The Governess Was Wanton (10 page)

Mary's breath caught. “How did you find out?”

“She told me,” he said, looking up at her with haunted eyes. “She said she wanted to live apart because I neglected her. She wanted a clean break.”

She could hear what it cost his pride to confess those words as surely as she could hear the pain his wife's infidelity had caused him. “And what did you do?”

He sighed. “I could have been a brute and held her against her will, but I didn't want that. If she was miserable enough to stray, I didn't want to make her stay.”

“But she died.”

He nodded. “She'd bought a ticket on a ship bound for Spain. She was going to ride out the worst of the scandal there with her lover, but the week before she was supposed to depart, she died.”

The way he said it was all the more heartbreaking. He'd as much as told Mary that he hadn't loved his wife, but there was no mistaking the regret and pain all tangled together.

He took a long drink and set his mug down on the table with a decisive click, letting his hand rest on it. “She died in her bed, her steamer trunks half packed. The doctor said there must have been something wrong with her heart. She was just twenty-three.”

The urge to wrap him in her arms and absolve him of the guilt he carried pulsed through her. He was a good man—she had no doubt of that—but he had chosen wrong and it had cost him dearly.

“Do you know the worst part?” he asked with a half laugh that carried no mirth.

“What is that?”

“I'm glad that Eleanora doesn't remember her mother. Lucinda was cold with her, and it would have just pained Eleanora the older she got.”

“Some women don't warm to children,” Mary said, knowing all too well the same could be said of her own mother.

“She asked me to take Eleanora when she told me she was leaving,” he said. “She didn't want her getting in the way of her new life.”

No longer able to stand it, Mary covered his hand with hers. “But now Lady Eleanora has the best father.”

He gave a weak smile, his thumb lightly brushing over hers before he seemed to remember himself and moved it back to the table. He didn't, however, pull away.

“Lord Asten, the story I told in the drawing room when Lady Laughlin came to call isn't the full account of what happened to me,” she said quietly, feeling she owed him a little bit more of herself after the things he'd told her.

“I should like to know, if you want to tell me,” he said.

Her cheeks heated—why, she didn't know. Perhaps it was the intimacy of sharing secrets in an empty kitchen when the rest of the house was sleeping. Or maybe it was just that this man seemed to be able to open her up like a book and peer down at the pages, reading the secrets no one was supposed to know.

“It isn't a happy story, or a respectable one,” she warned.

He merely squeezed her hand in reassurance.

She closed her eyes. She was going to tell him everything. All the shame of her mother's past—even as she couldn't muster a sense of shame about what she'd done at the masque. She
owed
it to this man who'd shown her nothing but decency and respect and, under the guise of another, thrilling passion.

“My grandfather bought a cotton mill long before I was born, and he raised my father to take it over. Except that my father didn't just do that. He grew it into a little empire of mills and factories in Manchester.”

“I thought I detected the slightest hint of a northerner's cadence when you were irritated.”

She arched a brow at that. “My parents would have been very displeased to hear you say that.”

He shot her a crooked grin. “I must confess, I'm not feeling the most charitable toward your mother at the moment.”

“You show good sense,” she said with a nod. “After my father's death we found he was deeply in debt. Everything had to be sold except the house and enough furniture to keep a respectable drawing room and a couple of bedrooms in use. We could hardly make ends meet, and when my mother was three months into her mourning, and gentlemen began to arrive.”

She stole a glance at him under the cover of her lashes, praying he'd understand and knowing it was more than she could expect from most men of his position.

“They would drive up to the house in the evening and stay for hours,” she said. “Different carriages came on different days of the week. They would all be gone by morning, but it wasn't long before the neighbors began to gossip. My mother appeared at the assembly rooms in black moiré and jet just six months after my father's death, and that set all of Manchester whispering behind gloves and fans. I should've been embarrassed, but instead I was furious. This whole city of our friends had turned their backs on us, and there was my mother egging them on.

