The Governess Was Wanton (6 page)

Asten sat in the little schoolroom where he'd been taught as a boy, mulling over what had just happened. Appealing to a woman—even a governess of Miss Woodward's talents—for help managing his own daughter might seem unmanly to some, but he didn't care. Things were not right between him and Eleanora, and he was at a loss for how to fix them. All he knew was that he wanted his daughter back.

Asking for Miss Woodward's help had felt natural. Eleanora seemed to like her, speaking highly of Miss Woodward when he quizzed her during their Greek lessons a few days ago. It made him happy to hear the strings of a harp and pianoforte every morning before luncheon. He'd wanted to go investigate, but he didn't want to stifle whatever magic seemed to be playing out in his home. This afternoon's outburst aside, Eleanora seemed a little happier. It was so small a change that it would no doubt have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but he could see it. Whatever she was doing, the new governess was a positive influence.

And then there was Miss Woodward herself. The woman was so competent one might think her all controlled calm except for the flashes that sparked behind her eyes from time to time. That's when Asten sat up a little straighter and leaned in a little closer. He had a sneaking suspicion that beneath the lessons and high-necked, proper dresses, a vivacious, vibrant woman was straining to be let out. He wanted nothing more than to strip those layers away, revealing a little more of her with each question answered until she stood vulnerable before him, a mystery solved yet no less mysterious than before.

And then there was the matter of Miss Woodward's body. He wanted to lay her bare with such a power it squeezed his sanity like a vise. Every time he thought he'd succeeded in convincing himself that the initial flame of attraction that flared up between them after she'd so soundly put Lady Laughlin in her place was a trick of the mind, he'd catch a glance of her and she'd undo all of his best intentions. His blood would run as hot as it had when he'd stupidly grasped her hands just a half hour before. He'd done it because touching her felt natural, but there was no excuse for it. All he knew was that she drew him in with a power he couldn't explain.

It was all growing far too fraught, but he found himself looking forward to the moment in the early afternoons when she would escort Eleanora to his study and he'd get to speak with her for just a few choice moments. It hadn't been much, but already she'd revealed a love of Trollope and Gaskell and a polite disdain for Dickens and Thackeray. She was as knowledgeable about history as his tutor had been, and she had an easy way about her in conversation. She'd slide easily from English to French and through to German all while standing there, his own Eve holding an apple in his doorway every day. He could far too easily see himself taking this woman into bed, whispering nonsense against her skin as he kissed lips, neck, breasts, stomach, hips. And then he wanted to lose himself in her and silence both their minds, pushing them until all they could do was give in to instinct.

He shifted in his seat to relieve the pressure on his half-hard cock. An earl was not supposed to desire his daughter's governess, no matter how attractive he found her combination of sharp intelligence and sly beauty. He had to nip this in the bud before he did something truly unforgivable like try to seduce her. What he needed was a distraction. One that would take his mind off her and give him some relief.

He looked up as the schoolroom door swung open. Miss Woodward's hand flew to her chest in surprise, drawing his attention to the roundness of her breasts. “Lord Asten, you frightened me.”

In retrospect, placing himself in a closed space with Miss Woodward so soon after touching her had been a very bad idea indeed. She was far too close. Far too reachable. Far too kissable.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come without asking your permission first,” he said, rising to his feet.

She shook her head. “Not at all. It's your home.”

Except that now his home was haunted by the whisper of her scent and the little pieces of her strewn about—a book here, a discarded shawl there. She was inescapable.

He cleared his throat. “Was it a success?”

She swept into the room, and he couldn't help but notice that she was careful to keep a wide berth of him so her skirts didn't even brush his shoes. “Lady Eleanora will attend the ball.”

He let out a breath. “Thank you. I don't have to tell you how important it is that Eleanora have a successful season.”

“I believe what your daughter needs more than anything right now is a sympathetic ear,” Miss Woodward said. “I'm happy to play that role.”

“And you appear to be better at it than I am.”

She laughed. “Hardly. I'd say you know your daughter better than most mothers or fathers do. That's why it's painful to see her in distress.”

“We used to be close,” he said, unashamed of the sadness in his voice.

“You will be again. Just give her time.”

