The Unconventional Governess
She felt a deep empathy for the child, who was obviously struggling with coming to terms with her parents’ death. Instead of allowing herself to heal, she tried to remove herself from the pain by speaking about the situation in an objective way, by covering the terrible tragedy with a blanket of detachment and, to some, shocking commentary.
She thought it best to match the child’s coping with equally objective answers.
“Death is never pretty.” She met Louise’s aggressive expression with a sober look. “Charlotte Corday is rumored to have looked at her executioner after her beheading at the guillotine.”
Louise gaped.
“However,” Henrietta continued calmly, “you are quite right in your comment that a beheading is a messy affair. Unless you’re a chicken. Then perhaps it would be less untidy.”
“A chicken?”
“Due to their anatomy, it has been rumored that chickens can live for some time after the severing of their heads. It has to do with the spinal column, you see, and the location of the brain stem.”
Louise’s nose squished and her eyes narrowed. “You are not like other ladies.”
“I am not a lady. I am a doctor.” Or as close to one as society would allow.
“You are very blunt.”
“‘No legacy is so rich as honesty.’” At the girl’s befuddled look, Henrietta sighed. “Are you not acquainted with Shakespeare?”
“That boring old dead man?”
“I can see your education is greatly lacking. Perhaps because you are running around the gardens rather than working on your lessons?”
“My governess quit.” Louise jumped up from the bench, making a scoffing sound in her throat. “Deportment and manners, bah. They are for stuffy old ladies.”
Henrietta worked very hard to keep her eyebrows from raising. How closely the child echoed her own sentiments. To hear them so unabashedly touted was startling. Louise was looking to shock the adults around her, to horrify them and alienate them, because of her own sorrows. Henrietta would not succumb to the child’s manipulations. The girl was hurt and grieving, and such behavior might be expected.
When Henrietta did not respond to that outburst, as Louise so clearly expected her to, the girl sent her one last brooding look before she ran off to chase butterflies.
She would need more than what Henrietta could offer. Although they had shared a connection...
Henrietta walked back to the house, deep in thought. A servant informed her the dowager countess was waiting for her in the parlor. She found the lady of the house at her desk, penning a letter.
“Ah, Miss Gordon, I have just heard of a perfect opportunity.” Lady Brandewyne looked over the rim of her spectacles.
Sweet liver ague, she was surely referring to the earl’s need for a governess. “Indeed?”
“Lord St. Raven has no governess.”
Henrietta fought the grimace that tempted her lips.
“As I thought.” Lady Brandewyne sniffed. “Your uncle is a very dear friend, and your parents were pillars of society. They would be horrified to see what’s become of you. A governess is not the best position, but in time, perhaps, you will meet a kindly vicar or man of business. You are not completely plain.”
“Thank you,” she said drily.
“No decision must be made now. It is not impractical to believe you could garner an offer from a baronet, perhaps at the house party in two weeks’ time.”
“I have not the slightest interest in rejoining society,” she said in a firm voice, the one she used as often as needed. It was quite effective, even on Lady Brandewyne, whose posture stiffened. “A companion or governess position will suit me.”
“Why not the governess position with Lord St. Raven? He is a good man. A fair man. He would compensate you adequately. He’s not a stickler for propriety, which would allow you more of the freedoms you’re used to. Before the accident, he spent most of his time in London, at any rate.”
Shopping, no doubt, but Henrietta kept the uncharitable thought to herself. “He does seem as though he has a kind heart, but we would not be a good fit. Louise is in need of more than what I can offer. I am not good with children”
“My dear, I hardly think that. Your education is extensive and while your manners may have rusted, you were raised in a genteel fashion. Had your parents lived, you would have had your come-out and the pick of the Season.”
“Even though I am not completely plain?”
Lady Brandewyne looked positively affronted. Her intelligence was such that she understood the sarcasm, but her ego was such that she could not believe it had been directed at her. Unable to decide how to answer, she settled for a nose-in-the-air glare.
Henrietta sought to relieve the tension with softer words. “It is very kind of you to have taken me in, but as you know, I have written several letters to nearby landowners and will no doubt find employment in record time.”