“One day she called me into her sitting room and told me that she was to marry a Mr. Smythe. As the wedding day drew closer, it became clear that Mr. Smythe didn't want another man's daughter in his house. He was a stern, exacting man, and I've never been the most pliant of women, even at a young age.”

She thought perhaps she might earn a chuckle from Lord Asten, but instead he sat there, his free hand clenched into a fist so tight that she could see his knuckles turn white. The sight was strangely comforting.

“I was sent away to school the day after the wedding,” she said. “I wasn't to come home during holidays, but that didn't bother me too much. I didn't like Mr. Smythe, and I liked school well enough. As the months went on, I hardly noticed that the gaps between my mother's letters began to grow wider, until one day the headmaster called me into his study. The school hadn't received a cent of my tuition or board for the year. He would give me two weeks to try to contact my mother or another relative, but after that I'd have to leave.”

“That they did that to you—” he gritted out.

“Hardly surprises me. I finally tracked down a servant who told me that my mother and Mr. Smythe had sailed for Jamaica four months before. I can only imagine they thought to make a clean break of it just like your wife.”

“A daughter isn't a suitcase one forgets,” the earl growled, all held-back rage and indignation.

“I know,” she said. “Having no other living relatives, I tried to find someone who would take me in, but all of Manchester's doors were shut to me. No one wants the daughter of a scandalous woman and a blaggard contaminating their own children.”

“That's horrible.”

She shrugged. “That is life in society. I found myself a respectable boarding house, and I began to respond to notices looking for governesses. As soon as I engaged a position, I traveled down on the first train I could catch. That was fourteen years ago.”

At some point during her story, Lord Asten's thumb had begun to stroke her again, offering a little bit of comfort from the painful memories. Because they
were
painful. Her own mother had abandoned her to save herself. Mary didn't know if she was alive or dead, but she found that she didn't particularly care. Her heart had hardened too much against the woman.

“It looks as though we're both ships in a storm,” Lord Asten said.

“Except the waters are much less tumultuous now,” she said with a smile.

He turned her hand over and traced the bold, sweeping lines that etched a seven into her palm. “I wouldn't say that, Miss Woodward. I rarely feel calm around you.”

The kitchen, the mugs, the hard seat of her chair—she noticed none of it now. All she could do was watch the Earl of Asten lift her palm to his lips and kiss it. Not a masked woman in a garden. Her. A governess. A nobody.

“I've tried my hardest to keep away from you, Mary, but I can't,” he confessed as he lifted her arm to kiss the skin of her inner wrist.

“No?” she whispered.

“You remind me of someone I met only briefly—less than an evening—but she moved me,” he said as he pushed the sleeve of her dressing gown up and skimmed his lips up her forearm. “Truth be told, I needed her.”

“How did you need her?” she asked shakily as he pressed his lips to her forearm.

“Because without her, I wouldn't have done this.” He kissed the sensitive crook of her arm. “And this.” His tongue darted out, and he licked the sensitive skin there, sending shivers through her.

The last of the objections that hung on her like armor fell away. She reached out and placed her palms on his chest, letting her fingers bunch the fine material of his shirt. “Lord Asten, please kiss me.”

He cupped her face and brushed his thumb over her lower lip, tempting her. “I'd like it if you would call me Eric.”

She tilted her head back in his hands, offering him her lips. “Eric, please.”

And, noble earl that he was, he did just as she asked.

Eric's lips moved over hers, coaxing Mary deeper into his kiss. His hands went to hair that was bound up in a thick braid and secured at her neck with a few stray pins she'd found on her dresser. A tremor of desire shook her body as his tongue slid over her lips, tracing their outline as his fingers searched for pins and pulled them out, dropping them one by one on the floor.

He pulled back a fraction, just enough to murmur against her lips, “I've wanted to feel your hair in my fingers from the first moment I met you.”

The confession sent a little thrill through her and she boldly felt the muscled planes of his chest under his thin shirt. “Is that right?”

“The very moment I walked into the drawing room and saw you standing there looking like a queen.” He bent down to kiss her neck as his fingers undid the ribbon that held her braid together and her hair slowly unwound itself. His fingers combed through her hair. “Like silk.”