He sighed, hoping she was right. His eyes wandered the room with its sage wallpaper and high wooden wainscoting. Then his gaze fell on a small table pushed off to the corner, and a thought struck him.

“You take your meals in this room?” he asked.

Miss Woodward cocked her head to the side as though trying to puzzle out the abrupt change in conversation. “I do.”

“Alone?”

“Of course. I know my place, and I'm used to it.”

That acceptance, the idea that she understood she wasn't considered good enough to dine with the family, did him in.

“I'd very much like it if you would join my daughter and me at meals, Miss Woodward,” he said in the same formal tone he might use when asking a duchess for a dance.

“That's very kind of you, but—”

“I'm sure that both Eleanora and I would benefit from your company.”

A long beat stretched between them until finally she said, “As you wish, my lord.”

It wasn't exactly an enthusiastic response, but Miss Woodward didn't strike him as the sort of woman who fell over herself thanking anyone for anything. He liked her all the better for it.

“We dine at seven, unless Eleanora is out at Miss Bigelow's or Miss Masters's home and I'm dining at my club,” he said. “You've heard Warthing ring the bell.”

“I have,” she said as she stood as well.

“Then I'll see you in time for the fish course,” he said.

He hurried from the room before he did something rash like give her the use of the countess's suite or suggest she don the family emeralds. Yet as he retreated to his study and the comforting monotony of his parliamentary papers, he couldn't clear his head of one nagging thought—how viscerally he disliked the moment she called him “my lord,” a formality that only reminded him of the distance between their ranks.

It was all wrong because Eric Bromford, fourth Earl of Asten, knew it was he who was far inferior in knowledge and understanding to Miss Mary Woodward.

Chapter Six

The night of the masque, Mary stood in the soaring entryway to Lord Asten's house watching Lady Eleanora fret over her costume while trying to hide her own nervousness. Mary's borrowed dress and mask were stored at Elizabeth's house, waiting for her to slip away and transform into a lady just as she and Lady Eleanora had planned. She crossed her arms and reached into the edge of her sleeve to graze her handkerchief. Mrs. Cooper had always told her that she would live to see great adventures one day. She just hoped her nerves would stand up to such a great risk.

Luckily, Lady Eleanora's excitement provided a good cover for her own.

“But do you think the bow will become cumbersome?” the young lady asked, shaking the prop in her hand.

Lord Asten, who was dressed as a buccaneer in black buckskins, a commander's coat his daughter had dug up from one of the trunks in the attic, and a hat with a long ostrich plume, shot Mary a look. She pursed her lips to stifle a laugh. This was the third time her charge had asked about the problematic bow—twice during the light meal they'd shared and once when her father had actually come to her door and told her that if she was not downstairs in five minutes he would leave in the carriage without her. That had set the young lady into motion, but it hadn't stopped her distress.

“If you find it to be more bother than it's worth, you can leave it with your wrap,” said Mary as she reached over to smooth one of the folds of Lady Eleanora's dress. It had been done up in the Grecian style similar to one their grandmothers might have worn when Napoleon charged through Europe. An added piece twisted over one shoulder and fell in a long, elegant shawl halfway to the floor. The other shoulder was bare with only a loop of gauze around Lady Eleanora's upper arm to support the dress.

“Are you certain that's quite appropriate?” asked Lord Asten with a frown at his daughter's bare shoulder.

This time it was Mary who raised her eyebrows at him. “Most of London is going around with bare shoulders and bare décolletage in the evenings.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Papa,” Lady Eleanora said, using that voice daughters employ when they want their fathers to bend to their whim. “You don't want me to be unfashionable, do you?”

“I want you to be clothed,” said her father.

“I think you'll find that there will be ladies wearing far more scandalous gowns than this tonight,” Mary said.

“Yes, but how many of them are my daughter?” he asked, his voice a little gruff but clearly melting under the influence of his lovely daughter's insistence.

“It's white,” said Lady Eleanora, her eyes growing so big and innocent that Mary knew the earl didn't stand a chance. “You can't object to a white gown. It was the height of propriety when you were young.”

“I'm still young,” said Lord Asten.

“Papa, thirty-eight is not young.”

“Wait until you're thirty-eight and see what you think then,” he said.

