A Bewitching Governess

by Patricia Rice

  As they struck up a lively tune, Simon stepped up to take a place with Emma—a perfectly acceptable thing for a brother-in-law to do. He declared the end of his mourning and probably opened himself to visits from every single woman in this half of Scotland, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t a solitary sort.

  Emma grinned, curtsied, and led him on a merry spin as the musicians picked up speed and the dancers whirled and stomped. He’d forgotten half the steps and stumbled about as much as a farmer lad, but he enjoyed himself anyway. He’d enjoy it even more when he had the lady on his arm, twirling with him.

  He worked his way down the line until he reached Olivia, who stood on the sidelines, smiling and tapping her foot. He’d seen her reject half a dozen fellows already. He wasn’t about to be one of them.

  Simon swung Emma out of the dance, grabbed Olivia’s arm, and hauled her into the line. She stiffened, but he swung her around, then captured her waist and led her in the promenade. She knew how to do that all right.

  “The governess’s room, after midnight,” he whispered in her ear, then swung her out so she could join the line with the other women.

  She looked a little confused but watched the other women and picked up the steps that swirled her away from him. He couldn’t tell if she meant to meet him, but he could enjoy the rest of the evening hoping she might.

  While the room whirled and twirled with clomping dancers, the hall clock bonged midnight. The musicians immediately halted the reel and broke into Auld Lang Syne. Drew threw some concoction into the fireplace that produced an explosion of colorful flames, and Phoebe blew her horn. Outside, firecrackers added to the cacophony.

  Simon wished he could kiss Olivia, but he gave Aunt Maggie a good buss that left her flustered.

  The gong on the front door rang, and all the lassies shrieked with excitement. Simon grinned as spinsters and young maids alike pushed toward the hall to see who would be first over the threshold.

  He’d hired a strapping lad from the village to enter bearing gifts of chocolates. The excitement of the first footer gave him a chance to sidle up to Olivia and drink in her scent of lilacs and sweet feminine sweat. “Will you meet me?” he asked as the musicians wailed the last notes of the song and the elders raised their glasses in toast to the new year.

  She didn’t look at him but raised her glass with the others. Instead of singing the last chorus, she said, “I need to check on the little ones. Daisy was supposed to let them watch a bit and listen to the music. I don’t know if she got them back to bed.”

  “Daisy will be sleepin’ in her cot by noo. She had her wee dram like the rest of ’em.”

  Olivia slid him a look that heated his bones.

  “Viscount Hargreaves,” the sonorous voice of the new footman announced.

  Still softened by Simon’s approving glance, Olivia froze at the announcement.

  She hadn’t seen her brother-in-law in two years, not since that day he’d arrived with his father to throw her out of her home. What, by the goddess, was the dastard doing here?

  Several of the unmarried ladies rushed to check their hair in the ornate mirror adorning the parlor wall. Miss Hamilton turned as pink as her frothy gown. Would Hargreaves actually bestir himself for the woman he had apparently courted in London? Olivia wondered if she should escape to the nursery now, but she had a bad feeling and didn’t wish to abandon Simon.

  The crowd shifted away from the hired first footer to watch this more exciting drama. Refusing to surrender his hat, the young viscount strode through the pathway that opened. He didn’t bear gifts, Olivia noticed cynically.

  “And a happy new year to ye, sir,” Simon cried cheerfully, stepping forward to meet the slighter man.

  Had he deliberately failed to use the viscount’s proper address, or did he not know it? Olivia liked to believe the former.

  She surreptitiously studied the viscount as he bowed stiffly at Simon’s greeting. Two years hadn’t improved his aura, she decided, risking headache by opening her inner eye. Lawrence’s colors were muddied, and he was less than sober. He’d always been slender, but now he seemed almost emaciated. She couldn’t imagine how he’d held a horse in check, but he was wearing riding boots and overcoat, not evening attire.

  “What is the meaning of stealing my servants?” Hargreaves demanded. If he noticed the woman he was supposedly courting, he showed no indication of it. Miss Hamilton’s hopeful smile slipped away.