She'd never thought the simple sensation of a man's hands in her hair could be so erotic, but there was something forbidden about it that charged the act with its own sense of risk. She was a governess. No man was supposed to see her hair unbound and hanging down her back. No man was supposed to tell her in such explicit terms that he thought about her—dreamed of a moment when he might be able to do just this. No man was supposed to make her feel this alive with just the feather touch of ten gentle fingers.

“I've wanted to kiss you since that first glimpse too,” he said, “even though I told myself the last thing I should do is crave you.”

She stilled, a little stung until he said, “I didn't want to make you think you couldn't say no. I don't want you to think you can't say no right now.”

Her breath left her in a rush. He didn't want to take away her ability to choose him. This man—a powerful earl with wealth and connections beyond her comprehension—was deferring to what she wished.

For the first time in her life, she felt wanted and cherished and loved.

No, not loved. Lusted after. It was best if she didn't make this mean anything more than it truly did. That night she would grab at her one chance to live as her life might have been if she hadn't been left behind. If she'd found a husband. If she hadn't become the sort of woman who lived under other people's roofs and raised other people's children.

This night would be about what could have been.

“Eric,” she said, gripping his collar so that he had to look up at her. “I
don't
want you to stop.”

Chapter Ten

Eric kissed her more urgently now, reviving that desire in her she'd never indulged until he'd kissed her on the veranda and undid her in the garden. Long ago she'd begrudgingly accepted that repressing those secret wishes was part of the path she'd chosen. Now that he'd shown her what passion could be like, however, she couldn't fathom living without this. She wanted all of it—all of him—even though she knew that would never be possible.

“Come upstairs,” he said, letting his hand slip down her arm until their fingers tangled together, locked in their own intimate embrace.

If she walked away, she'd live a life not knowing what true pleasure felt like. She would always wonder. If she went upstairs with Eric, she'd be exactly what she'd tried to avoid for years—a governess who let herself believe in the romance of novels, consenting to her own seduction and then the predictable dismissal that followed it. Was sex with Eric worth losing all the stability in her life and risking the reputation she'd carefully built over the years?

She found the answer in the open, earnest need in his eyes.

“Lead me,” she said, and let him pull her from the kitchen.

They padded quietly up the back staircase to the second floor. The corridor that connected the bedrooms was still. No one was around to ruin their stolen moment, to rip them back into the world that said a governess and an earl had no business sneaking around in the dark together.

Eric opened the heavy oak door to his bedroom and stepped back to let her in. She walked past him, glancing around the room she never thought she'd see. It had all the trappings of a wealthy man who enjoyed his comfort. Long green drapes hung from towering windows that no doubt looked out on the square, and a fire still burned in the grate in front of a cluster of leather armchairs. Shelves and shelves of books lined the walls, and a modest dressing table was set up with the bare necessities of a man who cared for his toilette only insomuch as to be presentable.

Mostly, however, the room was dominated by a massive bedspread with a dark blue duvet that promised luxurious sin.

“Come,” he said, pulling her over to it after he shut the door.

She followed him willingly, but she'd be lying if she didn't admit to being a little nervous. She'd already crossed so many lines with this man, but there was one bold one that still separated them. She hadn't yet given herself to the earl, letting him learn her body in the most intimate of ways. It was the largest transgression that a governess could make with her employer, yet here she was, wanting more than anything else for him to sweep her up and carry her off.

Whether he sensed her hesitation or not, Eric smoothed her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ears. “You can always say no. You can walk out of this room, and I won't try to stop you.”

She caught his hand and pressed it into her cheek. “I know that.”

His jaw worked a little as though he was straining with titanic effort to hold himself back. “Tell me what you want, Mary. What you truly desire.”

Carefully she slid his hand down her cheek, over her collarbone, and down her chest to cup her unbound breast through her dressing down. “I want you to show me how it can feel.”

“Oh thank God.” He sighed in relief. “I can do that.”

