Desiring the governess, p.11
Desiring the Governess, page 11
He should tell her.
His stomach churned at the very idea. To admit what he wanted, meant that he’d have to be honest about his marriage proposal. Then he’d have to admit that he’d known from the beginning that she’d run away and the reason why. Once he confessed all, no doubt she’d feel betrayed, and then there was nothing he’d be able to say or do to win her back.
Bloody hell! He’d made a mess of things.
After the dishes had been set before him, Preston nodded to the footman to leave them alone.
“Is all well, Miss Claywell?”
“Yes. Thank you for asking,” she answered.
Silence hung while he tried to think of something to say. Should he address what had occurred in the garden? “Do I owe you an apology?”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Lord Melcombe.”
Her answer was short and gave him no indication that she wished to engage in further conversation.
Blast!
Perhaps he should offer a compliment. That may soften her toward him. Preston just as quickly discarded the idea. If a kiss caused her to withdraw, flattery might lead her to give notice.
Bloody hell! Why was it so difficult to court a woman?
“Excuse me, Lord Melcombe, but the girls have returned and there’s been an injury,” Mrs. Wilson interrupted.
Preston rose from his seat immediately, as did Miss Claywell, both abandoning their meals.
“Which child?” he demanded.
“Miss Winifred, I’m afraid. She’s being carried to her room.”
Preston paused in the foyer to note his other nieces standing with Charlotte. “What happened?” he demanded.
Charlotte winced.
He really must watch his tone. The females in his life were not soldiers to be ordered about.
“I apologize,” he quickly said. “What occurred and how badly is she injured?”
“Winifred was skipping toward the foyer when her toe caught on a rug and she went flying, striking her head on a step.”
Beside him, Miss Claywell gasped.
“I sent for Dr. Forester right away,” Charlotte explained.
“You should have sent for me,” Preston added.
“I wasn’t certain how serious her injuries were. Other than a cut, and a few tears, she appeared to be otherwise unharmed.”
Charlotte still should have sent word to him. Winifred was his responsibility.
“I am certain she is going to be fine,” Miss Claywell said as she placed a hand on his arm, which managed to calm Preston almost immediately.
“Dr. Forester bandaged her up and was not concerned, but Winifred wanted to come home.”
“Are you certain there is no fear of a head injury?” Preston worried. There were those in battle who suffered concussions and blindness after being struck in the head and Winifred was only a five-year-old girl.
“Dr. Forester assured me that he is not concerned,” Charlotte insisted gently. “If anything, she might suffer a minor headache, and soreness, but that is all.”
Preston blew out a sigh of relief. “Thank you for bringing them home, Charlotte.”
“I’m sorry that she was injured, Preston. It happened so quickly.”
“As it usually does with Winifred,” he assured her. “I don’t blame you Charlotte, I simply panicked.”
She chuckled. “As a parent would.”
He just wished Winifred’s parents were here to see to her care. Instead, it was him and he still had no idea how to raise five girls.
“I’ll go check on her,” Miss Claywell said. “I’ll see that she’s settled into her bed and ask if she needs anything.”
Preston would like to remind Miss Claywell that she was the governess, not the maid, but he was also glad that she was going to care for Winifred, as a mother would. Or, how he hoped his future wife would respond.
She’d only known the girls a short time, but Althea experienced the same panic within that she heard in Lord Melcombe’s voice when they learned how Winifred had been injured. She tried to calm him, even though she wasn’t calm herself, and at the first opportunity excused herself to check on the child.
When she reached Winifred’s chamber, the maid was assisting her into a nightgown, then tucked her into bed.
Althea pulled up a chair and looked down at the little girl. A bandage was wrapped around her head, but no blood was visible so hopefully, the cut wasn’t too long or deep.
“How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts.”
“I’m sure it will be gone in the morning.”
“Ah, Fred,” Lord Melcombe said as he entered the room.
Winifred giggled.
“Did you hit your head hard enough that you are back to wanting to be called Fred?”
Althea hadn’t even been aware the child had a nickname at one time.
She just shrugged and smiled.
Lord Melcombe settled on the side of the bed and brushed the hair from her face, then lifted the lamp, holding it close to her eyes.
He was checking the pupils, sometimes the only symptom of a head injury.
“Uncle Preston?” Winifred complained and squinted her eyes shut.
“I’m just assuring myself of your health, despite your injury.”
Althea glanced up and searched his features.
“Your eyes are fine, little one.”
“I know. I can see,” Winifred said.
“Is there anything that I can get you, Winifred, or are you ready to go to sleep?” Althea asked.
“Read to me? Tales of Mother Goose.”
Lord Melcombe frowned. “Mother Goose?”
“A collection of tales by Charles Perrault entitled Tales and Stories of the Past with Morals, subtitled Tales of Mother Goose.”
“The Fairies,” Winifred said.
“Very well,” Althea opened the book and began to read, but only got to the third page before Winifred was sound asleep. Althea went to close the book, but Melcombe held out his hand as if he wanted it.
“You’ve not read Perrault?”
“I have, and if I recall correctly, some portions in the stories are rather gruesome.”
