The Governess Club: Sara (8 page)

T
he old nag stood patiently, appreciating the respite. George shifted the reins slightly in his hands. “Miss Sara, you want I should drive to the house?”

She didn’t acknowledge him right away but continued staring at Windent Hall, her last stop of the day. Every other visit had gone smoothly, giving her a sense of security and confidence that she was doing the right thing.

Her last visit here had resulted in her being insulted. Of course, Mr. Grant had apologized for his behavior, in a manner of speaking. And then proceeded to get frightfully angry. She still didn’t know what to make of his behavior in the pub last Saturday. Thinking of the intensity of his gaze, so potent she had felt he was touching her, still made shivers run down her spine.

Windent Hall did not look as though it housed an irrational, angry man. It still had a neglected look to it, although she could see more curtains had been opened and the window glass sparkled in the sun, even from her position at the end of the drive. She knew Mr. Grant could be a comfortable conversationalist, as proven on their walk. His outbursts all seemed to come from some sort of provocation, even if she didn’t know what caused it.

He couldn’t be all that bad. He was just a man, one Mr. Pomeroy was convinced was recovering from some sort of spiritual wound. She would just have to take care to not provoke him in any way.

That settled her mind. Giving George a nod, Sara instructed, “To Windent Hall, please.” George clucked and flicked the reins, setting the gig in motion. They reached the door in a matter of moments. George helped her down from the gig and she took the last basket from the back. He followed her to the door, knocking on it. When no answer came, he pounded even harder.

The door slowly swung open, more easily than it had last time, revealing the same elderly man dressed in a butler’s suit. He squinted against the sunlight, a large scar running down the right side of his face, his lips pulled back into a sneer.

The ants teased her throat.
Just breathe,
she instructed herself,
he’s just a servant.
She cleared her throat and said, “Good afternoon, I am Miss Collins. I have come to call on Mr. Grant.” Her voice was higher-pitched than normal.

One corner of his lips curled, his eyes raking over before he turned and shuffled away. He had left the door ajar; at her look, George shrugged and pushed it open. Sara stepped inside the darkened foyer just in time to see the man disappear down the same corridor as during her last visit.

She stood with her hands curled around the basket, unable to see much of the artwork due to the lack of light. Other items were still hidden under dust covers; Sara thought one might be a suit of armor or perhaps a statue of some sort. She did not mind the wait, as it gave her throat time to recover from that shock of a servant.

Shuffling sounds from down the corridor captured her attention and moments later the butler—for lack of a better word—reappeared. “His lordship says he don’t want to see nobody today.” The man’s voice was raspy and sent frissons of discomfort down her spine.

Sara cleared her throat again, choosing not to correct the man in his address of Mr. Grant. “Did you say who was calling? I am certain he would not be averse to speaking with me for a few moments.”

“He said he don’t want to see nobody,” the butler reiterated. “I don’t think he’s much bothered by who ye are.”

Sara took an involuntary step back at his rude words, the ants once more appearing.

“Here now,” George spoke up on her behalf. “Yer not to be speaking to Miss Collins like that. She’s a liedy.”

The butler shrugged. “She don’t pay me wages.”

George continued to defend her, his voice increasing in volume and agitation, and Sara fought the urge to melt into one of the dust covers. She saw the men argue, one righteous in his indignation, the other uncaring. It was clear she had been forgotten.

Why did she ever think coming here was a good idea? Every encounter she had with Mr. Grant left her feeling insulted and demeaned.

In the corner of her eye, Sara glimpsed some movement. Pulling her eyes away from the fighting men, she saw that the movement had actually been herself in a mirror, the dust cover hanging haphazardly from one of the top corners.

A strange, almost hypnotic pull came over her and Sara took several slow steps until she was directly in front of the old mirror, the men’s voices fading from her consciousness. She absently placed the basket on the table beneath it and lifting her hand, she pulled the dust cover off, revealing the rest of the glass and frame.

