My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) (9 page)

“Help me,” she cried and threw her arms around his neck.

Awkwardly, he sat on the edge of the bed and held her close. She was warm and pliant in his arms. He caressed her back and buried his face in the fragrant softness of her hair.

“There, there, my love. It’s all right. You are safe.” He crooned to her as he might have comforted his daughter.

But this was no child in his arms. And no other woman had ever felt so absolutely right there, either. He pressed his lips against the warm flesh of her temple. “It’s all right. You are safe,” he repeated.

He knew the instant she wakened. He felt her stiffen and pull back, though he still held her.

“My lord?” There was a note of wonder in her voice and her eyes still held a trace of the terror of moments before. Her breath was soft against his cheek.

“It’s all right. You were having a bad dream.” He pulled her closer and just held her gently until he felt her begin to relax. He nudged her chin up and gazed into her eyes. “All right now?” he asked. She nodded, but continued to hold his gaze. Unable to stop himself, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips were soft and warm with sleep. Then he felt her arms tighten around his neck and she was responding to his kiss with a degree of passion and intensity and sweetness he had never experienced before.

Simultaneously, they drew apart.

“Elinor?” he whispered. He fought for self-control as every instinct cried at him to take her in his arms and make mad, wonderful love with her.

He watched as a fascinating array of emotions swept across her features. The fear was replaced by joy, then apprehension, and, finally, embarrassment.

“I apologize, Miss Palmer. I had no right to do that.”

“I ... what are you ... how ... ?” She stammered incoherently.

“You had a bad dream.... I was checking on the children.... Your door was open.” He was surprised at his own stammering.

“Yes ... chasing me again. Two of them this time. And he was there to grab me....”

“Who was chasing you? Who grabbed you?”

“Lord Pen—uh, two men. And there was another ... he held me ... I could not get away . . .” She buried her face in her hands.

He patted her shoulder, feeling decidedly awkward now.

“You have this dream often?”

“I ...” He watched in admiration as she seemed to come fully to herself again. She visibly braced her shoulders, an action that drew his attention to her breasts. Noting the direction of his gaze, she clutched the night dress closer. “I had it in London. It stopped at the Abbey.”

“And now it has returned?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What triggered it?”

“I ... do not know, my lord.” She looked away from him.

She is not telling the truth,
he thought. But why? Why would she lie about a dream?

Both of them were silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Bess? Is she all right? I should have looked in on her. I left our doors ajar. I did not hear her—”

“She’s fine. Nurse just saw to her.” He stood and lit her bedside candle with the one he had brought. He felt like an awkward schoolboy.

“Umm. Miss Palmer.” She looked up at him and he was nearly undone once more by those expressive eyes. “Again. I—I apologize. I quite forgot myself. Good night.”

She nodded her acceptance of his apology.

He strode to the door and opened it, looking back at her. She still sat there, her white childlike night dress clutched around an unchildlike torso. She returned his gaze with a tentative smile.

“Good night,” she said.

He stepped through the door and pulled it shut.

And nearly ran smack into the Dowager Lady Grimsley.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Lord Trenville. I came to check on my son.” She seemed somewhat distracted. “His nurse sent word he suffered an upset stomach.” She looked at the door he had just exited and then she looked away.

“I take it your son is all right?” He was determined to act naturally.

“Oh, yes. Merely too many sweets, I think.”

“Shall I escort you back to your chamber then, my lady?” he asked, just as though he were not standing in his shirtsleeves after midnight in front of the governess’s room.

“Thank you, my lord.” She cast one more significant look at the recently closed door before accompanying him down the hall.

 

 

Elinor sat in the middle of her bed, thoroughly awake now—and thoroughly bemused.

The dream had been different. This time the two heavy-footed pursuers and the figure at the end of the corridor took shape as her uncle who grabbed her and held her while two sets of snake-like hands groped at her body.

Just when the fear threatened to choke her completely, she was being rescued. She felt Adrian’s arms around her and she melted into their safety and the comforting sound of his voice. This was a new and wonderful end to the dream. For the first time since hearing of her father’s death, she felt safe. And protected. And cherished.

But of course that, too, was a dream.

And the kiss? Was she going to tell herself that was also part of her dream? She touched her lips with her fingertips, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers. No, the kiss had definitely been real, but it would not do to make too much of it. Had he not immediately been contrite, already regretting his action? She was embarrassed by her ardent response. Well, she had conjectured some weeks ago she would react to his kiss like a wanton. And that was precisely what she had done.

