The Governess Was Wanton (4 page)

Silence stretched between them. He hated the unreadable look on Miss Woodward's face, but he also loathed the idea that he might be neglectful enough to place Eleanora in the care of a woman who was actively hurting her chances at happiness.

Miss Woodward finally broke the tension. “I understand. If you'll excuse me, I should make sure that Lady Eleanora is ready for her lesson with you,
sir,
” she said, the last word practically iced over.

He didn't want this distance between them. He couldn't quite explain why, but it was very important to him that Miss Woodward like him and trust him as much as he already trusted her. It was a dangerous prospect, given the way his body reacted to her with a force he hadn't felt in years, but in that moment, nothing seemed more important.

He shot to his feet just as she turned to leave. Without thinking, his hand fell on her wrist. A charge bolted through him as skin connected with skin. It was like standing in the middle of a lightning storm, feet rooted to the ground and unable to do a damn thing about it.

He peered down at Miss Woodward, hoping to God she felt it too. That he wasn't the only one who seemed unable to shake this insanity.

Her lips parted, and her eyes fixed on the spot where his hand circled her wrist. Yes. She
must
feel the same low swoop of desire that had settled in his chest.

“Miss Woodward,” he started softly.

She tilted her head back, bringing those open lips tantalizingly close to his. It would be nothing to close the gap between them—just a little bend of the knees and a tilt of his head. Then he could taste the rose of her lips, relishing the slide of them against his. She was bold enough she would kiss him back immediately—he felt certain of it. Or maybe she'd slide her tongue into his mouth and stroke it over his, tempting him to deepen the kiss, indulging in this passion that seemed to pull them along like a current.

There was so much to learn about this woman. He wanted to know the soft give of her hips when he dug his fingers into them and the weight of her unbound breasts in his hands. He wished he could shuck off her clothing, peel away all the bothersome layers she wore until she was laid bare before him. But mostly he ached to bury himself deep in her, her muscles clenching around him, urging him on.

It had been so long since he'd wanted a woman with this force. When his wife died, his daughter had become the center of his world. He'd had no desire to remarry after the unhappy mess of his union with Lucinda. Eleanora, therefore, would have no mother, so he'd decided that it was his responsibility to make sure that she never wanted. While most of his friends from Eton were still carousing, he'd thrown himself into finding the best nurse and then the best governess. Instead of women or horses or cards, he'd preoccupied himself with teaching Eleanora how to ride and fish between sessions with his estate manager and his man of business. He didn't regret any of it, but standing so close to a beautiful woman made him wonder if maybe he should have made time for passion.

Miss Woodward's tongue darted out to wet her lips, and he wondered if delicious, dirty thoughts were flitting through her active mind. Had someone ever kissed her? Ever made her feel like she was the most important woman in the world? The
only
woman?

This is wrong.

His thumb skimmed the bare skin of her wrist. It was the only touch he would get, and he'd have to treasure it. He couldn't have Miss Woodward. He couldn't stoop to his father's level, lifting the skirts of servants and women who weren't free to say no. She deserved more than that, and so did he.

“Lord Asten,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “will you please let me pass?”

He dropped her hand as though it was a white-hot poker. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” she said, dipping her head so that he could no longer read her expression.

“I apologize. I shouldn't have laid a hand on you.”

Nor should I have imagined what it would be like to have you bent over the sofa's arm.

“That's quite all right.” She stepped gingerly around him, but stopped when she reached the door and cast a look back over her shoulder. “I will send Lady Eleanora to your study if you still wish to see her this morning.”

He couldn't help his disappointment that this was why she'd stopped. “Of course, thank you.”

She screwed up her lips as though to say something else, but shook her head instead. Then she was gone.

Chapter Four

Mary sat with her head against the tufted back of a sofa and a cup of tea in her hand. It had been just six days since she'd taken her new position in Lord Asten's home and she was absolutely worn out.

“Is your new family working you too hard?”