The frame was a plain dark wood with little to recommend it; the glass was grimy, blurring her image. Yet Sara could not look away from the obscured face, unremarkable and forgettable. It was pale, a frightened look in its eyes, a sense of lacking emanating from the expression.

Was that how people saw her? Easily dismissed, easily frightened, easily forgotten? She was aware that people did not have high expectations of her, but did that give others the right to demean and insult her?

You ought to be ashamed of yourself, girl, thinking you are better than others. You are the vicar’s daughter and are supposed to be humble. You should be grateful they like to play with you. For shame, girl!

What shame was there in wanting to be treated with respect and courtesy? Sara saw the lips in the mirror tighten. Meeting the eyes, she saw a hard anger she had not seen in them before.

Why should she be subject to such treatment? What entitled others to insult her, treating her as a lesser being? She had been nothing but kind to Mr. Grant and this is how he repaid her. Her father had raised her to treat others the way she wanted to be treated; her mother had shown her how inappropriate behavior should be handled.

In the dirty mirror, Sara saw George was still arguing with the butler. Straightening her spine, she turned and walked down the corridor the butler had used several minutes earlier. It was darker than the foyer, but a single door was cracked open enough to provide some light and she knew he was in there.

Mr. Grant’s insolence would not be tolerated this time.

T
he door opened into a light-filled library. In contrast to the rest of the darkened, dirty house, this room glittered with attention.

The light was dazzling. The room stretched the length of two or three regular-sized rooms and floor-to-ceiling bow windows covered the south-facing outside wall; each window section boasted either a cushioned bench or a stuffed chair, ideally situated to make the most of the daylight. Interspersed between the windows were bookshelves no taller than Sara’s shoulder, each brimming with the printed word.

The inside walls had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves divided into two levels, creating a U-shaped display; staircases at either end gave access to the balcony level; both descended into hearth areas containing intimate arrangements of sofas, chairs and tables in front of the large marble fireplaces. Glancing up, Sara saw the balcony even stretched above the doorway. On either side of the lower level, rolling ladders had been attached to provide access to the higher shelves tucked underneath the balcony. Smaller shelves, identical to the ones along the window walls, created small corridors of books.

Stepping farther in, Sara felt overwhelmed by the contradictory sensations of comfort and awe the room inspired.

A hand holding an almost empty glass appeared from behind one of the armchairs facing a hearth. “Sawyer,” a voice barked. “The brandy is gone. Bring me whiskey.” The word was slurred, coming out as
whish-key
.

Heavens, the man was foxed and it wasn’t even tea time. Her resolve wavered momentarily, but Sara narrowed her eyes and walked over to his chair, her skirts swishing with the force of her stride. She stopped at his side, her arms folded her chest, her frown disapproving.

Mr. Grant rolled his head and looked at her with bleary eyes. Staring for a moment, he chuckled. “Of course,” he muttered. “Why wouldn’t you be here.”

Sara opened her mouth to reply, but he continued to speak. “You’re everywhere, aren’t you? Well, may as well make yourself useful then. There’s whiskey over there. Just bring the bottle.” He gestured loosely toward a cabinet by the stairs. The remains of the glass disappeared down his throat.

Sniffing, Sara followed his gesture to the cabinet and opened it. It took her several minutes to locate the one labeled “whiskey,” and she noted all the empty space in the cabinet. Had he not filled it completely or had he drunk it all away? She did not want to contemplate the answer.

She turned back. Her earlier righteous indignation had kept her from registering him exactly, but from this position, what she saw rooted her to the spot.

A loosened shirt and trousers were all he wore; even his shoes and stockings were off, revealing long, narrow feet and toes. His open shirt revealed the bronzed skin of his chest, covered with golden hair. Oddly, Sara felt the urge to press her cheek to his exposed chest and feel that hair against her skin. His left leg was stretched out in front of him and he was rubbing his thigh, almost absently, his head leaning back against the chair with his eyes closed, his blond hair in tousled disarray. The golden wolf’s head of his cane glinted in the sun where it rested against the nearby sofa.