“As you wish, my dear. I recommend that you do not make any decisions until after the house party, though.” Lady Brandewyne’s lips pursed and for a moment, Henrietta had the strangest feeling that the lady was laughing at her, and that she’d been duped somehow.
* * *
Blackmail.
Dominic stared at the apothecary, who stood in the dark corner of the cottage, where he’d requested they meet.
The return to the St. Raven estate had been painful, just as Miss Gordon had said it would be, but after three days he’d decided to leave. At the mention of going to his estate in the north, Louise had begun weeping. She claimed to miss her home, and so, despite his reluctance to live at his dead brother’s estate, he’d taken her back to St. Raven.
It was now her home, after all.
Old John, who’d been in the village near St. Raven since Dominic was a young boy, smirked a yellowed, rotting smile.
Dominic crossed his arms. “Let me understand this correctly—you are wanting a monthly stipend from me, and in exchange, you will not tell anyone of my condition. You realize the penalty for blackmail?”
The apothecary shrugged. “As I see it, if word gets out that you’re afflicted, you’ll lose the estate and the niece.”
Dominic laughed coldly. “What makes you think I care?”
“Seems to me that niece of yours is going to get shipped off if you don’t keep her here. I’ve heard talk. She can’t keep a governess and her aunt wants to send her away.” Old John sidled closer, his eyes gleaming wickedly in the morning light that streamed through the windows of his ramshackle cottage. Apparently being in the medical field didn’t pay enough.
“I don’t deal with blackmailers.”
“Ah, but for the sake of the child? Will you let her be sent off, her spirit crushed by well-meaning adults? She will be, you realize. On both counts.” Old John cocked a brow. “And you will be ostracized. Epileptics scare society.”
“Is that what you think I am?” he asked slowly.
The apothecary cackled. “You’ve been moping in northern England. I happen to know someone who witnessed one of your fits and he promptly wrote to me. I can see you’re thinking about what I’ve said. My partner will give you three days to decide what means more—the girl’s happiness or a bit of coin each month.”
Dominic’s jaw was stiff. His first instinct was to tell Old John to rot. He didn’t care what society thought of him and he didn’t care about the estate. He just wanted to find a cure.
But he loved Louise. He just hadn’t realized what taking care of a child entailed. He’d always been the fun one, who brought her trinkets and cakes, who whisked into her life and whisked out with nary a cross word from her.
He glared at Old John and stalked out of the cottage. The ride back to the estate gave him time to realize that some of what the man had said was true. If word got out about his illness, Barbara would swoop in and take Louise. She might even have legal grounds, especially if he was taken against his will to an asylum. And then what?
He knew already, because Barbara had been sending him weekly letters urging him to send Louise out of the country to a finishing school for “difficult” girls. When this last governess quit, he had finally realized that if he didn’t go and get Louise, his sister would. The situation could turn ugly, indeed.
He dropped off his horse at the livery, but there was no one in the stables to greet him. Frowning, he surveyed his surroundings, noting the disarray and general filth. Edmund’s stables had never looked this way before his death.
He stabled the horse himself, pondering. Could he care for Louise, even with his illness? Could he oversee the estate while searching for a cure?
And the biggest question of all: Could he keep his illness a secret from the ton?
For some reason, Miss Gordon entered his thoughts. Strong and plucky, making her way in a man’s world. If anyone knew how to accomplish something, she would. Perhaps he ought to meet with her.
When he returned to the main house, Jacks greeted him with a letter and a squirming Louise.
“I simply wanted to have tea with you,” she said crossly, speaking before the valet. “I’ve missed you. Are you home for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Yes.” He eyed her.
She twisted away from Jacks. “I shall meet you in the solarium, Dom, and we can discuss our new life together over tea.” Flashing a smile that looked just like her father’s, which stabbed pain through Dom, she pivoted and ran down the hall.
He opened the letter, which was an invitation to a ball hosted by Lady Brandewyne. Miss Gordon would be there, he realized. And suddenly, it felt imperative that he speak to her, face-to-face.
