The Governess Was Wicked (6 page)

She drew herself up to her full height. “I’ll catch a little sleep here and there. Thank you, Dr. Fellows.”

“Not Edward this time?” he asked with a small smile.

The suggestion that the invited intimacy between them might continue—that he
wanted
it to continue—sent her heart soaring in spite of herself. “I thought you meant it only in the moment.”

“I suppose the moment has passed.”

Her hopes crashed back down to the ground. She was tired. She was misconstruing concern for flirtation and sympathy for seduction. The sooner Dr. Fellows left the nursery, the sooner she could begin trying to tamp down the emotions yanking her this way and that.

“I’m sure you’re wishing for your own bed,” she said, effectively ending their interaction. “I’ll say good night.”

She started to move around him, but his hand shot out and caught her arm. Her heart leaped into her throat. These little touches here and there couldn’t be anything other than gestures of comfort, but she wished they meant more.

“I’ll return later,” he said. “I promise you that.”

She looked down at where his hand gripped her arm and tried her best to push any enjoyment out of her mind. Even if she could convince herself to flout all the rules and obstacles standing between them, reality would keep them apart. Dr. Fellows was leaving in April. He would be in New York and she would stay in London, doling out teaspoons of cod liver oil between French and history lessons. The girls weren’t Elizabeth’s only worry; she had her own heart to protect too.

But she couldn’t say any of that out loud. All she did was nod and push past him to write a letter to Mary and Jane explaining that she wouldn’t be at tea for some time.

Chapter Four

A man may tempt a governess to dream above her station, but a prudent woman lowers her eyes and never hopes for more.

—Miss Carrington’s Guide for Governesses

After leaving the Nortons’ home, Edward went back to his little house on Sydney Street, breakfasted under the watchful eye of Mrs. Mitchell, and began his workday. He saw some patients at his practice in the morning, and then it was off to make calls at the homes of his wealthiest patrons. They kept him busy until supper. He raced home, bolted his food (much to Mrs. Mitchell’s dismay), and snatched up his medical bag to make his way to the one place he truly wanted to be: the Norton nursery.

“How are they?” he asked Crane as the man led him up the stairs.

“I’m certain I cannot say, sir.”

He frowned. “Do you know if Miss Porter has had any rest?”

“I couldn’t speak to that either, sir. I have little to do with the running of the nursery.” The butler’s expression never changed, but Edward could feel the man’s icy chill freeze the air in the corridor.

“I hope Miss Porter is getting the support she needs,” he said, a little more sternly than he might speak to a servant who was not in his employ.

“Miss Porter requested the help of a housemaid earlier to move Miss Cassandra from her room back into the sickroom. Other than also asking that her meals be brought to her on a tray, that’s all the assistance she has required.”

“This is a dangerous time for the young ladies.”

“And even more dangerous for Master George. We’re all relieved he wasn’t exposed to the illness. Losing his heir would be a great blow to Mr. Norton,” said Crane.

Edward was about to remind the man that the loss of any child was a tragedy when Crane opened the door to the children’s bedroom. Miss Porter was kneeling by Miss Cassandra’s side, a wet towel in her hand as she dabbed the girl’s forehead between coughs. She was unquestionably breathtaking. How had no one else come across her in all of her beauty and snatched her up? She was incredible, heart-stopping, devastating, and when she looked up at him with those sorrowful brown eyes, a part of him shattered. He wanted to brush her hair back from her brow and kiss her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. He wanted—no, needed—to reassure her that he was there with her. They would nurse the young ladies together.

“You’re back,” she said, her voice just a little ragged from exhaustion.

“I’m here,” he said, trying to hold back the urge to sweep her up and into his arms.

“I’m glad, Dr. Fellows,” she said as she turned back to her work.

He swore at that moment he would find a way to convince her to call him Edward again.

For three days he repeated the same ritual. Each and every night Miss Porter would keep vigil over the little girls. He’d watch as she administered foul-tasting tonics he knew the girls objected to, and kept the cool towels pressed to their foreheads, but still their fevers climbed.

Finally, on the fourth night, there was a change. When he arrived at the house, Miss Porter was in her rocking chair and Miss Norton was sitting up in bed.