She glanced over at Mrs. Edward Fellows—formerly Miss Elizabeth Porter—upon whose furniture she was currently sprawled. Lazing about a woman's drawing room like a six-year-old boy was the height of indecency right up there with being caught kissing on a balcony, losing the rhythm of a waltz, and eating one's salad with a fish fork, but they'd been friends for so long it hardly mattered.

“It's been exhausting, thank you for asking,” she said.

“More tea?” her friend asked, holding up a white china teapot painted with swooping swallows.

“Please.” She raised her cup without bothering to sit up.

“You're never this tired,” said the third woman in the room, Jane Ephram. The pretty blonde was curled up on a wide chair as best as a woman wearing a corset could curl. “Is Lady Eleanora particularly difficult?”

She shook her head, happy that they'd taken to alternating their teas between Mrs. Salver's Tea Shop in Pimlico and Elizabeth's drawing room. The house offered them more privacy.

“Lady Eleanora hasn't been problematic at all. In fact, we seem to be getting along well since I dispatched a rather pesky family friend on my first day. The way Lady Eleanora talks about it, you'd think I slayed a dragon.”

“You could give Saint George some competition,” said Elizabeth with a grin.

She lifted her teacup in a salute. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“And there's been nothing else wearing you out?” Jane asked with a frown.

She shrugged. “Not that I can think of.”

Except that was a bald-faced lie. Mary knew exactly what the matter was. How could she not be exhausted after spending six days on edge, doing her very best to avoid the man under whose roof she was living? At least the sentiment seemed to be mutual. Lord Asten had been home so little, his daughter wondered which bills before the House of Lords required this much of his attention.

When they did meet, Mary and the earl spent most of their days dancing around one another with a perfect imitation of curtsies, bows, and trite words. And yet there was no denying the tension that was spread as thin as new ice between them.

She'd been certain that he'd wanted to kiss her right after she'd shared her theory about Lady Laughlin being the source of Lady Eleanora's troubles. He'd grabbed her wrist, his touch gentle yet firm, and stopped her from leaving the drawing room. The mere feel of his ungloved fingers on her exposed skin had sent heat blooming through her chest until it settled hot and heavy between her thighs. Her lips had parted almost wantonly as she peered up at him, losing herself in the depths of his moss-green eyes. Her breath had become shallow and more urgent as the promise of a kiss—or perhaps more—stretched before her.

But nothing.

Lord Asten had done nothing. Not pull her to him. Not kiss her. He hadn't even increased the pressure on her wrist to give her any sign that he shared the desire that overwhelmed her. He didn't want her and she shouldn't want him, so she stepped away to break free from the insanity that momentarily convinced her that kissing her employer—an earl—was a good idea.

Just thinking about it made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and Mary wasn't the sort of woman who was inclined to blush.

It was foolish to read into things that weren't there. Only governesses too green to know any better would believe for one moment that a man of Lord Asten's standing would ever be interested in them. And if he was, he was guaranteed to want nothing more than the sort of dalliance that ruined good women.

Mary hadn't built up a reputation fourteen years strong to throw it away because a handsome earl sent her blood pumping hot. She'd avoided Lord Goleway's groping hands and Sir Blum's lecherous suggestions. She'd frozen out uppity first sons down from Oxford who thought nothing of chasing her around a billiard table and trying to kiss her for sport. On more than one occasion, she'd ripped up besotted couplets sent by boys who still had their spots but thought to practice their lovemaking on their sisters' governess. None of them had ever tempted her. She didn't know why Lord Asten was so different, but she was determined not to fall into his trap no matter how much she wanted to.

“What's Lord Asten like?” Elizabeth asked, as though she knew exactly who occupied Mary's thoughts. “He isn't one of Edward's patients.”

“I'll see if I can gently suggest the family change physicians,” she said.

“That would be most appreciated,” said Elizabeth with a crooked little grin. “I've been wanting new drapes in this room.”

