The Secret Desires of a Governess (2 page)

He said nothing in response. Just stared back at her.

What a strange man he was. Did he not have the decency to ring for a servant or at least show her to her room?

There was a curious glare to his eyes that left her speechless for some moments.

“I’d like to retire to my quarters, if you don’t mind. It’s been a hellish day.”

His head jerked up, and he seemed taken aback by her harsh wording. Wording a polite governess should never in a million years use. Curse her luck right now. Curse this whole day!

She gave an exasperated sigh, and added, “It’s been a difficult day, my lord. I am chilled right to the bone and liable to catch my death if we stand here and chat the remainder of the evening.”

She should guard her tongue better and be less snappish with his lordship, even if his manners left something to be desired.

“Yes, of course. You need to be shown to your room. If you require hot water, Martha keeps a pot on the stove in the kitchen. There is a hip bath tucked in there somewhere as well.”

Did the castle have no modern amenities? Was she really expected to bathe in the kitchen? Or as a servant was she expected to use a common facility? She’d save that question for later. It was trivial when she was chilled to the bone.

“Thank you. Will you ring a servant for me?”

She’d consider having a bath just as soon as she got out of her wet clothes.

“There is no one in the main house. The staff lives over in the keep. I don’t make them work past the supping hour.”

No servants in the main house? And six people living close by did not count. In this monstrous place, how could that be? How did the master of the house function on a skeleton staff?

She was too tired to question why he didn’t keep serving staff on hand. If he could not pay them— or her— she’d know soon enough. The worst that could happen was her going back home to her sisters and have to advertise for another position.

“Will you please show me to the keep so I might settle in? I assume that is where I will take my room?”

Before answering her, his gaze traveled the length of her from knotted hair to mud- covered skirt and feet with a scowl. Then his sharp blue eyes met hers. Yes, she was an awful sight to behold, but it couldn’t be helped. She glared at him for his rude survey of her person.

He said not a word as he turned around, grabbed a candleholder from a long side table in the hall, and lit it against another candle’s flame.

“You’ll be staying in the main house.”

He had said all the servants lived at the keep. Was the keep fully occupied? Or was she expected to stay close to her charge? Did that mean the child’s nurse wasn’t at hand?

She was too tired to barrage him with so many questions. Too tired to utter another word. She cared not where she slept to night, so long as it was warm and dry.

Without another word, he headed down the hall she’d just come from. He did not offer to take her lone bag, as most gentlemen would do. But she kept forgetting, she was the hired help now, not a lady. She’d left that honorary title behind two days ago.

When the prince was of age, he wished to marry the local wise woman’s daughter. The young prince loved her and wanted her always at his side, but the king refused the union.

—The Dragon of Brahmors

As Lord Brendall took her up a wide set of stairs, Abby couldn’t help but scowl at his back. His white shirt stretched taut over the defined muscles of his shoulders. She also couldn’t help that her gaze slipped to his buttocks, which appeared quite firm under his trousers.

Her head tilted to the side as she watched the material tighten then slacken with each step he took. The man should have the decency to wear a jacket; he probably turned many a lady’s eyes with his form alone.

The light- veined marble of the railing was cool under her bare hand. She’d taken her gloves off on entering the house and stuck them in the side of her valise since they were soaked right through. Her foot snagged on the lip of the step while staring at his enticing backside and she tripped forward on the stairs. At least she had the good sense to grasp the rail tighter to keep herself upright.

He turned to her with a sharp, disapproving frown.

She swallowed against the nervous giggle that almost escaped her throat and forced her gaze to her surroundings as she took the next stair, then the next.

She shouldn’t admire her employer’s buttocks. But she’d always appreciated brawny men. They were so different from the simpering society gentlemen she was used to. Powerfully built men seemed so raw and untamed.

Dark and dangerous. And so very much a man compared with the effeminate peacocks that tried courting her on every trip she’d made to Town with her sisters.

Abby shook her head and focused on the large picture frames lining the wall with what had to be images of long- ago relatives. The eldest portraits were near the bottom. Seventeenth and eighteenth century by the style depicted in the oil paintings. One was of a man wearing a white wig, green hunting coat, and tan breeches. He held a gun over his lap, and he sat astride a great white war horse.

The man had a carriage of command about him. Two Brittany spaniels stood next to the horse, tails erect, their heads high like their master. A grandfather or great- grandfather, she guessed.

Halfway up, there was a beautiful woman wearing a clean Grecian style, the white sprigged muslin gathered and cinched enticingly under her breasts, her dainty feet peeking out from beneath the hem of the frilly dress. Her dark tresses coiled in the fashion of a few decades past.

Quite possibly it was an image of Lord Brendall’s mother.

On the first landing hung a great large tapestry. The lady was dressed in a medieval burgundy- colored gown.

