Governesses Under The Mistletoe: The Runaway Governess / The Governess's Secret Baby

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‘The two of you are quite close and I’m sure you know all there is to know of him and only wish to learn my thoughts on the matter. I assure you, I feel the deepest loyalty to William Balfour.’

He grinned in response. ‘My loyalty to him comes and goes, and I know it is not possible yet for you to have found out all the cracks and crevices in our world.’

‘I would like to never find them out. So you may keep your silence.’

‘Ah, Cousin. You speak the impossible.’ He handed her a lemon drink, which surprised her as she expected him to give her the punch. ‘I was merely a pawn in the elders’ plan to shake William into the game of producing an heir. William may have let it slip to Mother that he never, ever intended to go through the uncertainty of watching children mature and having the responsibility. He may have felt that Harriet’s birth contributed to his mother’s illness. Everyone else thought so.’

‘Your mother would scheme so?’

‘It is not scheming—it is her family concern. She feels she didn’t assist William enough when his mother died and she is making it correct now.’

The pianoforte sounded and the violinists began. Sylvester stepped closer so he could hear her.

Isabel took in a breath. ‘He was hardly more than a child when his mother died. He couldn’t have been expected to handle it all on his own. And yet I understand he certainly did much of it.’

‘I would say he did all of it. Including the care of his father. The Viscount was near bedfast after the death just because he could not go on. My own mother had her hands full with her family and could not help. William had three sisters. Grieving.’

‘He grieved, too.’

‘I doubt his sisters let him.’ Assured words.

She indicated a glass of the drink for him, but he shook his head.

‘William often confided to me he expected never to marry,’ he said, ‘and part of that was because he wished never to have the worries of children. When I heard you were trained as a governess, the marriage made sense. A woman experienced in care for little ones. William has said to me many times that he managed his sisters and he does not wish to become a parent again. After Harriet got lost in the woods, I heard his recriminations to himself. When Sophia noted how dashing the foxed soldier was and thought he might need a wife to write to, William rushed straight to Mother to get her help. He now has enlisted her assistance on getting the other two wed also. Said she had had good luck with Sophia’s marriage.’

She could not follow his conversation well because her mind had fixed on the first part of it. ‘I don’t think that my training as a governess mattered.’

‘I would not bet the stables on that. Not that I do not think any man would find you appealing for a wife.’ His cheeks reddened. ‘But William was sincere in his intention not to wed. But I can see—’ His face brightened more and he reached for the glass nearest and gulped down some of the lemon drink. Made a face and looked at the glass and swallowed as if trying to get the last vestiges from his taste. ‘A governess. A person to care for the children. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes. But, he is close to his sisters.’

‘In a distant way. He is nearer Sophia now that she has married and has a husband to care for her. If you’ll note, even the horses, Marvel and Ivory, were at his father’s home. William prefers a wide swathe around him.’

‘Thank you for keeping your cousin’s confidences.’

‘I have,’ he said, leaving and tossing a wink her way. ‘With family.’

He moved to the outer doors where William now stood and both began talking.

She didn’t doubt a word Sylvester said. William had put some distance between himself and everyone else. It could have started when his mother died, or when he realised she was sick. Or earlier. It didn’t matter.

Isabel took the lemon drink, finished it and noted the punch with reluctance. She was not sure how it had been mixed. She had heard the drinks ladies mixed for themselves often had more strength than what might be found in the men’s glasses.

Isabel reached for a drink. The punch had its use. She was stranded in a sea of jewellery and wanted something to float about on.

On her first day at what she’d then called Madame Dubois’s School for Abandoned Young Ladies, her parents had done exactly the same. They had introduced her, smiled all around and then she’d been on her own.

Her mother had made her leave her doll at home, telling her that she was all grown up. She didn’t know what had happened to that plaything, but it would be nice to have her now, except, she supposed, the punch was the more mature version.

The liquid slid into her stomach, marking progress with heat. No, she’d never had any drink mixed quite so liberally. Putting the rim of the glass to her lips, she took an even tinier sip than before. Oh, she could quite shake the jewellery if she wished to.

