rarely spoke of the murder. It was as if he’d come to a conscious decision to focus on their future.

  Of course, Isabel was no fool. She insisted Michael travel with a guard. In spite of two attempts on his life, he refused. So, when Alex returned, he and Isabel hired a man to keep a discreet eye on her husband and follow him until he returned home.

  However, as the days turned into weeks, she began to hope that the past would stay buried.

  Michael and Alex kept their London office. Isabel and Michael fully intended to make their home there. Of course, there were still whispers and rumors around Michael’s name. One didn’t attack the marquis of Elswick during his own dinner party and escape gossip. However, neither Isabel nor Michael gave a care to what people thought anymore. They were too busy planning their lives.

  The house in Mayfair became a home. Their home. The decorator that Wallis thought Isabel needed was never called. Instead, Isabel and Michael enjoyed exploring the city and searching for just the right items that suited their tastes.

  They purchased colorful India carpets and chairs made of precious woods. Silver was chosen for their table and pots for their kitchen. Michael’s cook decided to go off sailing with Alex, so they tested cooks and settled on a gentleman from Italy who had quite a way with the French methods of sauces, and, of course, he needed a complement of kitchen staff.

  Isabel moved down the hall into Michael’s bedroom. Her maid Becky had suggested that it was more the fashion for husbands and wives to have separate suites of rooms. Isabel didn’t care about being fashionable. She wanted always to sleep next to her husband.

  Every night, when they went to bed, she fell asleep touching him in some way or the other. Most often they slept curled up with her back against his chest. This was her favorite, because he’d often wake her in the middle of the night to make love.