When he questioned her about the dream, she had been sorely tempted to unburden herself to him. No. That would never do. She must proceed as she had begun. The truth could be very damaging to a man of Trenville’s position. Nor did she want to see his respect and friendship turn into disgust and contempt when he learned of her deceit.

She buried herself in the bedclothes as though to insulate herself from her own unpleasant thoughts.

The dream did not come again that night.

 

 

Adrian hoped Lady Grimsley’s sense of discretion would lead her to quell her propensity for gossip, especially about the man she wished to become her son-in-law The next day, he knew this hope was in vain. During the gathering in the drawing room for tea, he sensed that several guests took extraordinary interest in Miss Palmer and himself, often looking from one to the other. When the party assembled there after dinner, it was even worse.

At one point, he saw Lord Everdon lean over the back of the settee on which Miss Palmer sat with another lady. Everdon whispered something to Miss Palmer that caused an immediate flood of color to her cheeks. Everdon appeared to take great delight in her reaction. Shortly thereafter she arose to excuse herself for the evening.

The next morning, after a vigorous ride with several of the gentlemen guests, Adrian sent a message asking the governess to meet him in the Wallenford library. He was leaning against the mantel, staring unseeing at the fire when she came in. He turned at her greeting.

“You wanted to see me, my lord?”

“Yes.”

She waited for him to go on.

“Miss Palmer, I hardly know how to begin.” He paused to gather his thoughts. Her eyes held his, a questioning look in them. “About the other night ...”

Her eyes revealed immediately her recollection and he saw the color begin to rise from her neckline.

“Please, my lord, there is no need to apologize again.”

“Perhaps I should do so, but that is not why I asked to see you.”

She looked her question.

“As I left your room, I encountered Lady Grimsley.”

“I do not understand.”

“She saw me come out of your room.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. ‘Oh.’ She did not say anything to me about it, but I believe now she has mentioned it to others.”

“So ...
that
is why Lord Everdon . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Why he what? Has he been harassing you?”

“No more than ...” She stopped abruptly.

“No more than usual? He is bothering you then. I shall put a stop to it immediately.” Adrian was glad to have something he could actually do.

“No, please, my lord. I would rather you did not make an issue of his behavior. I am confident he is merely ... teasing me.”

“Teasing? Miss Palmer, you need not tolerate offensive behavior from guests in this house.” No, merely to being mauled by the heir, he thought ruefully.

“Please, my lord,” she repeated, “I think it best if you do not make too much of it. I can handle Lord Everdon.”

“As you wish, my dear,” he said, the endearment slipping out unbidden. “But that is not the worst of it, I think, Miss Palmer,” he said more brusquely.

“Then ... ?”

“You are overlooking Lady Grimsley. She saw me leaving your room. Your reputation will be in shreds.”

“Oh....” She looked thoughtful for a moment then gave a bitter little laugh. “I doubt that is of any consequence. After all, the governess is frequently a target of unwelcome advances in upper-class households, is she not?”

He felt the color flooding his own face. “Not in my family. Usually. And I
have
apologized. It will not happen again.”

“I did not mean ...” She put her hand to her lips. “What I meant to say was you need not worry about the reputation of a governess.”

“Miss Palmer—”

She interrupted him. “Once these people return to their own homes, they will not even remember the Trenville governess had a name.”

“Perhaps ...” He sounded dubious.

“Present company excepted, do
you
recall the name of the last governess you met?”

“Hmm. Addington employed her.” A nondescript face tried to take form in his mind, but there was no name for it. Finally, he shrugged in defeat.

“There. You see? It is not
my
reputation these people will discuss—but yours. And I have never known a gentleman’s name to suffer unduly when his liaisons with a woman become known.”

 

 

Adrian was himself summoned for the next interview he had with a woman. As he dutifully reported to his mother’s sitting room, he was sure he knew what was on her mind.

“Lady Grimsley imparted some rather interesting information to me yesterday.” The duchess was clearly not pleased.

“She wasted little time carrying her tale to you.” Adrian made no attempt to circumvent the issue, nor to hide his disgust of the tale-bearer.

“She was concerned for her daughter.”

“You mean her son, don’t you?”

“No. Her daughter. Apparently, Merrilee was quite distraught to hear about you and Miss Palmer.”

“ ‘To hear about me and Miss Palmer’?” His tone was flat. “And from whence came this distressing information?”