More dancing. The music was quite good. The dancers were quite accomplished. The world was quite perfect around her. Just like the first day of school. Society, even a children’s one, didn’t allow cowering in the corner. Sipping very, very slowly, she examined the room, ignoring the glittery baubles.

This event was to set the stage for the rest of her life. She smiled and replaced the glass, reminding herself that no one could see beyond a confident smile into quivering insides.

Something bumped her from behind and she turned, a turban brushing her face. White hair straggled from the head-covering and one eye had a milky frost and the other a clear chill.

‘Pardon.’ The woman spoke. ‘I have no time for proper introductions. One of my many faults. Not that I have many.’ She looked to her right. ‘You’re not dancing. You should, you know. Does wonders for the complexion. I swear by it.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m at least eighty and I don’t look a day over seventy-eight.’

‘I would agree.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Isabel Balfour. I am married to the Viscount’s son. He is—’

‘Wait.’ The woman raised a hand, stopping the words. Her gloves swallowed her thin arms. ‘You may call me Lady Howell. If you forget, just think of a dog and its bark and then its howl at the moon.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘That’s how I remember it.’

She looked at Isabel’s stomach. ‘And are you increasing?’

‘No. No.’ Isabel narrowed her eyes, whispering.

‘Well, you better get your mind to it,’ the older woman said, voice strident. ‘That’s your duty now. Heirs.’ She put a gnarled finger out. ‘I had six in the first six years of marriage. Not many can carry that feat off. The trick is that the first one was very early—very early.’ She leaned in and grinned. ‘The second—I wasted no time.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Three and four, twins. Five, well, what can I say, I had too much wine in celebration of finding a wet nurse for the twins. By six I put my foot down and said, I’d done my duty. I told Lord Howell to keep his distance. He howled.’ She patted Isabel’s arm. ‘My favourite thing to tell people is how Howell howled. He never recovered fully.’

‘I do think it would be nice to have children.’

The woman’s lips tightened and her lower jaw jutted forward as she appraised Isabel. ‘I recommend you stop at three. By the fourth child, they tend to put a strain on your temper.’ She turned away.

Isabel heard her mumble as she left. ‘The little chit cannot carry on a conversation.’

Then Lady Howell walked up to another sea of jewellery. The music ended and words jumped out from within the room. ‘William Balfour’s wife doesn’t know her place in society.’ All the faces turned Isabel’s way.

The musicians even stared at her. How could they know who the woman spoke of? But apparently they did. They’d probably played at many soirées for the same people. This world was no bigger than a teacup and she was being examined as a speck in the bottom of the cup.

William stepped to her elbow and took her hand to pull it to his lips, then tuck it at his arm. ‘Yes, she does know her place, Lady Howell. It is at my side.’ He shot a look at the musicians and the next song began softly, easing the silence. ‘Now we must be leaving, Lady Howell. Duties await us.’

* * *

He stood by his bed, hand on the post. He hadn’t known the right words to say in the carriage and he suspected there weren’t any. At least not that he could think of.

Leaving her alone at the soirée had been a mistake, but he’d been trying to get those horses—which could have waited.

He wanted to make it up to her. Neither of them deserved what had happened. At least she didn’t. Society was not always easy for women who didn’t live in it from birth.

Isabel shouldn’t be belittled, except perhaps for keeping that ridiculously small bed.

Ridiculously small.

Somehow it had become a battlement. A territorial stake of some sort that he didn’t understand. Why, the whole house was hers to command. Everything but his personal effects. And the valet. And the butler. But he wasn’t certain she quite understood about the butler.

He pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. His boots were already put away. Reaching for his dressing gown, he placed it over the back of a chair and moved to the hallway.

‘Isabel...’ he opened the door and stuck his head in, inhaling the scent of roses and soaps ‘...it’s too early to sleep.’

‘No it’s not. Not for me. Go away.’ She rolled, putting her back to him. ‘I have a headache that starts at my feet and goes straight to my forehead. The slippers were too tight.’