The glass in his hand rose again. “I’m waiting,” he said in a singsong voice. The glass plunked down on the side table, nearly falling off. The table itself teetered for a moment.

She blinked, the brief spell broken. Reminded of her purpose, she thinned her lips into the disapproving frown and once more approached him. Reaching the chair, she placed the bottle on the table beside his glass. Before she could straighten, however, his hand clamped around her wrist and pulled her toward him.

With a truncated shriek, Sara landed across his lap, her bottom hitting his left leg. He winced and his other arm formed a steel band around her waist, shifting her to his right one.

“Mr. Grant!” she gasped.

“Hmm,” he grunted. “I don’t like your bonnet.” He began plucking at the ribbons, ignoring her hands trying to stop him. He scowled when the ribbons knotted, so he wrapped his fingers around them and jerked them off, breaking both from the bonnet itself. Smiling in triumph, he tossed the destroyed ribbons on the floor and the bonnet sailed to the sofa.

Mr. Grant then tightened his arm around her waist and captured her two hands with one of his own, effectively halting her struggles. “Stop,” he commanded in a soft, deep voice.

Sara stilled, her eyes locked on his. The pale blue orbs seemed to be having difficulty focusing, but remained steady, connecting with her startled gaze. She could see pain in them, but it was being pushed aside by a rising heat. She was acutely aware of the hard muscle pressing along her waist, holding her to his solid chest. She could feel his torso rise and fall with each breath he took; hers sped up in response.

He slowly released her hands and one naturally settled on his chest for support, her fingertips resting on his exposed skin. It was hot beneath her touch and the dusty hair tickled and twined around her fingers.
Coarse
, her mind registered,
but pleasant.
His eyes closed and he inhaled deeply; Sara felt the air expand his rib cage. Her spine prickled with awareness and the knowledge she had never been so close to a man before.

His eyes opened and met hers again. “Miss Collins,” he said, his voice husky. “You are everywhere.” He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers along her cheekbone, moving back to thread into her hair. “What is your name?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Sara.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “How do I know that is the truth? I do not know your name and you are not actually here.”

She looked at him, confused.

“But I am glad you are,” he continued, his gaze shifting to her lips. He licked his. “I’ve been quite curious about how you taste.”

His fingers tightened in her hair and he pulled her head down to his. He paused just before their lips met, his curving into a small smile. “Yes,” he murmured, “quite curious indeed.”

Mr. Grant closed the small distance between them, his lips capturing hers with confidence and skill. Sara held herself rigidly, unsure of what to do, how to react. It was a foreign experience, having a man kiss her. Her eyes were wide open, but all she could see was him. His own eyes were closed again and she felt his breath against her cheek, his nose nestled against hers.

He shifted, angling his head and his lips, both firm and gentle, moved over hers, caressing her mouth. Warmth slipped out of his mouth and over her skin, burrowing itself into her pores. It was an odd sensation, but not unpleasant. In fact, Sara was even beginning to enjoy it. Her eyes fluttered shut and a small sigh escaped her as she began to move her lips in rhythm with his, provoking an answering moan from the man beneath her.

He tightened his grip on her hair and his kiss grew more pressing. When his tongue traced her lips, touching them for the first time, a thrill shot down her neck and she trembled. When his tongue came out again, she eagerly met it with her lips, the slight opening giving him all the space he needed to slip in.

Heavens.

Mr. Grant seemed to like it when she mimicked him, so she followed his retreating tongue into his mouth, playfully dancing with it as he had with hers. With each pass of his tongue, her mind emptied more and more until that remained was awareness of him.

Sara didn’t know how long the kiss lasted; her senses were consumed by him, by the feel of his lips and tongue against hers, the pounding of his heart beneath her hand. It was with disappointment that she realized the kiss was slowing, that he intended to pull away.

When he did, Sara slowly opened her eyes, needing to concentrate on focusing. Mr. Grant leaned his head against the chair, and though his eyes were still closed, a smile covered his face. His arms around her had loosened and fallen away.