“Miss Woodward,” said Lord Asten, turning his attention back to her, “what will you do tonight while Eleanora plays Diana and I make a fool of myself dressed as a marauder?”

Mary resisted the urge to touch her hair, which she'd done with extra care that evening, and schooled her eyes to stay off of her charge, who shuffled nervously. “I thought I might practice my half of a duet Lady Eleanora selected. I'm far too slow to keep up with her. Then I might retire with a book.”

Lord Asten smiled. “That sounds like a very improving evening.”

“I'm sure it will be full of untold excitement,” she said, refusing to acknowledge the grin that spread across Lady Eleanora's face.

Lord Asten donned his hat. “Come, Eleanora. We'll be late to Lady Laughlin's home if we don't hurry.”

With one last glance back at Mary, Lady Eleanora tugged her fur wrap a little higher on her shoulders and stepped out the front door Warthing held open.

Lord Asten, however, hung back. “Thank you.”

She started in surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Whatever it was you said to Eleanora to make her agree to come to this ball and all the parties since you spoke to her. I don't know what you did, but she's beginning to act more like herself than she has in a long time. What's your secret?”

“If I told you, you wouldn't need me anymore.”

“I wouldn't say that.” His eyes darkened as he said it—or did she just imagine it? Either way, something sparked deep inside her, and for one crazy moment all she wanted to do was grip the man by his loose collar and drag his lips to hers.

“Go,” she managed to say, crossing her arms tightly over her chest to keep herself from reaching for him. “You said yourself you'll be late.”

He held her gaze a moment longer and then dipped his head. “Good night, Miss Woodward. I hope your evening is as pleasant as you expect.”

She watched him stride off and down the steps to the waiting carriage, her hand on her stomach, which was already doing uncomfortable somersaults.

“Would you like me to order one of the chambermaids to light the fire in the music room so that you may use the pianoforte?” asked Warthing as he shut the door.

“Actually,” she said, “I think I'll retire to my room. I have a touch of a headache.”

The man gave her a little nod and walked off down the hall to do whatever it is a butler does when supper has been served and the master is out of the house.

Mary put her hand on the banister and began her slow climb up the stairs until she was out of sight. Then she bounded up them, ripped open the door to her room, and threw on a cloak. She sent up a little prayer that the night wouldn't end in disaster, and then, careful to listen for the footsteps of another, stole down the back stairs and out the abandoned kitchen. Twenty minutes later, she was knocking on Elizabeth's front door, the hood of her cloak pulled up to obscure her features, like a thief in the night.

Her hands shook a little with excitement as the door swung open to reveal Elizabeth's housekeeper, Mrs. Mitchell. “Miss Woodward! What are you doing out there in the dark? Come in, come in.”

The woman bustled about her as Mary unclasped her cloak. She brushed her hands over her deep-green wool dress, knowing that soon it would be replaced with a gown of the finest silk brocade she'd ever felt.

“You're here!” Elizabeth called out from the head of the stairs.

Jane poked her head around the corner of the corridor. “Oh good, she's finally here.”

“I had to wait for the earl and his daughter to leave before I could slip out,” Mary said as she reached the top of the stairs.

“We thought you might get scared,” said Jane.

“Why would I be scared?” she asked with more bravado than she felt.

“Because you're about to dupe every family of good name in London,” Elizabeth said cheerfully.

She shook her head. “Thank you for reminding me. Let's get this over with before I do lose my nerve.”

“Don't worry,” said Jane, linking her arm through Mary's. “When we're done with you, no one will ever know that you're not a duchess.”

Elizabeth took her other arm as they began to move down the corridor. “All we ask in return is that you tell us every little detail about it.”

“Of course,” she said.

Ahead of them, Elizabeth's husband, Edward, poked his head out of his study. “I thought I heard voices out here.”

“Hello, my love,” Elizabeth called out. “How is the article coming along?”

“Well enough.” He looked at the three of them in turn and frowned. “Why do I get the sense the three of you are up to no good?”

“Why ever would you think that?” Jane asked with a breathless innocence that could fool a clergyman.

“Because it's after nine o'clock and I know my wife?”

“It's really best if you don't enquire into things that will only distress you, dear,” said Elizabeth.

