An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2 (12 page)

He carefully pulled Horatia’s arms away. “Whilst I’m flattered, Miss Sheridan,” he said as gently as he could, “it wouldn’t be right. I am one of Joshua’s oldest friends. Only a complete scoundrel would take advantage of his friend’s younger sister.”

She pouted. “I’m eighteen. And I want you to be a scoundrel. In fact, I want you to ravish me.” Her hands slid beneath his coat and she pressed her breasts against him. “Don’t you want to ravish me?”

Oh, God. What a veritable hornet’s nest of a question. “Miss Sheri—”

“Horatia,” she corrected.

“Horatia,” he conceded. At least he could try to appease her a little. “You are a very lovely young woman, but as I said before, it wouldn’t be right.”

“Oh, pooh to you. Everyone says you’re a rakehell, but I suppose they’re wrong.” She pulled away and crossed her arms, scowling up at him.

Nicholas frowned back. “Horatia, there are many unprincipled men in this world who’d like nothing more than to take advantage of a young woman like you. But I am not one of them. You should be more careful. Your reputation is important.”

“Good grief. You sound like Miss Pendergast. I just want a little fun before I’m tied to someone I don’t particularly want to be married to. Joshua has at least half a dozen candidates in mind. They’re rich and titled—no one ranks below an earl—but I’m sure they’re all old and ugly.”

“Well, be that as it may, you’d best save your first kiss for your husband-to-be.”

Horatia sniffed. “Heavens, who’d have thought Sir Nicholas Barsby would be as straight-laced as a society matron?”

In spite of the precarious situation they were both in, Nicholas’s mouth curved into a smile. “All things considered, it’s better that my reputation is ruined rather than yours.”

Horatia tilted her head, studying him through narrowed eyes. “You’re smitten by that pretty governess, aren’t you? That’s the problem.”

What?

Nicholas opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. Swallowed and tried again. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Horatia cast him a knowing smile. “Oh, yes you do. I’ve seen the way you sneak glances at her when you think no one is looking. You look like a moonstruck boy. What is her name again? Miss Adams?”

Nicholas’s cravat felt too tight. “You are quite mistaken.”

“I don’t think so. Why else would you keep her here when her charges have gone to the seaside?”

Nicholas raked a hand through his hair. “Now see here, Miss Sheridan—”

Horatia clapped her hands and laughed. “Oh, heavens. I do believe you are blushing, Sir Nicholas.”

Nicholas had a dreadful feeling she was correct. His face did feel hot but he’d put it down to being irritated with the whole situation. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to refute her observation. “I hardly think so. I...” He drew in a steadying breath, retrieved her bonnet from where she’d dropped it on the grass and passed it to her. “I think it might be wise to return to the Hall.”

Horatia sighed dramatically as she took her bonnet. “All right,” she said, fastening the pink bows beneath her pointed chin. “But, before we go I think we should make a deal.”

Nicholas narrowed his gaze. Suspicious didn’t even begin to describe how he felt. “I don’t think you are in a position to negotiate any sort of deal.”

“Wait.” She raised a hand to Sir Nicholas’s chest. “Just hear me out. I won’t mention your
tendre
for the governess to anyone if you don’t mention my quest to Joshua.”

Oh, Miss Horatia Sheridan was a wily creature. Nicholas pitied the man who would end up leg-shackled to her. But she couldn’t outsmart him.

“I agree.” He offered his hand and she shook it.

“Brilliant.” Horatia threw him a triumphant smile as she took his arm. As Nicholas escorted her into the sunshine and across the lawn toward the lakeside path to the Hall, he resolved to have a quiet talk with all the other single men in the party—Lionel and Cornelius Rowland and Lord Belmont—and he would make it very clear to them that they were to stay away from the too-wild-for-her-own-good Miss Sheridan. Or they would have him to answer to.

And when Abigail was safely installed in London, he’d have a word with Nash. Then it wouldn’t matter who Horatia tattled to about his apparent ‘love’ for the governess.

Which was quite ridiculous. He enjoyed Abigail’s company and cared about her well-being. He certainly loved the sex. But as for anything else...

He frowned.

There was one confounding thought that emerged and buzzed around inside his mind on his way back to the house; he hadn’t acknowledged the main reason behind his reluctance to kiss Miss Horatia Sheridan. He simply couldn’t bear the idea of being unfaithful to Abigail.

Perhaps the
tendre
he harbored for his mistress was stronger than he’d thought.

* * *

A
bigail stood
in the deep shadows of the Greek temple folly. Shock had frozen her to almost complete stillness; indeed, she felt as frozen as the marble column she hid behind. Except for her hands. Her hands trembled like the leaves of the horse chestnut tree by the lake.

Sir Nicholas was courting Miss Horatia Sheridan. She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t just seen it with her own eyes.

She bit her lip to stifle a sob. She supposed it served her right for spying.