“Good evening,” he said, his medical bag clasped in both hands in front of him.

Two sets of eyes, both ringed with exhaustion, looked up at him. Miss Porter shot him a thin smile. “I believe Juliana’s fever has broken.”

He nodded and strode to the bed. Carefully, he eased a thermometer under the girl’s tongue before examining the child for physical signs of her progress. She was still weak, but she appeared to be out of the very worst danger. The thermometer confirmed that her fever had dropped.

“You’re on your way to being healthy again, Miss Norton,” he said with a smile. “Now how does Miss Cassandra fare?”

Miss Porter shook her head. “No change.”

He examined the patient in the other bed just as he had the other evenings. The little girl’s linens were drenched with sweat, and her head cast about restlessly in her sleep. Angry red splotches still marred her skin.

“I fear that Miss Cassandra may have another day or two until she’s out of danger,” he said. “I’ll make her up another tonic.”

He wished there were more he could do than suggest brewing willow bark tea and foul-tasting medicines, but a fever must break on its own. There was very little he could do to intervene except make the girl as comfortable as possible and try to keep her body cool.

As he mixed the tonic, he glanced over at Miss Porter. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her hair was scraped in a simple knot worn low on the back of her neck. Her movements were slow and heavy. He had no doubt she was on the brink of collapsing from exhaustion.

He handed the tonic to Miss Porter, who slowly spooned it into Miss Cassandra’s mouth. When the half-awake girl finally finished the brew, she handed him the glass again.

“Let her sleep,” he told her. “It is the best thing she can do right now.”

Miss Porter nodded and got to her feet with a heavy sigh. She swayed slightly, brushing her shoulder against his arm. The skirts of her dress swept around his legs, and he suddenly couldn’t escape the awareness of her. She was everywhere in this room. The book she’d been reading to Miss Norton lay open on a small nightstand, an abandoned shawl draped across the back of the rocking chair.

“Miss Porter,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “You’re exhausted.”

She put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “I’m just a little light-headed. I’ll be fine in a moment.”

“You’re dead on your feet. What good will it do the young ladies if you’re so tired you fall ill too?”

That made her pause just as she opened her mouth to protest. “I’ll sleep a few hours tonight. I promise.”

“You’ll rest now,” he said more firmly as he led her out the door. It wouldn’t do them any good to argue in front of Miss Norton or Miss Cassandra, but he was determined to put this woman to bed even if it meant dragging her there.

Not that he would mind dragging her to bed . . .

No. Immediately he switched his brain over to something safe. Something that didn’t make him associate this lady with anything remotely horizontal.

The three major bones of the arm are the humerus, ulna, and radius. Show some self-control!

The problem was that now Edward was staring straight at Miss Porter’s arms. Long and graceful in slim sleeves that hugged her all the way up to her shoulder. He wanted to put his hands where her nipped bodice flared at the waist and turn her to him so that he could taste her once again.

She’d been so sweet, and their kiss all those many weeks ago had been far too short. He’d dreamed of it over and over—her grabbing him with the sort of aggression that made her passion clearly known. That sort of display may not have suited some men, but Edward was perfectly happy to be the willing plaything of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

“Will you return tomorrow?” she asked him, slipping out of his grasp when they reached the door to her room.

His arms hung loose and useless at his sides. He wanted to touch her again, but she was so exhausted.

“Of course, at the same time,” he said.

A small smile tugged at her lips. “You’re always so reliable.”

No man wanted the woman he desired to think “reliable” when they were standing alone in a darkened room, tension snapping between them sharper than a whip. He might have grasped her by the shoulders and kissed her hard until she submitted. But he didn’t, because that wasn’t the man he was, and he didn’t know how to be anyone else.

“Well, I’ll bid you good night, then,” she said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

He almost turned to go, but something shadowed in her eyes made him stop. “Will you actually retire to bed when I leave?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a woman caught trying to decide whether or not to tell a white lie. “It’s just nine o’clock.”

His hand found her elbow. Although he knew it was inappropriate, he couldn’t seem to stop touching her. “It’s time you get a full night’s sleep. I’m a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to do what I say?”