  “I hire good workers who come to my door,” Simon said, still cheerful. “There’s no theft to it. Pay your people and they’ll work hard. Forget to pay them, and they leave. It’s that simple. Would you like a wee dram? We’ve not drunk it all, and it’s good to start the new year with cheer.” He caught the viscount’s arm and dragged him toward the buffet.

  “You are sending your minions to spirit them away,” Hargreaves shouted, although he stumbled along toward the food. “Willingham told me so!”

  The guests who remained were listening, Olivia noticed. People whispered among themselves. There was much shaking of heads. Poor Miss Hamilton now looked visibly distraught. Olivia sympathized to the extent that she knew being a spinster was a very uncomfortable role. She did not sympathize over the lady’s choice of suitor. Let her see what Hargreaves was.

  “I hire miners, not minions,” Simon replied steadily. “And I’ve not sent any your way. I have sent a few missives, though, that you’ve neglected to answer.”

  Not wanting to be close when Lawrence reached this side of the room, Olivia started to skirt the crowd to reach Miss Hamilton. She didn’t wish to have wasted the entire evening by ending it with an ugly scene.

  She didn’t move swiftly enough.

  “What’s that whore of a witch doing here?” Hargreaves shouted. “It’s all her fault! She put a curse on me!”

  Olivia spun on her heel in stunned horror. He was Owen’s brother. How could he say—

  Simon slammed the viscount’s jaw with his massive fist, sending Hargreaves staggering backward to the floor.

  “I’d have tossed the despicable filth into the fire if I hadn’t thought he’d stink up the place,” Simon growled irascibly, pacing the floor of his study. It was a damned good thing Sir Harvey had hauled his noble lordship away.

  Olivia had looked at him with such horror, that Simon figured his chance of sharing her bed this night was nil.

  His cousin sipped a civilized glass of brandy and mulled over the evening’s disaster. “You’re not likely to persuade the viscount to sell you that strip of land now,” Drew said, reasonably enough.

  Simon swung on him. “You heard what he called her! That’s how it started with Letitia. The blasted landowners’ Association whispered rumors and scandal until half the valley crossed themselves when the poor lass showed her face. No one would do business with us. They terrified a lad into killing her. Why the devil would they take up this obscenity again?”

  Drew pondered the question, as if it had an answer. “The ill-educated understand finger-pointing better than rational explanation. Shout witch or thief and they know how to act. Say he is preventing me from buying the land I need to build a mine and provide employment for all, and they’re baffled. So you should probably point your finger at Hargreaves and call him a thief.”

  Simon belted back his whisky, knowing Drew was right but not understanding the why of it. “Hargreaves stands to gain nothing by calling Olivia a witch. He already has it all. This stinks of the Association polluting the man’s mind against me, but why Olivia? She is naught but a guest here.”

  “Aye, right,” Drew said. “You play circumspect well, but no one with a brain in their head wouldn’t see that she’s the perfect wife for you and mother for your children.”

  Simon slanted him a glance. “She’s a viscountess. Once she has her estate again. . .” He shut up and thought about it. “They know the estate is rightfully hers. Somehow, the Association knows it, and they’re afraid she’ll claim it.”

  Andrew whistle
d softly. “You may be right. They’ve been pouring filth in the viscount’s ear, and because he knows damned well he’s guilty, he’s found an excuse for not doing the right thing. That doesn’t change the fact that you ruined all Olivia’s efforts to prove you’re not an uncivilized beast. Plowing your fist into a noble jaw was not well done.”

  “I’ll plow a few more before all is said and done,” Simon grumbled. The punch had relieved his wrath almost as well as whisky. “I’ve put up with this nonsense enough. It ended in tragedy last time. I’ll not have the same done to another innocent. The Association can hang this time.”

  He and Drew had already sent one of the group’s members to gaol and possibly the gallows. He’d send the whole lot of miserly noble bastards this time.