“Why, from her own mother.”

“Who misunderstood what she saw.”

“Then you do admit she saw you leaving the Palmer woman’s room? Oh, Adrian, how could you?”

“Mother, I have no intention of trying to justify myself to the likes of Lady Grimsley. But I will explain to
you
—once.” He gave her an edited version of what had happened, carefully omitting the kiss and his own confused emotions. The duchess listened patiently.

“Well, be that as it may, son, Merrilee is in a rare taking. Says she will not entertain your suit until you dismiss the governess.”

“She might have waited for me to offer.”

“She is young—and impetuous. She is also hurt and embarrassed.”

“I am sorry for any person who feels herself humiliated, but in this case, I refuse to take the blame.”

“But, Adrian, you have been dangling after the girl these weeks. Of course she feels as she does.”

“No, Mother, I have
not
been ‘dangling after her.’ I know that was your wish. And Lady Grimsley’s.”

“And Merrilee’s. You have done nothing to discourage those wishes.”

“I was willing—in part because I knew you wanted it so—to entertain the notion that we might suit.”

“And you would.”

“No, Mother.” His tone was gently patient. “We would not. I will not be offering for the Lady Merrilee and you may so inform her mother, if you wish.”

“Because of Miss Palmer.”

“Miss Palmer has nothing to do with it.” Here he was, lying to his mother. Certainly, Miss Palmer had some part in this decision, but how much of a role did she play?

“I hope you are not fooling yourself in that regard.”

So do I, Mother. So do I
. But he did not say this aloud.

The Marquis of Trenville returned his family to Whitsun Abbey during the first week of January. Huntington had returned to the Abbey earlier, shortly after Christmas, to finish reorganizing the library. Adrian praised his work and promptly enlisted the secretary’s aid in drafting a series of letters and other documents. Many of these dealt with the business of various estates.

Two pressing matters of government also demanded attention. One was the somewhat delicate state of the Prince Regent’s marriage and the split this private problem caused in public circles. Many an Englishman sympathized with the Prince of Wales, saddled as he was with a vulgar, flamboyant wife. Others felt Princess Caroline to be the injured party, victim of an abusive, womanizing husband. Each camp had its share of cynical opportunists seeking to make political hay—and to feed the gossip mills.

In Adrian’s view, the behavior of both the Prince and his wife was deplorable. But he
was
the Prince of Wales. Any attempt to change his status as regent could be disastrous for the nation. England had been at war for two generations now—first with the debacle in the Colonies and then the long European campaign against Napoleon and a second foray against the Americans. The resulting economic and social unrest needed no additional fuel.

“In view of the situation, and in the interest of stability, I hope, my lord, you will support the position of the current government,” he dictated to his secretary. “Then end it with the usual closing.”

“Nasty bit of business, this,” Huntington commented.

“Yes. It is unfortunate that the Prince’s bedroom problems spill onto the streets of London.”

“Is it likely to affect our negotiations abroad?”

“No reason it should.”

“Still, juicy bit like this must be grist for the gossip mills in Vienna. I should think it would make the English negotiators’ job more difficult” Huntington closed his notepad and rose.

“The negotiators on all sides are professional diplomats. Prinny’s problems must seem minor next to Russia’s court intrigues and the turmoil in French circles.” Adrian handed Huntington a sheet of paper. “Here is the list for that letter. Can you have the copies made by this evening? I want them in the post tomorrow.”

“It is urgent then?”

“Could be. Though not as long as
he
stays in Brighton and
she
stays in Italy.”

Huntington chuckled. “I guess that is one way to solve wife problems. Instead of separate bedchambers, the Prince chooses separate countries!”

“The prime minister wants to minimize the situation. We need the support of the people on that list. Can you do that many copies?”

Huntington silently counted the names. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good.”

On the other pressing matter of government, the Marquis of Trenville consulted not his secretary, but Captain Olmstead, who, having himself just come from a hurried trip to London, called soon after Trenville’s return to Devon.

“Since I was coming anyway, Canning sent this with me rather than the regular courier.” Olmstead handed over a dispatch case. “Nothing urgent.”

“Any new developments in our information leak?” Adrian asked.

“Not precisely. Flurry of activity among smugglers here just after you left.”

“You think my presence deterred them before?”

“No. Probably pure coincidence—a shipment just happened to arrive then. But I would wager a monkey local traders breathed easier with you gone.”

“Why?”