“I promise that I skip over what I find unpleasant and inappropriate for a child of five. In this story, I would have ended it with the nasty sister having frogs and serpents come out of her mouth because she wasn’t nice to the fairy, and not the part about the prince wanting to marry the nice sister only because of her beauty and that every time she spoke, she produced a diamond or pearl.”
“She’s only five, and that’s not very disturbing. Not like cutting off toes to fit into slippers.”
Althea winced at how far the step-sisters went so that they could fit into the glass slipper. “I think it’s important not to encourage marriage for shallow reasons,” Althea said. “The prince wanted the nice daughter only because of beauty and wealth while knowing nothing about her. Much like London society.”
“I see your point,” Melcombe chuckled. “I hope that each of my nieces is just as discerning when it comes time for them to wed.” Then he sobered and looked down on Winifred. “Yet, how well can one come to know another with such limited courtship?” He asked quietly, almost in a contemplative tone.
“It can be difficult,” Althea admitted. Turns about a room, walks in a park with a maid always present, a dance, and an afternoon call of limited duration did make it difficult to truly come to know someone. Yet, Althea had been certain that she’d been falling in love with Lord Melcombe after they’d walked in Hyde Park. “I suppose one must also rely on instinct.”
“My father told me that a soul will recognize their mate long before the head and heart decide,” Melcombe whispered as he brushed Winifred’s hair away from her bandaged forehead.
“I do believe there is truth to that statement. The happier couples of my acquaintance are those who, as they put it, just knew. The unhappy couples are the ones who believed connections to be far more important than the heart.” She couldn’t believe they were whispering this discussion over a sleeping five-year-old.
“Have you yet met that person that you, as others have said, just knew?”
They’d not had a serious conversation on this subject before and Althea wished that he’d look at her instead of Winifred. She also desperately wanted to answer, you, but didn’t dare. She still had no idea of his feelings toward her other than a desire to kiss her. Nor could she lie to him. “I prefer not to answer the question.”
Did she dare ask him? Did she want to know? If he said no, then she’d know her place. It would be for the best, but she wasn’t prepared for the disappointment. If he said yes, then she’d want to know who.
They shouldn’t be having such an intimate conversation, especially here.
“I think it’s possible,” he said quietly and then finally glanced back to her. Althea noted the intensity in his blue eyes and her heart leapt, but he made no declaration with regard to her. Althea quashed her hope. At least she would for now so as not to be truly disappointed in the future.
“I will stay with her Lord Melcombe. You do not need to sit here,” Althea offered quietly and as a way to change the subject before she admitted to something that she should keep to herself.
If she wasn’t mistaken, disappointment flashed in his blue eyes. Oh, she wished she knew what to say, but Althea was at a loss and fearful of revealing too much too soon, if ever.
“I’ll remain. I want to assure myself that Fred will be fine through the night.”
“Is there a concern?” Did he see something in her eyes that worried him?
“I’ve witnessed too many soldiers suffer injuries after striking their head, when it was thought all was well.” He pulled the blanket up to Winifred’s chin. “I am being over cautious.”
“Fred?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “When Theodora decided that she preferred Teddy, Winifred decided she wished to be called Fred. But when Matilda hated being called Tilly, Winifred decided she wanted to be called by her full name.” He looked over at the sleeping child. “In time she’ll decide what she thinks fits her best.”
“Well, then I’ll bid you goodnight,” Althea offered, then quit the room, leaving Melcombe sitting beside his niece, much like a father might do when worried about their child.
She sighed and leaned back against her chamber door once inside her set of rooms. Handsome, caring, kind and so much more described her employer. It was no wonder that Miss Halton may have attempted to seduce him if that had been the case.
That was the situation because she couldn’t imagine Melcombe being the seducer.
Except he had kissed her today.
With another sigh, Althea wandered to her bed and settled.
It really didn’t matter who was the seducer, it mattered how she responded.
Chapter 13
Winifred slept through the night and woke in good spirits, much to his relief. He insisted that she remain in bed until a maid could assist her in dressing. He feared dizziness and didn’t wish for her to be alone, but he shouldn’t be the one getting her ready for the day.
Preston knew that he was being overly cautious, and there had been nothing to indicate that her head had been concussed, but that fear had clutched hold of his heart and he needed to remain by her side through the night.
While his youngest niece was happy and alert, Preston was still tired as he hadn’t slept well. The chair in which he’d spent the night was not meant for sleeping. After turning his niece over to the maid, Preston made his way to his own chamber and crawled in bed to rest just for a bit before he began his day, but when he wakened, it was well into the morning.
After his valet helped him dress, Preston made his way downstairs and hoped that Cook had set something aside from breakfast but was distracted by the laughter coming from the parlor.
“Do you know what today is, Uncle Preston?” Winifred called from her place upon the settee. She was covered in a blanket and leaning against a pillow.
“Does your head still pain you?” he asked with concern.
“No,” she answered. “But my knee hurts.” It was then that she pushed the blanket away and lifted her skirt only enough to see her knee.