He handed the invitation back to Jacks. “Send an acceptance.”
Chapter Four
Henrietta had definitely been duped. As the time for the house party drew closer, Lady Brandewyne’s intentions became completely clear.
She was trying to marry off Henrietta, no doubt with Uncle William’s blessing. His reasons for leaving were obviously a strategic tactic to aid Lady Brandwyne in her matchmaking.
Had he stayed, Henrietta would have been able to talk him out of this madness. But he had left to avoid the conversation, a realization that put her in a decidedly black mood.
To make things worse, Lady Brandewyne seemed to think Henrietta had forgotten the most basic tenets of How to Behave Like a Lady. When Henrietta emerged from the library or returned from a walk, invariably the woman gave her not-so-subtle etiquette lessons. Henrietta gritted her teeth and bore the verbal onslaught. After all, she was a guest in the dowager’s home.
It was not as though she had not considered leaving for London. Uncle William let a house in Mayfair, but the Season was in full swing and Henrietta had no desire to stay in an area where carriages would be bumping across the roads into all hours of the morning. If not for that, she’d leave at once for a more peaceful setting with less marital hints.
“The house party shall be a small affair, really.” Lady Brandewyne had called Henrietta in for tea in the parlor. She eyed Henrietta as though examining an infectious wound.
“I am expected to attend?” She knew she was, but she asked anyway, some puckish urge overtaking her mouth.
“But of course! It is, in a way, in your honor.” She ignored the horrified expression Henrietta could not stop from displaying. “I’ve taken the liberty of procuring gowns based on the measurement of your other dresses.” She gestured to the maid, Sally, who came over. “Bring me those boxes that were delivered earlier today.”
Sally left while Henrietta struggled to control her temper. She rubbed her temples, trying to ease the ferocious pounding. “You have bought gowns?”
“Only a few. I wanted to surprise you.”
Henrietta barely swallowed her snort. Surprise, indeed. More like browbeating. She feared this house party would best her social skills in unanticipated ways. She drew a deep breath, willing herself to smile, though her cheeks bunched unnaturally and her lips felt tight.
She foresaw nothing good about the coming event.
And she was right. After over a week of thinly disguised lessons in deportment and conversation suitable to ladies, the house party began. Guests arrived in various types of carriages, some more fancy than others. Lord St. Raven was among them, to Henrietta’s shock. Louise was nowhere in sight, as expected. No other guests had brought children, either.
A rich evening meal started off the party. The countess placed Henrietta next to a baronet. “My neighbor to the south,” Lady Brandewyne explained with an encouraging smile.
Henrietta did not don a return smile. She had no need to pretend to be anything other than herself. The man looked her over as though sizing up a horse at market. After the necessary introductions, he asked, “What part of England are you from?”
“North. My father was Lord Iversley but after he and my mother died, the second brother inherited the title and estate. My uncle, the youngest brother, took guardianship of me. He’s a physician and we spent most of our time in the Americas. On the battlefield,” she added, noting the crease between the baronet’s eyebrows. “Tending soldiers, keeping my uncle’s records. That sort of work.”
The man blanched and, satisfied she’d made her point, she turned back to her food. No member of the peerage, even a baronet who technically was not considered a peer, wanted a wife who had worked. Henrietta set about eating her meal, a delicious concoction of boiled fowl with oyster sauce. She ignored the pinched disapproval on Lady Brandewyne’s face and savored her food.
It was possibly the only good thing about returning to England.
After dinner, music had been arranged in the drawing room. Somehow Henrietta made it through the rest of the night without displaying a bad case of manners. She did not speak to Lord St. Raven, though she felt his eyes on her several times throughout the evening. When it seemed he might walk over and start a conversation, she avoided him. She couldn’t say what drove her to do so, only a curious sense of self-preservation. On Friday and Saturday, she escaped some of the more strenuous activities planned by citing physical weakness.
But Saturday night arrived, despite Henrietta’s prayers otherwise. She entered the ballroom with trepidation. It was not grandiose compared to London ballrooms, but for a country estate, it was fashionably large and comfortable. Sparkling chandeliers cleaned to luminescent perfection hung from the ceiling. A quartet played quietly in a corner, warming up their instruments.