“Word in the taverns is the Marquis of Trenville ain’t exactly happy with the trade in his backyard.”

“You hanging around taverns now, are you? Oh, Nate, what has an Oxford man come to?”

Olmstead grinned. “Any sacrifice for king and country. Besides, the Twombleys serve good ale.” Olmstead’s tone turned serious. “Interesting assortment of people, too.”

Adrian raised an expressive eyebrow in question.

“Your secretary has been there rather frequently.”

“His mother lives only a few doors from the Three Feathers.”

“He is pretty tight with the Hoskins lad and other traders.”

“Is that right? Well ... seems to me Huntington was good pals with Bobby Hoskins’s older brother. The one that died at Badajoz.”

“Ah, well—that explains Huntington’s being there. What about your courier, Thompkins?”

“Thompkins? He was here? When?”

“Couple of weeks ago. Let me see ...” Olmstead pulled a small notepad from his pocket and leafed through it. Then he named two dates.

Adrian consulted his own notes. “In both instances, he was at Wallenford shortly before.” And the second time was when Adrian had happened on Thompkins and Miss Palmer in the kitchen. Had she met with him earlier, too? He should relate all this to Nathan Olmstead, but even as it occurred to him, he knew he would not do so. At least not yet.

“Adrian?”

“This could be mere coincidence, also. Thompkins volunteered for this duty because he grew up in the area. Still has a married sister near here. I chose him in part because he would know alternative routes of travel if necessary.”

“Makes sense. So far we have nothing solid to tie him or any other man specifically to the transfer of information.”

Or Miss Palmer,
Adrian thought.

Olmstead went on, “Next time Thompkins arrives, what say you keep him dangling until you can get word to me? I’ll arrange to have him followed—see if he contacts anyone after he gets your dispatch.”

Adrian agreed. Olmstead was invited to stay for lunch and Adrian was glad this turned out to be one of those days when the governess took her lunch with the children.

 

 

Elinor was happy to be back at the Abbey. In a few short months, this had become home to her, a haven where she could almost be herself. She was glad to put Lord Everdon’s malicious teasing firmly behind her. And the nightmares had receded.

Schooling for the Whitson children resumed with the happy addition of riding lessons when weather permitted. True to his word, and to ecstatic enthusiasm from the young Whitsons, Adrian had procured a pony for each of them.

The riding lessons themselves were handled mostly by John Coachman, his lordship’s driver who was also the overseer of the stables. Elinor always accompanied her charges, but in this instance, the stable master was the teacher. Occasionally, Trenville came out to watch as the man who had once taught him and his brother and sisters to ride now performed the same service for another generation.

One day as Elinor leaned over the fence watching the three youngsters go through their paces, she felt rather than saw his lordship join her. She looked over to see him standing next to her, his arms folded casually on the fence. That familiar warmth flooded her body when their eyes met.

“How are they doing today?” he asked.

“Very well—in spite of the mud from last night’s rain.”

“They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

“Anne has the makings of a natural horsewoman. Bess takes such delight in just being on her pony that it is great fun merely to watch her.”

“And Geoffrey?”

“Geoffrey demonstrates great skill, but he is inclined to be overconfident, I think.”

“Now, that does not surprise me. Family trait, you know.”

Elinor smiled. “Ohhh? Well, your son, my lord, is a quick learner and ever eager to master new techniques.”

Just then, Bess spied her father.

“Hello, Papa! Watch me!” She rode proudly in her saddle as John Coachman stood in the center of the training area, ready to leap to the rescue if necessary.

“No! Watch
me!”
Geoffrey called, as he urged his own mount to a faster pace, forcing Anne to draw near the fence where Adrian and Elinor stood.

“Be careful, Master Geoffrey,” John called, taking a step toward the boy and his pony.

In the next moment, a cat darted from the stable and through the arena. It was followed by a yapping puppy. Both ponies still in the middle of the arena shied at this intrusion. John was able to grab the halter of Bess’s mount, but he was too far away from Geoffrey to restrain the other pony. The animal reared and Geoffrey fell clumsily to the ground. As Elinor and the boy’s father watched in horror, one of the pony’s shod hooves clipped Geoffrey’s head.

“Oh, my God!” Adrian leaped over the fence and ran to his son’s side as the coachman, still grasping Bess’s pony now managed to catch hold of the loose reins of Geoffrey’s.