He left the door open. Moving to a chair, he picked it up and placed it closer to the bed. He sat, clasped his fingers lightly and stretched his legs, one foot moving to her counterpane. His heel rested at a covered mound which hid her leg.

‘I know you’re here for your duty,’ she said.

‘If I must, I must.’

He moved his feet to the floor, scooted his chair closer and pulled the cover from her foot and took it in his hands. Warm and delicate. She slid her foot aside, but he caught it. Covering her foot with his grasp, he kneaded the bottom with both thumbs. Her foot tilted towards him.

He pressed against each muscle, easing away tension, rubbing over the skin, soothing it.

‘That is better than a warm bath,’ she said.

He reached out, caressing the other toes with the same care. ‘Is your headache any better?’

‘I had thought not to wear those slippers again, but I do like the colour and if you could do this afterwards, I might keep them. Would save you the cost of another pair.’

‘But is your headache any better?’

‘I am not sure.’

He continued, sweeping his hands to ankles, kneading and rubbing. ‘I suppose it will take me a while to get there, but I shall.’ He continued sweeping his hands just above her heels. ‘But not in that bed.’

‘So,’ she said. ‘You will not do your duty while I am in this bed.’

He nudged her foot. ‘Duty. That word is hideous.’ He stood. ‘Move over.’

‘I thought you said...’

‘Duty has nothing to do with it. Share the mattress.’

‘There is not room in this bed for two people. It only holds me.’

‘I noticed. Give me some room.’ One knee on the bed, he wedged himself in beside her, tossing the covers away and rolling her to face him. ‘See, it holds two people, except for my feet.’ He moved one leg up and draped it over her thigh and adjusted close. The same delicate scent he’d noticed when he’d walked into the room engulfed him. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the soirée. I didn’t either.’

‘I thought Lady Howell’s invitation sincere.’

‘It was—for her. If it makes you feel better, she has called me a tosspot and I believe she called my father a lovestruck chit.’

‘It doesn’t. Now I feel sad for you and your father. Well, for your father.’ She snuggled. ‘Are you a tosspot?’

‘Who knows?’ He shrugged.

Chapter Eleven (#u78212290-4284-5ab4-b0a7-d53d12028463)

Arms tightened around her, embracing her so completely she could feel nothing but maleness and heartbeats. A wall of strength caressing her with the lightest touch. She’d never felt so safe.

Her hand clasped his side, over the cloth of his shirt, and her fingertips brushed back and forth, the friction the cloth created under her hand bringing his skin alive to her touch. ‘Do you think you are a tosspot?’

‘You are intent on that question.’

‘And you do not wish to answer.’

His chest moved with a slow intake of breath, giving her room to get closer and yet, when he breathed out, she remained burrowed against him. ‘I drink more than many, but not as much as I did. Several years ago, I noticed my friends were sotted every night and I was there as often as not.’

The room was silent before he continued, his words pulling her inside his thoughts. ‘I wondered if I could go a fortnight without drink. On the sixth day, I was at the club and the scent of spirits lingered in the air so much I could think of nothing else. I was surrounded by desire for it. I ached for it.’

He stopped speaking. She pressed at his side. ‘Well?’

‘Sylvester put a drink in front of me and I sat with it for hours. But I refused. I went to Sophia’s and slept a few hours until morning and then drank chocolate while I waited for her to wake. I drank possibly three glasses in three hours of waiting for my sister who’d decided to sleep in. Luckily, her cook makes very good chocolate.’

‘I didn’t like it so well as what the cook makes here. Your sister’s burns the mouth.’

‘Ah, yes. It’s very good.’

‘Did you finish the fortnight?’

‘Of course. I didn’t doubt it. I refused to let my want for it overcome what I truly desired and my biggest want was to be in control of the liquid. I didn’t have to drink. Since then I have not felt as if it matters so much whether I have drink or not. On occasion, I even have a child’s drink called milk. I have also discovered that one of my servants can take a jug to a home just outside of town and find water that tastes wondrous and refreshes my thirst better than anything. It is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’ He laughed. ‘I can be as particular about the water I drink as some men are about their brandy. Makes all the difference. Even the tea is better.’