The butler announced guests as they arrived. Off to the side, Henrietta sipped her punch and listened as each entrant’s name was called out. “Lord Dominic St. Raven.”
Her head snapped up. The earl strode into the ballroom, tall and confident. A grin filled with charisma and mystery shaped his lips. A smile carved a dimple into his cheek. His clothes emphasized the broad swath of his shoulders and the strong length of his legs. His hair gleamed. A strange sensation curled in Henrietta’s stomach as she stared at him from her safe little spot, where, thus far, no one had spotted her.
He was as cavalier as she’d expected, she thought as she watched him bowing over the pale, uncallused hands of the ladies present. He was laughing yet searched the room, as though his attention could not possibly be wasted on one person.
She sipped again, the punch doing little to calm her sudden case of nerves. Would he talk to her? Why was he attending Lady Brandewyne’s house party anyhow? Henrietta had assumed he’d leave the country as soon as he was well enough.
Unbidden, a memory of Louise chasing butterflies flashed through her mind. Perhaps she should ask after Louise. Their shared grief created an invisible thread and it had been difficult for Henrietta to forget the girl. Or the uncle.
She studied him as he wound his way through the room. It was a scientific improbability that she would not notice him. All of the other ladies fawned over him, and men regarded him with a certain mix of respect and envy. He was a specimen of strong heritage.
She refused to fault herself for noticing the thickness of his hair and the confidence in his stride. His skin shone with improved health and his white, cared-for teeth hinted at a fastidious nature.
Yes, even a doctor could note such things. The churning in her stomach was very natural, she assured herself. Simply a physical and chemical reaction.
And then he turned and saw her.
Quiet and unobtrusive, she edged as close to a wall as possible, yet he saw her. Their gazes connected. She looked quickly away, eager to discourage him from approaching her.
The tactic did not work. Trying not to frown, she nodded a greeting as he neared.
“I see you are walking without pain,” she said promptly.
“Is that why you were studying me so closely?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. Oh, where was that infernal fan Lady Brandewyne had shoved into her hands earlier? “You are a former patient,” she said, hearing a primness in her voice that quite pleased her. Let him do with that what he will.
“Which is why I’ve meandered over. To allow you all the inspection you may need.” His eyes crinkled, laughing at her.
It was probably better she didn’t have a fan or else she’d be tempted to swat him with it, and then Lady Brandewyne might need use of her smelling salts.
His proximity was sending her pulse speeding along her veins. He wore a light cologne that teased her senses, and his fashionable attire did not scream dandy as loudly as she thought it might. He looked rather dashing, and that was enough reason for her to lift her chin and straighten her backbone.
“I am quite finished. You are in the pink of health. You may go now and continue your flirtations about the room.”
Those dratted crinkles deepened. “A good doctor would take more time with her patient.”
“Former patient, and I am not a doctor,” she huffed.
He inclined his head, accepting the response. Then he gestured about the room, his long, tanned fingers contrasting with the white crispness of his cuff. “So which man is to be the winner tonight?”
She followed the direction of his hand sweep, her gaze narrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Your conquest...your intended. Who is it to be?”
Henrietta tilted her head, trying to figure out how he’d discovered Lady Brandewyne’s shenanigans.
His expression changed. “Don’t tell me you are not aware?”
“Aware of what?”
“Ah, that cross, suspicious tone. It tells me all I need to know.”
“You’re beastly, Lord St. Raven. Quit speaking in riddles and be out with it.”
“The guests here are a curious mingle of friends and men looking for a wife.”
“There are plenty of unattached females.” But her stomach was sinking. “Are you saying you know that this affair was created solely to marry me off?”
“There were several tells.” He tipped his cup toward her. “Your clothes, for instance. You are very pretty in that frothy confection of blues and satins. And slightly overdressed.”
“Says the man whose boots are reflecting faces.”
“They are Hessians, Miss Gordon. Do not fret, they can’t compare to your pearl-encrusted slippers that positively scream ‘marry me.’”