She looked about at the pale blue window treatments. “I quite like them. What color would you choose instead?”

“What you're doing is called stalling, Mary,” Jane said.

“It does seem like it,” Elizabeth agreed with a nod.

“I'm not putting anything off,” she said, scrunching up her nose.

“So why are you so eager to talk about window hangings and not Lord Asten? Usually you're all too happy to tell us stories about your employers,” Jane said.

“I hope those stories don't make their way out of this room,” she said a little peevishly.

“Definitely avoiding,” said Elizabeth with a decisive nod of her head. “I think I'll withhold the cakes until she confesses.”

“You wouldn't—” She broke off when her hostess did indeed move the iced confections. “It's cruel to deprive a woman of food.”

“I was a governess once too,” Elizabeth said. “I know all the tricks to get misbehaving children to cooperate.”

“I'm not a child.”

Both of her friends shot her looks.

“Fine,” she said in a huff. “Lord Asten is far too attractive for his own good. Are you happy now?”

Her friends both gave unladylike whoops of delight and collapsed into a pile of giggles. Mary just frowned. “I don't see what's so funny.”

“Do you remember how much you teased me about Edward?” Elizabeth asked in gasps through her laughter.

“I can't recall,” she said rather primly, even though she knew exactly what her friend was going on about. She'd been relentless, but only because Mary knew that Elizabeth was more than a little enamored of Edward. But even as wonderful as Mary's friends both were, their path from first kiss to wedding bells had had more than its fair share of bumps along the way. Elizabeth had lost her position after being caught in a very willing but very compromising situation with the doctor. Finally he'd asked her to marry him, not just because it was the right thing to do, but because of the strength of his love for her and hers for him.

The gap between governess and physician was wide but not insurmountable. Mary had no such illusions the same held true when it came to an earl. Even if Lord Asten did want her, he wouldn't want her in
that
way. Peers had affairs with governesses, they didn't marry them. It simply wasn't done.

But there was no telling her friends that.

“Does your pulse quicken every time he walks into a room?” Jane asked dramatically.

“Hardly.”
Sometimes.

“Does the sight of his jet-black hair make your fingers itch to muss it?” Elizabeth asked.

“Not at all. And his hair isn't jet black,” she said peevishly.

“What color is it?” Jane asked.

“Brownish.”

Elizabeth pulled a face. “Brownish? That's too normal to be romantic.”

“You're the one who's trying to make him into a hero in one of your novels,” Mary said.

“Is the earl truly that handsome?” Jane asked.

“He is,” she said, knowing that if either of her friends ever caught a glimpse of the man there would be no way of denying it. “He's also the father of my charge.”

Both of her companions—one a former governess and the other still holding a position—sobered at the reminder that there was a young lady's education and Mary's position on the line.

“Does Lady Eleanora have a particular gentleman in her sights?” asked Jane, deftly steering the subject to safer ground. “I know it's her first season.”

“That's what I intend to find out,” Mary said.

That thought preoccupied her on her walk back to Belgravia after tea. Except when she arrived at No. 12 Belgrave Square, she found herself caught in the middle of a row between father and daughter.

Mary was taking off her hat when she heard an upstairs door slam followed by the pounding of footsteps.

“Oh dear,” she muttered as she tucked her hatpin neatly into the brim of her bonnet.

Warthing, who had opened the door for her, frowned. “Perhaps, Miss Woodward, you would be so good as to visit Lord Asten in his study.”

Another door crashed open and the sounds of the earl bellowing, “Eleanora, wait!” drifted down the stairs to them.

“Are you sure he's still in the study?” she asked.

Warthing grimaced.

“I'll find Lord Asten,” she reassured the man, handing him her coat and picking up her skirts to climb the stairs with hurried steps.

Finding the earl and his daughter wasn't difficult. They were faced off in the middle of the gallery. Lady Eleanora looked as though she was about to cry, while Lord Asten was visibly frustrated. All around them, their ancestors peered down from smoky portraits with marked expressions of disapproval on stony painted faces.