Thin braids bound her hair back from the face, but the rest of her golden tresses fell well past the fl are of her hips. There was a spark of mischief in her eyes, as if the mysterious lady held a secret from the observer. It was a newer piece, not actually of the time period it depicted since the woven threads seemed to be in pristine condition.

She turned to ask Lord Brendall who the woman was, but he’d already taken the second flight of stairs, forcing her to cease her curious study of the paintings to keep up with him.

The higher they climbed, the more tired she felt; it didn’t matter that it wasn’t more than a dozen steps to each landing. It had been such a long day. She doubted she’d be able to drag herself back downstairs to the kitchen for a hot bath. She just wanted to strip out of her wet, sticky clothes and climb under a multitude of warm, dry blankets.

A small pang of longing for the comforting arms of her sisters stabbed at her heart. She did her best to ignore it, but it wasn’t easy. She was on her own in the world now.

It was always meant to happen this way. Her sisters were enjoying marital bliss with babies

probably not a year off.

That was never the life she’d envisioned for herself. It seemed so meaningless, so dull to fall into the trap of marriage and then the multitude of children that were sure to follow. And she certainly didn’t want to be the spinster aunt caring for her sisters’ children. That was not her idea of a fulfilling life. She wanted more than that for herself.

Needed more than that. She wanted to be an in de pen dent woman. It started here, at Brendall Castle. And by God, she’d do whatever was in her power to make it work.

To her surprise, they stopped on the second floor. “Is the nursery on the second floor?”

He’d shown her down a hall with half a dozen doors.

All insignificant, all the same.

Lord Brendall turned up the latch on the old- fashioned darkly stained oak door. Pushing it open, he motioned with his hand that she should enter. “This will be your room. It’s where all the governesses have slept,” he said.

“The nursery is not used. It’s in another wing of the castle that has not withstood time.”

There definitely couldn’t be a nursemaid if she was to be on hand for the child at all times.

It didn’t surprise her that part of the castle lay in disrepair, either. Not so uncommon in the larger, older estates scattered throughout En gland. She’d have to explore the grounds tomorrow with her charge. The overall condition of the house might tell her a lot about the family and about his lordship.

She approached Lord Brendall warily before peering inside. It was a good- sized room— not as big as the one she had occupied at her sister’s house, but decent enough.

The damask bed hangings were dated. A heavy brocade curtain covered the lone window in the room. The candlelight held forth by his lordship illuminated the gold-and- blue motif inlaid on the heavily woven material. The walls were papered in gold and light blue.

She stepped inside to further inspect her new surroundings. The door shut behind her and Lord Brendall was gone a moment later. She heard the click of his booted feet as he walked away from her room. His steps faded before she could figure out which direction he went in.

Did he head to his own room for the evening— which she wasn’t sure was even in this wing of the house— or did he make his way back down to the main floor? It didn’t matter. There was a wide comfortable- looking bed calling to her with its layers of blankets and pillows of varying shapes and sizes.

Setting her valise on the writing desk, she opened it and pulled out her night rail and dressing robe, the only articles of clothing she’d been able to carry with her. What a shame that the sole dress she had was the one currently sticking uncomfortably to her. Hopefully it dried by morning and she could brush out the caked on dirt before making her way back to the train station to pick up the rest of her luggage.

Stripping down to her unmentionables, Abby opened the wardrobe in the hope of finding a few pegs inside. To her surprise, there were more than a handful of dresses hanging neatly along a wooden pole. How strange to find clothes in here when this was a room designated for the hired help.

Stranger yet, the dresses were not a governess’s. Rubbing her fingers over the soft material, she knew they were of fine silk and twilled muslin. She’d ponder why they were in her wardrobe later. Riffling through the clothes, she found some empty hangers.

Now that she wore next to nothing, she realized how cold the room was. Making her way to the fireplace, she set the logs inside, opened the flue, and struck the flint that was stored in a box on the high mantel. It took her a couple of tries to get the wood lit, but she managed. Her first task as an in de pen dent woman accomplished, she warmed her hands by the flames that licked up the logs. Pulling off the rest of her damp clothes, she set them on a chair close to the fire so they would dry quickly.

Donning her night rail was the last thing she remembered before waking to a frigid room. Her cheeks were frozen where they were exposed to the night air. She stared around the dark chamber, making out bits of white molding against the papered wall. Had it not been so chilly, she’d have opened

the curtains to let in the moonlight. If it happened to be this cold at the beginning of the fall season, what would the winter months bring?

That familiar ache of homesickness sent an unpleasant shiver through her body that had nothing to do with the winter-like air and everything to do with being away from her sisters. She didn’t want to believe that her hasty action in removing herself from under her sisters’ noses might have been the wrong decision.