  Head pounding, wanting nothing more than to weep, Olivia held herself together long enough to say her good-nights and head upstairs. She’d worked so hard and had thought she’d succeeded in shining a favorable light on Simon. . . And he’d ruined it all.

  Well, to be fair, Hargreaves had made an ass of himself first, and she’d actually felt satisfaction in watching him fly across the floor. She wished she had that sort of strength and courage. Had she not been a rabbit, fearful of people watching and judging, she’d have kicked him for good measure.

  Nevertheless, the evening was ruined, and the new year was off to as bad a start as the last. She might as well pack her bags and return to Edinburgh.

  Once she was on the nursery floor, a small lamp guided Olivia to the children’s beds. Their sleeping innocence gave her a peace she couldn’t find anywhere else. How could anyone call them ugly names? But they would. Once the bigotry started, it snowballed.

  She tucked a wrapped chocolate under each pillow, kissed smooth cheeks, and fought tears. Evidence of the nursery celebration lay scattered across the floor in the form of cracker papers and a few burning pinecones on the grate. She’d almost rather have spent the evening here, but she’d thought duty came first. She’d hoped to have Hargreaves Hall by this time next year, but now she saw the magnitude of her folly.

  Her gift for seeing auras was easily hidden, and she’d always been cautious. But apparently not enough if Lawrence was spreading the same ugliness that had destroyed Simon’s late wife. Even poor Evie, without an ounce of Malcolm blood in her, would be spat upon, if the village chose to follow the viscount’s lead. Olivia could imagine what they’d call a simple lass who lived with witches, and she shuddered. What did she do now?

  She was furious with Simon. If he hadn’t. . . But no, he’d done what she’d wanted to do herself. She couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t ruined the evening. Hargreaves had.

  In the schoolroom, she hesitated. The governess’s room was a brilliant choice for avoiding notice. The entrance was off the schoolroom, away from the corridor the servants used to find their beds. There was always a small lamp lit in case the children needed anything, so no one would think anything of a light on all night.

  She was too agitated to consider consequences. She’d been raised to be deceptive and to dissemble, and she desperately needed. . . She wasn’t certain what. She couldn’t sleep like this.

  If blunt, straightforward Simon could engage in this level of deception for her sake, shouldn’t she at least meet him? Besides, they needed to talk. Perhaps they could just do that—talk. Wind down with a bit of whisky and discuss whether the Hall was worth fighting for. She didn’t want to bring ill will down on the children.

  Once she entered the small room meant for a governess, she confirmed that talking wasn’t what Simon had in mind. Beside a low-burning lamp, a ribbon-adorned vase of evergreen and heather scented the closed air. Embers glowed in the grate just waiting to be stirred. A small gold box rested on the pillow of the freshly-made bed.

  The crude mad Scot had done all this for her. She did not believe for a minute that he’d sent maids to do it. They’d been scampering about making room for guests, and he’d not send strangers up to his children. He’d taken time from his busy day to think of her. Well, of himself, she supposed, as she reached for the box, fighting the sentimental sensation of being cherished.

  She smiled a little at the gaily wrapped candies inside. He’d had the intelligence not to insult her with jewelry but to provide her with sweets.

  She wore all the fortifications provided by her evening clothes and had no nightdress to change into. She really only wished to talk. But the moment she heard his heavy footstep outside the door, her wicked insides did somersaults.

  Simon’s size overwhelmed the room as he quietly entered and closed the door. He’d divested himself of coat and cravat, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. She ached to run her hands over that broad, sturdy chest.

  Instead, she lifted the box of candy and offered him one. “Had this been jewelry, I would have flung it at you.”

  Looking wary, he helped himself to a piece. “You enjoyed those on the train, so I thought you might like some you needn’t share. I did worry that you would be disappointed. Some women would have flung the candy at me.”

  Despite his fast fists, he was not an ignorant dolt. Olivia set aside the box. “I am sorry the evening was ruined. I so wanted to make it easier for you to have your land.”