Noting that Anne still had control of her mount near the fence, Elinor ran to the gate and let herself into the training area. Geoffrey lay very still, his eyes closed, a gash over one ear bleeding profusely. Adrian quickly removed his own neckcloth and pressed it against the wound. John lifted a tearful Bess from her pony and put both girls outside the arena. They stood looking through the boards of the fence as the adults took care of the little boy.

Elinor knelt to run her hands over the child’s limbs, feeling for broken bones.

“His arms and legs are intact, I think,” she said more calmly than she felt. She handed her shawl to Adrian. “We must keep him warm.”

“I cannot stop this bleeding,” Adrian said, a note of panic in his voice.

“Here, allow me. Head wounds tend to bleed rather much. They often look more serious than they are.” She removed the neckcloth momentarily and the blood seemed to gush. She quickly pressed it back. She looked around for something to tie the cloth in place. A strip of leather was thrust into her hand, probably from John Coachman’s pocket. “There. That should do it.”

Adrian lifted the limp form of his son wrapped in the shawl and carried him into the house and up to the nursery wing. Elinor and the two little girls trailed after them, Anne and Bess unusually subdued.

Bess put her hand in Elinor’s, seeking comfort. “Is Geoffrey going to die like our mama?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“No, darling. He will be all right.” Elinor squeezed her hand, not at all certain she spoke the truth. Anne walked with them in silence.

The girls were turned over to the nursery maid. A footman was sent for the doctor as Elinor and Adrian tended the wounded Geoffrey. Working swiftly and with few words, they removed his muddy clothing, cleaning as much dirt from his body and near his wound as possible. The boy was still unconscious as they put his night shirt on him.

 

 

Having served with Nelson’s Mediterranean fleet, Adrian had seen a fair share of wounded men in his time. Never had he felt so utterly helpless.

“He has a concussion, my lord,” the doctor said. “I shall need to put in a couple of stitches to close the laceration, but there does not appear to be damage to the skull itself. Head wounds are always worrisome, though.”

“When will he regain consciousness?”

“I cannot say for a certainty. A few hours. Maybe a day or two. The longer he is unconscious, the more serious the worry.”

Adrian held his son’s head still as the doctor stitched the wound, with Miss Palmer assisting. Adrian thought this the most difficult task he had ever performed.

“Thank you, miss. You were a great help,” the doctor said as he finished his procedure. “Done this before, have you?”

“Not exactly.” She smiled. “I once had a pet, a collie, who tangled with a donkey. We had to stitch Antigone’s head, too.”

“Antigone?” Adrian asked, glad to be diverted by something so trivial.

“Yes. She was such a faithful companion, you see.”

The doctor shrugged himself into the coat he had removed earlier. Leaving some powders for pain and promising to return in the morning, he departed.

Adrian saw the doctor to the door and returned immediately to his son’s room. Miss Palmer was still there, standing beside the pathetically small, still form of his son. She had remained calm throughout the ordeal, but now, as she brushed a hand gently across Geoffrey’s brow, she turned to Adrian with tears in her eyes. It occurred to Adrian that she seemed as shaken in the aftermath of the accident as he was himself.

“He is going to be all right,” she said vehemently.

“Oh, God! I hope so!” He could not keep the despair from his voice. “I should never—never—have allowed this to happen.”

“Allowed? But this was not your fault.”

“Had I not been there, it would not have happened.”

“You cannot know that.” She put her hand comfortingly on his arm. “You could not have prevented this, my lord.”

“I cannot lose him.” Naked pain clouded his eyes and voice. Adrian could not have said who moved first, but suddenly she was in his arms and he buried his head in the softness between her cheek and her shoulder. He clung to her, breathing in the scent and warmth of her body. Here was vibrant life as opposed to the predator death they had been fighting.

Her arms cradled his head, her hands caressing his hair and the back of his neck. “I know. I know.” Her voice crooned softly at his ear. “He will be all right. I just know he will be.”

He lifted his head to look into her eyes, drinking in the empathy he found there. Then, with no apparent volition from either, he was kissing her and she was responding fervently. She met his desperate need for reassurance with gentleness and generosity. In her response, he found a haven. Yes. Everything surely would be all right. He withdrew his lips to look into her eyes again and saw his own passion mirrored there.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered, pulling her even tighter into the circle of his arms. He pressed his mouth to hers again, consumed now by long-suppressed desire. His tongue probed against her lips. They parted and she welcomed him with desire he recognized as a reflection of his own. His body hardened as she leaned into his embrace.

A whimper from the bed abruptly brought them to themselves.