She had to believe this life would be better than living under the pressure of watching her sisters— with their beloved husbands— building families that no longer included her.

She wanted the old days back. The time when it had been the three of them and no one else. Selfish of her to think that way, but it was that way of thinking that made her realize she had to move on. Permanently, temporarily, she didn’t know for how long, just long enough to carve her own way in life. Enough time to decide what she wanted to do for the rest of her days since her fortune wouldn’t come to her until her twenty- fifth birthday.

Unless she married before then.

What an utterly depressing thought. She had rejected the very idea of marrying any of the boring gentlemen of London society long ago. Actually she’d decided against marriage at her very first ball.

Sighing, Abby sat up to lean against the stack of warm pillows at her back. She should add more logs to the fire.

Unfortunately, that required getting out of bed.

Pulling the uppermost blanket around her shoulders, she made her way to the fireplace. There were no more logs in the iron rack. Even if she didn’t want to leave the room, she had no choice since the fire had to be built up again.

With a heavy sigh, she rummaged through her valise in the dark, found a pair of dry slippers, and put them on.

Hardly warm enough, but they’d do for wandering around the house. She squeezed the material of her clothes hanging over the back of the chair. They were still damp and too cold to wear yet. Hopefully this wasn’t a sign of how her day to come would play out. She did not want a repeat of yesterday.

Opening up the chest of drawers, Abby found a chemise. She shook it out and held it up in front of her. It looked about her size. Maybe a bit short and a bit wide for her, but it would have to do. Taking out a bar of soap and other personal items, she found some linens in the wardrobe and then left the bedchamber in search of the hip bath his lordship had mentioned on her arrival last night.

Elliott’s night had been sleepless, so he’d decided to get up despite the fact that the sun had yet to crest the horizon. There wasn’t much sense lying abed thinking about the governess all wet and shivering. Wanting to warm her in more ways than one.

He scratched at his unshaven jaw and wished he could focus on something else. He’d busy himself in his study till it was light enough to go and fi x a few more of the fallen stones on the west wall with Thomas.

Intent on scrounging up some food in the kitchen, he was brought up short by a soft but colorful curse. Miss Hallaway was a curious creature. For a proper governess, she seemed rather accomplished in using a number of expletives even he didn’t know the meanings for.

Heat spilled from around the open crack in the kitchen door, and he peered into the dimly lit room. A candelabrum was set on the cutting table; the lit wickers of the candles gave the room an ambient glow. The old hip bath was set near the woodstove, steam rising from the surface.

There were a number of items set on the floor: a folded stack of clothes, soap wrapped in paper, a counterpane from the bedroom fallen in a heap on the floor.

Once he realized that Miss Hallaway wore nothing more than a night rail and dressing robe, exposing the clear outline of her willowy figure, he was helpless to move away from the door. Elliott

swallowed tightly at the sight of her slender beauty.

There was a slight roundness to her breasts shadowed beneath the white material. Her waist was tiny without the cinching of a corset so many women relied upon.

A long, silent huff of air escaped him and he grasped the door frame to stop himself from moving forward.

She pulled her braid forward and loosened the strands by brushing her fingers through the long tresses. He still couldn’t tell the color of her hair in the dimness of the room, but he could see that it was a light shade. Brown, he decided, since he preferred brunettes. It was incredibly long. Fanning around her like a curtain of wavy silk right past her elbows, and just past the slight fl are of her hips.

She leaned forward, her hair stirring the surface of the water as she tested the temperature with her fingers. He could imagine the feel of her fingers on his body caressing him in the same way she gently swirled them over the surface of the water.

With a sigh, she stood and shed her robe, and then his thoughts narrowed down to only her. Her arms were as milk white as the rest of her. Smooth and perfect looking.

Elliott itched to touch and caress her with his rough hands.

He should leave her to her privacy, as a gentleman would. He was no better than a blackguard. No better than his conniving father, because for the life of him, he couldn’t walk away. This desire he had for her was new and unsettling for him, and something he didn’t want to deny himself just yet.

Perhaps the attraction was that she wasn’t a normal governess. Not compared with the last. This one swore— crudely. She was younger than the multitude of batty crones and other women who’d tromped through his and his son’s life over the last few years. And, he could admit, she wasn’t hard on the eyes. Not in the least.

Releasing the buttons at her throat and down the center of her chest, she pulled the garment over her head and dropped it to the floor. Elliot closed his eyes and tried to inhale the breath that had been punched right out of his lungs. The next time he saw any garment flutter over her head and to the floor, he vowed to be the one removing it.

Shit.

He had to stop thinking that way. Had to stop thinking about her that way. Had to walk away before he did something stupid.

His eyes snapped open again when she sank deep into the water with a heavy sigh. Her shoulder blades and the upper half of her arms were exposed to his gaze when she gathered her hair to one side.