“I did not pick out the shoes, and the ruffles are a bit overdone.”
“Men like ruffles.”
She glowered at him, but then cast a surreptitious peek about the room, and realized he was correct. Several gentleman were staring at her. Waiting, perhaps? For her to finish her conversation with an earl who, by everything she’d overheard this weekend, had no intention of ever settling down.
To make matters worse, she had not heard from her governess-post inquiries. That left her at the mercy of Lady Brandewyne. Refusing to attend the dowager’s events would be the height of rudeness, in light of all that her ladyship had done for her.
“You’re looking very fierce, Miss Gordon,” St. Raven said lightly. “Is marriage such a loathsome prospect?”
“I have other goals.”
“When do you rejoin your uncle?”
Henrietta slid him a look. He had the appearance of sincerity, the clear green of his eyes inquisitive. “Why are you spending your time talking to me? Lady Anne is near the orchestra. She’s a beauty. Go cast your charm about her.”
St. Raven’s hand flew up, as though warding off attack. “Sharp words, and they would deeply wound me if there had not been the admittance of charm to soften the blow.”
Henrietta rolled her eyes, but a laugh escaped. “Of course, that is all you heard.”
“I retain important statements,” he said solemnly.
“Obviously not—” Her laugh cut off as she spied the baronet heading toward her. “This is a disaster.”
“Future husband?” St. Raven puckered his lips in a way that was both funny and attractive. “A bit mule-faced if you ask me.”
“One cannot help the bone structure one is born with.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “We cannot all have symmetrical features, my lord, nor look as though we have been made to model for a Richard Crosse portrait.”
“You know your painters. I’m impressed. And I believe you’ve given me another compliment. Two in one evening are noteworthy.”
“Facts are not compliments.”
“Miss Gordon.” The baronet had reached them, a hopeful look upon his face. “Would you care to waltz with me?”
Henrietta felt the worst sort of panic at that point. Not only because she had not expected to waltz, considering it a fanciful and slightly inappropriate dance, but also because she hardly knew how. Before she could formulate a response, St. Raven moved forward.
“I’m afraid Miss Gordon has already promised this dance to me.”
* * *
Dominic slid his arm around Henrietta, guiding her to the floor as the musicians began the first strains of the waltz. They had hardly started when she stepped on his toe.
“You see,” he said, leaning close so that his lips were near her ear. She smelled of roses, of something soft and tender and sweet. “It is a good thing I wore sturdy boots to protect my delicate toes from your adventurous feet.”
“You are ridiculous, my lord.” A dusky hue invaded her cheeks.
Satisfied for some absurd reason, Dominic shrugged. “Better to be ridiculous than a snooze.”
“You should not have claimed a dance with me.”
“I was bored and you were near, and the waltz happens to be my favorite dance.”
They swept across the room, Henrietta doing her best to follow his lead. He slowed somewhat for her halting steps, intrigued. “It’s not often I meet a woman who cannot dance.”
“I have had no cause to practice,” she said in a small, stiff voice.
A hard part of him, one he did not realize existed, softened like butter on a warm day. He had no desire to cause her to feel badly about herself. “You have been saving lives, not spending your time learning silly dances.”
“Sometimes lives were saved.” A sad look overtook her face, and Dominic felt instant regret. His fingers tightened around hers and he was acutely aware of the slenderness of her body beneath his palm. “You never answered about when you plan to join your uncle?”
He swirled her past the bandstand, containing his wince when her knee knocked into his shin.
“I’m looking for a position somewhere. My uncle has decided to leave me in England, and I fear he hopes I’ll marry.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.” Her gaze flashed up to his for the first time since they began dancing. There were bits of gold hidden in the darkness of her eyes. They were forthright, honest eyes. As though no one had taught her the art of guile or flirtation.
“Whatever will you do?” The music was slowing, the song almost finished. He guided them to an alcove, fully visible to retain her impeccable reputation, but private enough to enable conversation.
“Governess, or a paid companion, I suppose. Just long enough to garner fare to join Uncle William.”