“I don't want to go to the masque,” Lady Eleanora cried.

“It was all you could talk about just two months ago, and now you don't even want to look at your dress. Why?” Lord Asten asked, fists clenched at his sides and his teeth gritted.

“Because I don't want to!” the young lady cried as she spun around. She stopped short, however, as soon as she saw Mary. “Miss Woodward, you wouldn't make me attend a ball I didn't want to go to, would you?”

Oh dear.

“I'm not entirely sure what we're speaking of,” Mary said carefully, looking from daughter to father and back again. “Would you mind enlightening me?”

“Eleanora's dress was delivered this afternoon,” said the earl. “Now she tells me she no longer has a need for it. She doesn't want to attend the ball.”

“I don't want any season at all,” said Lady Eleanora in a rather petty tone.

That was very hard to believe. In the last six days, Lady Eleanora had been to three dinners, an opera, and two dances. She'd donned two new gowns from London's most fashionable modiste, Madame Modrian, which she'd relished showing Mary. However, to Mary's knowledge, Lady Laughlin had only been at one of those outings—the opera—which wasn't the sort of social event where young ladies vied for the attention of bachelors as openly.

Mary was becoming more convinced day by day that she was right about Lady Laughlin.

“Forgive me, Lady Eleanora, but I doubt you'd want to deprive yourself of all aspects of the season,” she said gently.

The words weren't the balm she'd hoped they'd be. Instead, the young lady turned on her father. “I hate that you're making me do these things.”

“I thought you enjoyed dancing,” Lord Asten ground out, casting a look Mary's way that could only have been read as
Do you see what I'm dealing with?

She had no doubt he was fully competent in most areas of his life, whether delivering a speech in Parliament or shooting grouse. He could probably fence, ride, and debate the merits of Kant's theory of perception in German. But Lord Asten had a weakness: a seventeen-year-old woman in the middle of her first fraught season was a mystery to him.

“Tell me what it is you want, Eleanora. If it's in my power, I'll make it so,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair.

Lady Eleanora shook her head.

“I can't make things better if you don't tell me what's the matter,” he said.

“I just want it to be you and me again,” Lady Eleanora whispered. “I want things to go back to the way they were.”

The earl's hand fell limp at his side, and Mary watched his frustration melt away, leaving behind only hurt and defeat. Her heart ached for the man who had raised a daughter himself, knowing that he must be thinking about the fact that there was no longer much time for them together. Lady Eleanora's betrothal—whenever it came—would change everything. She'd move out of his home. She'd stop being his little girl.

The young lady let herself be tugged toward her father and wrapped up into a hug. The simple, raw display of affection moved Mary. She should slip out of the gallery and leave them to their moment, but she didn't have Warthing's talent for discreetly disappearing.

Lord Asten leaned down and kissed the top of his daughter's head before smoothing one of her curls into place again. “Unfortunately, things can't stay the same. You're growing up.”

“I know,” Lady Eleanora murmured.

“I know that you don't enjoy the season the way that some girls do.”

“It isn't that—” The young woman stopped herself.

“What is it?” he asked his daughter.

“Please, can I find another chaperone? Miss Woodward can be my chaperone.” Lady Eleanora was practically begging now.

“I'm afraid that's not how it works,” Mary said. Perhaps a few of the more understanding hostesses would have allowed her to come to small, informal gatherings, but that wouldn't be enough. She was a governess, and governesses didn't do the season.

“You need a lady who understands how these things work,” Lord Asten said. “I know Lady Laughlin can be a little high-handed, but surely she can't be that bad.”

The girl wrenched away out of his grasp, her father's words seemingly breaking the spell of reconciliation between them. “You don't understand a thing,” Lady Eleanora half sobbed as she rushed from the gallery, leaving her father and her governess standing in silence as they watched her last ruffle swirl out the door.