With the cataloguing completed, and nothing much else to do, she had decided to borrow another much loved book by Miss Austen,
Pride and Prejudice
, from Hartfield’s library. And considering how beautiful the day was, what better place was there to read at Hartfield, than the lake?

In hindsight, she should have thought more about where she was going. There were so many lovely spots to choose from in the grounds but force of habit had led her down the path past the rhododendron bush toward the folly. However as she made her approach, the unmistakable sounds of nearby merry-making had reached her ears—the hum of voices and the tinkling laughter of women. A shout, and a whoop, and the robust guffaw of a man.

She’d paused on the path, clutching her book to her chest, but then the stubborn streak inside her made her continue on; she wouldn’t be chased away. If she took shelter in the folly, no one would even notice her, not if she sat toward the rear in the deep shade. The distance between her and the party would be well over a hundred yards. Besides, she was certain Sir Nicholas wouldn’t mind. And if anyone in the party approached the temple, she could easily make her apologies and leave.

That’s what she’d told herself at any rate.

From her marble seat, she’d had a clear view of the horse chestnut tree where the picnic had been laid out. She’d tried not to spy on the activities. But the continuous bursts of laughter had drawn her gaze on more than one occasion. And of course, fool that she was, she couldn’t stop herself looking for the man that she loved.

When Sir Nicholas had been left quite alone, she’d been very tempted to approach him. The longing to sit beside him, to talk to him, to touch him was so acute, it felt like a physical pain beneath her ribs. How easy it would be to lie down on the rug and lay her head upon his broad chest. To listen to his heartbeat whilst the canopy of leaves rustled softly above them. To breathe in the heavenly masculine scent of him—musk and sandalwood and fresh linen. The dappled, shifting sunlight would make patterns behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps he’d even kiss her. And let her call him Nicholas. Or Nick...

But she didn’t move because her dream was virtually impossible considering the time of day and where they were. If anyone at all saw them together—gardener or household servant, gentleman or lady—everyone would know what she truly was.

And then all hope of being with Sir Nicholas fled when Miss Sheridan returned.

Even though the low hanging branches of the horse chestnut obscured Abigail’s view, there was no doubt she was witnessing a romantic liaison. The young woman practically threw herself at Sir Nicholas. Their embrace had been brief yet undeniably passionate. And Abigail’s heart had twisted with so much pain, she’d felt like she couldn’t breathe. She’d bitten her lip so hard, she’d drawn blood.

Torn between the urge to flee yet unable to look away, Abigail hid behind one of the marble columns and watched as the new paramours exchanged quiet words. Then Sir Nicholas escorted a beaming Miss Sheridan out into the open and across the lawn, right past the folly, following the path back to the Hall.

When Horatia Sheridan had openly speculated about becoming the mistress of Hartfield there’d obviously been some substance behind her pronouncement. Abigail couldn’t imagine that Sir Nicholas would toy with a young woman who was the sister of a friend, a man who was a viscount. The entanglement meant something. Something significant.

But oh, how cruel it was of Sir Nicholas to woo this woman right under her very nose.

Abigail leaned her forehead against the cool marble and closed her eyes. She’d given up trying to stem the flow of tears. She couldn’t be Sir Nicholas’s mistress. She couldn’t share him. Not when her heart belonged to him, yet she had no claim on him whatsoever. Not that there was much left of her heart. It felt like Sir Nicholas had just torn it into ribbons.

If Sir Nicholas announced his betrothal to Horatia Sheridan whilst she was still here at Hartfield, she didn’t think she would be able to bear it. Seeing them hold each other had been torture enough.

It had become abundantly clear that she couldn’t stay. She had to go.

The sooner the better.

S
ix hours later
, The Vicarage, Hedgecombe Priory

“
M
iss Adams
. Are you all right?”

It would be a lie to say she was considering she was standing on the doorstep of Hedgecombe Vicarage with red-rimmed eyes and a valise clutched in her hands. And it was nine o’clock in the evening. Still, Abigail attempted to smile. “Not really, Mr. Wentworth. And I am so sorry to presume on you and your sister at this late hour. But I really have nowhere else to go.”

Something bright and angry flared in Elias Wentworth’s blue eyes but his voice was gentle when he asked, “You’ve left because of Sir Nicholas haven’t you?”

Abigail already knew Mr. Wentworth didn’t think much of him so there wasn’t much point in denying that either. “I’m afraid so.”

“Of course you are most welcome here,” he said, ushering her into the narrow hallway and then into a neat front parlor. A pair of lit candles sat upon the simply carved wooden mantelpiece and a book—it looked to be a bible—lay open upon a low table by a well-worn sofa. “Although I must warn you, Miss Wentworth is in London at the moment.” His gaze dropped to her valise before returning to her face. “I presume you need a place to stay. But I understand if you are concerned about your reputation.”

Despite her distress, Abigail nearly laughed out loud.
If you only knew that I haven’t a reputation worth saving, Mr. Wentworth.
Instead she simply replied, “Yes. Yes I do. But only for tonight. I intend to catch the mail-coach at the Cock and Fox early tomorrow morning. So I shan’t be a bother for too long.”