Her eyes flicked up to him. The confusion there only partially masked the passion he saw smoldering beneath the surface. He swallowed hard as all the blood in his body rushed south. The longer he drank in her verbena-laced scent, the harder it was to think rationally. He’d touched her waist and her elbow that night. That should be enough, but it wasn’t. Nothing was ever going to be enough.

The humerus, ulna, radi—hell.

With a swift tug at her arm, Edward pulled her against him, captured her cheek in his hand, and kissed her. Maybe he was that man after all.

Sense, reason, and propriety ebbed from him when their lips touched. All he could process was the little gasp of shock that gave him greater access to her mouth. He slid his tongue along the softness of her lower lip and moaned his approval.

All at once, her hands were in his hair and she was tugging at his lip with her teeth. She pressed her body fully against him and, even through all the layers of clothes and her damned crinoline, she burned him. It would be nothing to lift her in his arms, lay her down on the bed, and finally sink into her.

He couldn’t do that. He
wouldn’t
do that. He wasn’t such a cad as to take advantage of a woman who had hardly slept in four days.

“Miss Porter,” he murmured between kisses. She was working at the lapels of his jacket now, running her hands underneath them to feel the cloth of his waistcoat and shirt. “Miss Porter,” he tried again.

She pulled away, a little wild. Her hair was askew as it threatened to spill from its knot. Her lips were swollen. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her breath. She was more beautiful than he’d ever seen her, and he wanted to tell her, but then she spoke.

“If you call me Miss Porter one more time, I’ll scream.”

A laugh bubbled to his lips. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and all of a sudden she was laughing too. Her weight collapsed against him, but he was strong enough to hold them both.

His fingers twined in her hair to rub along the back of her neck. The long strands felt just as silky as he’d imagined. “What would you rather I call you?” he murmured in her ear as her laughter fell away.

She sighed with pleasure. “Elizabeth will do.”

“I can do that.” He brushed a light kiss to the side of her mouth. “But only if you promise to call me Edward.”

She wrapped her fingers around the lapels of his jacket. “Edward, a very wicked part of me had hoped that you didn’t regret my kissing you in the kitchen.”

He traced a line along the scooped neck of her dress, relishing the feeling of soft, uncovered skin. “I regret that I didn’t do it first. You were the braver of the two of us.”

She trembled as his finger dipped below her collar. “I’m not so very brave.”

“You’re in an empty room with a man who just kissed you. Don’t you think that daring?”

She fixed her eyes on his chest. “Now that you mention it, I do. I should tell you to leave.”

His heart sank. He finally had her in his arms, but she was right. He shouldn’t be there. He shouldn’t be standing so close—tasting her, touching her. He needed to back away and walk straight out of that room and never come back. He was going to leave London soon, and she deserved better than a few memories and a farewell.

She smoothed his neck cloth, her fingers toying with the fabric. “I should tell you to leave, but I don’t want to.”

“Elizabeth.” His voice nearly cracked with the effort of restraining himself.

One of her hands slipped down his chest, touching the buttons of his waistcoat. “I should tell you to let me go and leave my room.”

He watched with parted lips as she flicked the bottom button open.

“I should make you walk out that door with a promise that you’ll never tell my employer what we did here.”

Another button popped open as the richness of her voice washed over him. He wanted this woman. He couldn’t remember wanting anything more.

“I should make you promise to be a gentleman and never pay me any mind again.” She went up on her tiptoes and pressed a brazen kiss to his mouth. “Now, don’t you think you should close the door?”

Elizabeth was worn-out, but the way Edward had looked at her with such concern as he walked her out of the girls’ room triggered something raw and primal in her. She spent all of her time minding and educating and disciplining. She was always proper, always without reproach. She was so tired of it. Just once she wanted to do something forbidden with a man who looked at her like she was more than a piece of furniture.

She knew exactly the risks she took by having him in her room. If they were caught, he’d suffer no consequences. She would shoulder all the blame because she was a woman—even worse, a governess—and that supposedly made her weak. That was what was written in her silly little governess guide, just as it was explicit in the sharp, suspicious looks Mrs. Norton shot her. And yet she found that she really didn’t care. The Nortons had abandoned their daughters. With no master or mistress to serve, all the servants would have retired early, thankful for the blissfully early hour. Even Crane would be in his room with a tumbler of liquor in hand.