He shot them another suspicious look, but then seemed to make up his mind that it wasn't worth the fight. “You're probably right. Don't get into too much mischief.”

“Hypothetically speaking, what is too much?” asked Mary.

“Hypothetically? Enough to bring Scotland Yard to my door.”

“Oh, that's fine then,” said his wife. “Good luck with your article, my love.”

As soon as he shut the study door, the three of them dissolved into laughter.

“If only he knew,” Jane said.

“It's a good thing he loves the two of you like sisters,” Elizabeth said between gasps for breath.

“He's a better man than most,” said Mary.

“You know that if anything does happen tonight, you always have a home here,” Elizabeth said, her expression settling into earnestness. “Both of you.”

“I'm sure Edward will appreciate the company,” Mary teased.

“He knew what he was getting into when he married her,” said Jane.

A dreamy smile crossed Elizabeth's lips. “He did indeed.”

Mary nudged her. “You've got that far-off bride look on your face.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I can't help it. It just happens sometimes.”

“As it should,” said Jane before she hugged Mary's arm a little tighter. “Now let's get you dressed. You have a ball to attend.”

Mary picked up the edge of her heavy skirts as inky blue as the sea at twilight and swept swiftly down the Marquis de Lancey's garden path. Never in all her years as a governess did she think she would be breaking into a ball, but here she was sneaking around like a young lady meeting a gentleman for a forbidden assignation under the stars.

Her heart pounded against her chest like a trapped bird.

If I am caught—

But I won't be. I can't be.

She exhaled slowly as the marquis's huge house came into view. Tonight would be a success—her one reward for fourteen years spent so considered and careful. It was true that she'd pushed and argued and sometimes crossed the line of what was appropriate when speaking to her employers, but she'd never actually broken the rules. She'd never wanted to before.

She paused a moment before mounting the stairs to the veranda, rearranging her skirts that were scattered with delicate silver spangles sewn onto the fabric. She adjusted her half mask, making sure that the black silk ribbon holding it securely around her head was in place. As long as it didn't slip, she'd be safe.

Then, touching the handkerchief she'd tucked into her bodice at the last minute, she padded up the stairs and slipped through one of the ballroom's open French doors. It was all so easy.

Finding Lady Eleanora, however, was not so simple. The marquis appeared to have invited half of London to partake in the merriment. It was just after nine o'clock, but the party was already loud and boisterous. The anonymity of the masque encouraged people to be just a little bit more. More excited. More flirtatious. More reckless. Most balls of this kind had a midnight reveal where all the masks would come off at once, but Lady Eleanora had told her the marquis forwent that tradition, preferring to allow his guests to bask in their namelessness for as long as they chose. It added just a touch of daring to the evening.

Mary was peering around the towering hair of a Marie Antoinette and through a pair of shepherdess hooks when she finally spotted her charge. Lady Eleanora had added to her Diana costume a mask made entirely of glinting gold stars. She looked perfect.

Standing with her were Aphrodite and Athena, presumably Miss Laughlin and Miss Cordelia in their own costumes. Mary could see now that pushing Lady Eleanora into joining in their group of goddesses had been a strategic mistake. The Grecian-inspired robes suited Lady Eleanora, showing her beautiful figure to its best advantage.

Presiding over their little group was Lady Laughlin in a rich plum dress with only a simple black half mask to hide her features. She was not, it seemed, taking part in the costumed festivities.

Lord Asten was nowhere to be seen.

Mary raised her eyes to the heavens, hoping whoever watched over errant governesses was keeping an eye on her, and did her best impression of a carefree lady, gliding over to join an old friend.

“My dear,” she said with a laugh as Lady Eleanora turned to her.

“Oh, you found me!” The young lady's eyes widened at the sight of Mary in her borrowed costume. “Your dress is stunning.”

Mary swept her skirts back and waved a hand as though to say that it was of no consequence that she was wearing a gown that cost three months' wages. “A fortunate find thanks to a friend with excellent taste.”

“Lady Eleanora,” Lady Laughlin said from over Mary's right shoulder, “who is your friend?”

Dread churned in her stomach even though she and Lady Eleanora had rehearsed this part over and over again. She would assume another name—Miss Falsum—and hope that Lady Laughlin didn't push too hard when she realized that she had never heard of any such lady.