“Oh, my dear Miss Adams.” Mr. Wentworth touched her arm briefly. “You could never be a bother. It will be such a shame to see you go.”

Abigail tried to dislodge the painful lump of anguish in her throat with a hard swallow. “I... I don’t really wish to leave either. But I simply must.”

“Here, let me take your valise while I rouse Mrs. Porter, my housekeeper so she can ready the guest room. And then I shall organize a pot of tea. Do take a seat while I’m gone. I trust Mrs. Fitz,” he nodded toward a large tabby cat sitting on the window ledge, “will keep you company.”

“Thank you.”

The curtains had not yet been drawn and the dying light of the setting sun filled the room with a warm glow. Abigail chose a tapestry covered seat by the open window and patted the amiable Mrs. Fitz. The cat purred her appreciation and Abigail felt oddly comforted. The tabby reminded her of Aunt Euphemia’s cat and all the other things she had been trying not to miss about her aunts and their house in the village of Farleigh Wick, just outside of Bath. Despite her estrangement from her aunts, Abigail was sure they would still accept her into their home again. Of course, she wouldn’t stay long. She would seek another situation. She prayed Lady Barsby would provide her with a reference letter even though she’d departed so abruptly.

She wouldn’t dream of asking Sir Nicholas for one.

She wondered what he would make of the note she’d left for him. And whether he would be angry with her because he’d purchased a townhouse that wasn’t needed. She supposed he could always gift it to someone else. Another, more accommodating mistress. A woman with a stronger, more resilient heart than her own.

It wasn’t long before Mr. Wentworth returned bearing a tea tray. “Mrs. Fitz can be our chaperone,” he said with an amiable smile and a wink. “Would you like to pour?”

“Yes. Of course.” Whilst Abigail dispensed tea and milk into fine bone china cups, Mr. Wentworth lit several more candles with a taper. Night had fully descended and somewhere in the grounds of the priory, an owl hooted.

“I must confess, I have been worried about you, Miss Adams,” Mr. Wentworth said at length after he’d taken a sip of his tea. He’d chosen a seat opposite hers and Abigail appreciated the way he continued to behave like a perfect gentleman. “I missed you at church.”

Abigail tried to hide her grimace of guilt by taking a sip of her tea. Preoccupied with Sir Nicholas, she had not attended for two Sundays in a row. And fallen woman that she was, she’d also felt too sinful to enter such a hallowed place. And then of course, she had been avoiding Mr. Wentworth.

His thoughts had clearly traveled along a similar path. “I... I apologize if it was my recent conduct that kept you away. That was not my intention. To make you feel uncomfortable or unwelcome.”

Abigail offered a response that at least approximated the truth. “There are several reasons. It’s... It’s complicated.”

Mr. Wentworth nodded, took another sip of tea then fixed her with a kind yet measured look. A look that was all too perceptive. “Do you love him?” he asked softly.

The question shouldn’t have surprised her. Women probably fell in love with Sir Nicholas all the time. She wasn’t the first and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. Nevertheless, Abigail waited for the tight ache in her throat to ease a little before she answered the vicar. “I do,” she whispered. “I’ve been so foolish.”

Mr. Wentworth nodded. His blue eyes were soft with compassion. “We cannot help who we care about.”

Abigail tried to smile. He really was a sweet man. She’d been wrong to think of him as vexing. If she’d been a different type of woman, perhaps she would have considered a proposal from him. “No. No we cannot,” she agreed.

Mrs. Porter arrived to announce that the guest room was ready. As Abigail rose to follow her, Mr. Wentworth touched her hand. “If you ever need anything at all, Miss Adams, you can count on me to help.”

This time, Abigail’s smile was genuine. “Thank you. Your support means more than I can say.”

Mr. Wentworth inclined his head. “Think nothing of it. Goodnight, Miss Adams. The gig has been repaired so I’ll make sure you get to the mail-coach in good time in the morning.”

As Abigail turned in for the night, she could scarcely believe that in eight short hours, she would be leaving Hedgecombe. She was counting on the fact that Sir Nicholas would be so busy with his guests, particularly Miss Sheridan, he probably wouldn’t even notice that she’d gone until the morrow. But then, would he even care? At any rate, she’d be well on the way to Bath by then.

As she slid between the stiff cotton sheets in the hard and narrow bed, she couldn’t suppress another wave of silent tears. It was over. She would never see Sir Nicholas again. Never see his smile, never know his kisses or his love-making. Never hear his voice, husky with passion, groaning her name as if she meant everything to him.

Stop thinking about him, Abigail. You were his mistress, nothing more.

Her heart might ache with a pain that bordered on intolerable but surely it was for the best that she ended things now, before she fell further in love. And before he wedded another.

At least that’s what Abigail tried to tell herself through the long, dark hours of the night until morning.