His fingers edged her dressing gown open, and she flashed back to the distinct memory of his freeing her breasts from the top of her corset in the garden. While that had been exciting, this somehow felt like more. Perhaps it was because she was unmasked and he knew exactly who she was. Maybe it was because she was taking so very great a chance in allowing him to lead her to his bedroom and then inviting him to kiss her. Either way, she knew that after tonight things would never be the same between them again.

Eric's other hand found the knot of her dressing gown's sash and undid it, letting the two ends part. Then he pushed it off her shoulders. It fell to the ground, and she trembled despite the warmth from the fire. Her whole body felt alight and alive as it never had before. His fingers went up to her throat and began to undo the buttons that held her modest night rail together. The undone fabric gaped until that too slid away from her body and pooled at her feet.

She stood naked in front of him, never so vulnerable in her life, and yet she trusted him for no other reason than she wanted to.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, skimming his hands down her body.

An emotion she couldn't name welled up in her. She shook her head, but he clucked his tongue. “You can't see yourself. You can't see how you glow as though you're lit from within. Everything about you is light and life. Even from the first moment I saw you, you've captivated me. I wanted to grasp some of your light and hold it for my own.”

His hands cupped her breasts now, his thumbs flicking over her peaked nipples. Then he caught one between his lips and sucked. Hard.

She cried out, an intense pleasure shooting through her. She could feel herself grow wet and slippery between her legs. It would have been shameful except that she didn't think she could feel any shame in front of this man. He helped her be bold and a little reckless, proud of the way her body reacted when he looked at her like she was more precious than gold.

His tongue flicked over her nipple as his hand molded her other breast. Her arms wrapped around his waist, fighting to hold herself up. She wanted to stay with him, feeling everything in all its unadulterated beauty, because something told her that she would never feel like this again. This would be her one night with the earl. She wanted to remember everything so that she could hold it close to her, letting herself steal a few secret moments to remember when she'd been wanton.

“Eric,” she groaned, her fingers running through his thick brown hair. He looked up her body and she skimmed a thumb over his lips. “Take me to bed.”

He rose to his feet and swept her up in his arms in one smooth motion. A few steps and he lay her down on the bed, the coverlet soft against her skin. Pushing up on her elbows, she watched him whip his shirt off over his head. She sucked in a breath. The broad span of his chest was covered in a light dusting of hair that tapered down over his stomach before plunging below the line of his waistband. Her mouth watered as he flicked open the tabs that held the placket of his trousers together.

He pushed the material down his hips, and suddenly he stood before her naked and powerful. She scooted up the bed as he took himself in his hand and pumped his already-hard cock once, twice while he knelt between her legs.

“Open your legs,” he ordered, every inch the powerful aristocrat.

She licked her lips as she let her knees fall open, exposing herself to him completely.

His strong hands circled her ankles and skimmed up over her legs until he stroked the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She knew already what he could do with his talented hands and his clever tongue, but tonight she wanted more. She wanted to feel what it was like when he was buried deep inside her, his cock stroking her until she cried out as she had in the garden. She wanted all of him. She would have all of him.

She pushed up on one arm, looped her hand around his neck, and pulled him to her. Her lips brushed his, and then, gently, she bit his lip. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and he nudged his cock against her sex.

“You're playing with fire,” he said.

Her eyes flicked up to his and a wicked smiled touched her lips. “Set me alight, Eric.”

He grinned, his hand cradling her neck, and he pushed into her slowly. She cried out as he stretched her, banishing every thought from her head except for the exquisite mixture of pain and pleasure.

This. This was exactly what she'd wanted. No wonder she'd denied herself for so long. A woman could grow addicted to the pulse of pleasure that shook her entire body. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

“Is this okay?” he asked low, his voice betraying the strain that it took for him to hold back. Except she didn't want him to hold back. She wanted all of this. All of him.

Mary pressed her hips up off the bed, pushing him a little deeper into her. “Oh my—” Her head fell back against the pillow.

“Greedy woman,” he said, appreciation obvious in his voice.

“I hope that's a good thing.” She gasped at the sensation of being so very full of him. So very complete.