“She hadn’t realized that she’d injured it until she tried to walk this morning,” Miss Claywell explained.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, then remembered his tone. “I apologize,” he said quickly as he crossed to Winifred. The dark purple discoloring above the swelling on her knee gave rise to concern. “Can you move your leg?” he asked, then lifted her foot to bend her leg. Winifred winced but didn’t cry out, thank goodness. He didn’t wish to cause her pain, but he needed to know the extent of the injury, and a doctor would have done no less. “Where is the pain?”
Winifred pointed to the bruised area.
“Can you put weight on your leg?” he asked gently.
“I can walk, but it hurts.”
If it were broken, it’s unlikely she’d be able to walk at all, therefore, Winifred likely only suffered a deep bruise that would take time to heal.
“I’ve sent for Dr. Forester,” Miss Claywell explained. “I’m certain that it will heal in time but thought to be cautious.”
He smoothed the dress back over Winifred’s knee and covered her with the blanket.
“Should I have awakened you?” Miss Claywell asked with worry.
“No. I tend to lose my manners when one of my nieces is injured,” he explained. “It’s not a serious injury,” Preston admitted, though he would like the physician to examine Winifred so that they knew how to properly treat the injury. He then glanced at his nieces who were taking down the Christmas greenery. “I worry. Too much, I suppose.”
“You are still new at being a guardian,” she reminded him. “In time, it will get easier.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Miss Claywell. In three short years, I’ll be taking Delia to London, which scares me more than any battle I found myself in.”
She chuckled. “It won’t be so bad.”
It would be easier if Miss Claywell was by his side.
“Why are you stripping the greenery?” he finally asked. Preston always assumed the maids and footmen saw to returning the home to rights following the holidays.
“We’ve always seen to the parlor, library, entry, and dining room,” Matilda answered.
“It’s to keep us from getting underfoot while Cook and the others are busy making the feast,” Teddy added.
“And the cakes,” Winifred cried with happiness.
Now he remembered. When he was a child, the house wasn’t stripped of its greenery until Candlemas, but the year after Delia was born, some dried greenery had caught fire after a candle tipped. It had scared his sister-in-law enough that she ordered that greenery was now to be stripped on Twelfth Night. As the girls grew older, they started helping with the chore, as he had last year.
If Cook and the others were already working on the Twelfth Night meal, then it was unlikely they’d welcome him asking for something to break his fast.
“Coffee and scones, Lord Melcombe,” the butler announced, carrying in a tray. “I’m afraid this is all Cook can offer at this time.”
“Thank you, Jackson. It will suffice.”
He sat and poured a cup of coffee, then bit into a scone as he watched his nieces and Miss Claywell remove the greenery draped across the fireplace mantel and edged about the doors and windows. He really should help them, but he was also in need of sustenance.
Most of the evergreen around the entry was loosened, except at the very top. Beneath it stood Miss Claywell, hands on her hips as if she was trying to determine how to dislodge it as she was unable to reach it.
“I’ll get it down, Miss Claywell,” he said after taking another sip.
“No bother,” she dismissed and disappeared across the entry, only to return with a chair. As soon as he realized her intent, Preston was on his feet, moving in her direction, but it was too late. Miss Claywell had climbed up on the chair, was stretching, but upset the balance and was soon tumbling. He caught her just in time.
The shock of having her in his arms was quickly expelled as need arose. If possible, the desire for her was more powerful than that last waltz when he’d pulled her close to keep her from stumbling.
He simply stared at her, not certain what to do. He knew he should let her go, but Preston couldn’t make his arms obey the command. Nor did she pull away from him. Instead, she stared up, her green eyes wide with shock, then darkening as her hands tightened on his shoulders and her lips parted.
“Kiss her,” Winifred called.
“Winifred.” Delia’s hiss was sharp.
Yet, their words were enough to break the spell that Preston seemed to be under, and he slowly let go of Miss Claywell, making certain that she found her footing.
“You are under a kissing bough,” Lila exclaimed. “You are supposed to kiss.”
“What?” Preston asked and looked up. They were indeed standing beneath the mistletoe. He hadn’t even been aware it was there as it had been hidden behind the evergreen.
“Uncle Preston can’t kiss the governess. It simply isn’t done,” Matilda insisted.
“Of course not,” Miss Claywell agreed as she stepped away, smoothing her gown as her face grew pink.
Althea wished she could just disappear.
The moment she fell into Melcombe’s arms, everything else faded as sensations engulfed her.
First shock, then need and desire. Althea had focused on his lips, strong and so close, and she’d been contemplating leaning in closer, to touch hers to his when Winifred called out.
How could she have forgotten herself so quickly, or that five girls were in the parlor, where they could see her, not to mention that servants were about.
Goodness, her face was on fire from embarrassment.
She needed an excuse to leave until she could regain her composure. Glancing at the greenery piled on the floor she quickly scooped it up. “I’ll take this out to be burned,” she announced. “It must all be burned before midnight, isn’t that what you told me.” She hoped that her voice was calm and did not betray her embarrassment, or that nobody noted that she was suddenly speaking too quickly and with forced happiness.