  He yanked one of the ribbons from her hair. “I’m still wanting to throttle the bastard. An educated man has no right to spread ignorant suspicion. He’s being used as a tool in the service of others. I’ll have his so-called friends investigated on the morrow.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened. It had never occurred to her that superstition and bigotry could be used for gain. But of course it could. Men in power had kept women under their thumb by claiming women were weak and incapable of logical thought and had no use as more than the bearer of children. She knew this. She simply hadn’t been the target of their evil before.

  Simon had almost finished destroying her coiffeur. Here was a man who dealt honestly with the world, strong enough not to need lies and deceit. She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I am apparently easily seduced. We should just talk. Sneaking back to our rooms in the middle of the night is not very appealing.”

  “They’ll all be abed until noon,” he scoffed, reaching for her. “I wanted to show you that I can be gentle and thoughtful upon occasion.”

  Remembering how he’d sent a grown man flying across the floor with one blow, she chuckled. “Gentle, of course.” She ran her hands over his chest. “You are not the one who will have to put all these clothes back on in the morning and walk the halls with your hair down. I admire your ambitions, but I’m still a rabbit at heart.”

  He sighed and buried his face in her hair. He held her so close, she could feel his pulse pound. “A rabbit does not slander a viscount and steal his servants. And what did he mean about minions and Willingham? Was that your work too?”

  “Not exactly,” she admitted, resting her head on her shoulder, wanting more, much more. “Aloysius went to him on his own, but I’ll admit I allowed Emma and the boys to traipse across the countryside to learn what they could about the Hall and its inhabitants. But encouraging mischief is still the act of a rabbit.”

  “What, you want to take a dirk to Hargreaves’ heart? Does he look the sort to fight back?” he asked in mock anger.

  “I’d like to take a dirk to the earl’s black heart, but Lawrence is a worse rabbit than I am. Is there a local physician to look after him? He did look ill.” Daringly, she stood on her toes to plant a kiss on his solid jaw. He hadn’t shaved since preparing for the party, and his stubble was already thick.

  “Aye, the local physician is one of the village’s many Napiers and a good man, trained at the university. Hamilton is probably taking Hargreaves there now. You couldn’t wait to hear from the solicitors? Was it necessary to send children to do mischief, then slander a viscount over cards?”

  He didn’t sound angry, but she knew his mind. Olivia pushed away. “The law does not favor women. They will see a capable male and a woman called a witch and
rule in Hargreaves’ favor if they can. The Crown will not look at me or even Aloysius as suitable to maintain an estate. I fear even if I magically conjure Owen’s documents, they’ll still appoint Lawrence as executor.”

  “They cannae and willnae do that if you turn the village against him,” he said, understanding. “Clever. I am glad I am not Hargreaves. You will have him carved to mincemeat.”

  “Not now,” she said sadly. “He has turned the tables.”

  “I’ll not have any of that tonight. We’re celebrating a new year, and I will have my way wi’ ye.”

  He bent and placed his candy-scented mouth on hers, and Olivia had not the strength of mind to resist the comfort he offered.

  Seventeen

  Lying in the narrow attic bed at dawn, with Olivia’s slender, naked curves pressed into his side, Simon wondered what it would be like to wake up every morning to this pleasure.

  It didn’t take another leap of imagination to see her teaching his bairns, commanding his servants, and generally making his life much more manageable. He could not offer love, but he could offer her the protection a woman needed if Hargreaves and his lot turned vicious.

  “Marry me,” he whispered as she stirred beside him.

  She froze, then pushed away so a cool draft fell between them—not exactly the response he wanted.

  “Don’t be foolish.” She rolled out of bed and began sorting through their discarded clothing in the dark. “I should have brought a dressing gown up here. Then I could pretend I was looking in on the children.”

  Irked at this casual dismissal, Simon rolled out of bed, naked as the day he was born, and loomed over the annoying wench. “What do you mean, foolish? I’m a perfectly sensible man, and I made a perfectly sensible suggestion.”