“It's the very best thing,” he murmured.

He kissed her again and began to move slowly. He arched his back and pulled out of her almost completely. She was about to protest, digging her fingers into the muscles of his arms and pulling him down with the force of her ankles wrapped around his back, but then he plunged back into her and it was bliss again. Her hips bucked off the bed, meeting him.

“Christ, you're wet,” he said, his words gritted between clenched teeth. “It feels so good.”

“Show me,” she begged.

Her feet wrapped tighter around his waist, urging him deeper as he plunged into her again and again, each stroke driving her a little more wild. Nothing had prepared her for any of this. Her whole body was tense, the built-up anticipation that she knew was just within her reach almost too much. All she could do was cling to him and push him harder, urging him to take her to that edge.

He'd hooked one of her legs up onto his shoulder, wrapping his hand around it to plunge deeper into her. And then all at once the heat he'd stoked concentrated and pleasure ripped through her body like wildfire. She cried out, begging him without words not to stop. Her muscles clenched, wanting more—always more. Eric seemed to understand as he ground his hips against her, his strokes hard and fast now as he drove them both into bliss.

And then he shattered too, groaning low and deep. He pulled out of her, spilling his warm seed on her leg as he buried his head into her neck. Then he collapsed on her, taking most of his weight on his elbows.

They lay like that, tangled together, their bodies shimmering with sweat and hearts pounding as one, for a long time.

Asten's entire adult life had been methodical and planned. Rarely was he shocked by anything that happened around him.

Except now a woman lay in his arms.

No. Not a woman.
The
woman.

He'd thought to distract himself from her temptations by chasing after the mysterious woman in the garden, but the moment he kissed Mary Woodward he understood that night at the masque had been a fantasy keeping him from the inevitability of falling under the influence of this woman's charms. Mary was here and now, all solid, earthy woman—beauty and flaws, flesh and blood.

He should have known the first time she quirked an eyebrow at him and deftly chided him for being late for their appointment that he wouldn't be able to resist her. He'd bottled up all of his desires, thinking they would keep him safe from becoming the man his father had been. What he hadn't understood was this was more than the pure lust he'd watched his father succumb to time and again. What he felt was more powerful than simple, covetous desire. He wanted all of her—her impertinent wit, her easy confidence, her steadfast loyalty. He'd given up on ever finding such a fantasy of a woman, and yet nothing was more real than the play of his hands over the curve of her waist or the little gasp of surprise that deepened into a moan of pleasure when he plunged into her.

Now they lay in bed, Asten running his fingers along the soft length of her arm as their breath slowed. She had her head on his chest, her glorious hair spread out down her back. Skin touched skin. All felt right.
She
felt right.

He'd resisted looking for another wife for years even though he knew it was his duty as an earl to secure an heir—cousin-in-waiting be damned. After Lucinda, even thinking about marriage felt like inviting misery back into his home. With Mary, however, he could see the glimmers of a future. The edges were still fuzzy, as though he were looking through a stereoscope that wasn't quite in focus, but it was there. He'd chosen a life of loneliness for a long time, but he could change his mind—and would—for the woman he trusted, wanted, and loved.

Asten's eyes snapped open as realization dawned on him. He was in love with his daughter's governess.

Except she was so much more than just a governess. In the short weeks that she'd been in his home, she'd taken charge and put his life back in order with him hardly noticing. She'd brought him and his daughter closer and showed him the damage that Lady Laughlin had tried to do to Eleanora. She'd opened his eyes and opened his heart. She'd made him see that he—a man of thirty-eight—was in love for the very first time.

He loved her, and he would marry her if she'd have him.

He felt her stir against his chest as his decision bloomed through him like the breaking dawn. Tomorrow he would ask her—no doubt having to convince her that it wasn't in jest. If he knew Mary, she'd protest that the idea was insanity. She was far too practical for flights of fancy, and he could be almost certain that it had never crossed her mind that he might fall for her. He'd have to convince her that he was earnest because the alternative was losing her, and he didn't think he could survive that.