The Governess Was Wanton (8 page)

As though reading her mind, Lord Asten lifted his arm from her waist and slowly, tantalizingly, slid one finger inside her. Her hips rose, her head shot up, and she clenched the edge of the bench. Looking down her body, a disarray of exposed skin and crumpled silk, she watched as he moved with her, his tongue flicking at her in the same rhythm as his finger slid in and out of her body. Then, when she almost couldn't stand it any longer, he cast a devilish gaze up at her, and Mary shattered like a bulb of glass blown too thin.

A strangled cry rose up from her throat and she shamelessly moved against the earl's mouth, wordlessly begging him never to stop.

But as her body came down from the impossible heights he'd pushed her to, she became aware of what this all must look like. There she was, a masked woman laid out on a bench in the middle of a stranger's garden, her skirts around her waist and her bodice half down her chest.

She unlocked her stiff fingers from around the edge of the bench. A lady would cover herself and run, fleeing from her ruination. But Mary couldn't seem to muster the energy to care. She'd felt real pleasure for the first time in her life, and now that she had a taste for it, she didn't know how she'd ever go back.

It was Lord Asten who finally began to set her to rights again. He drew her drawers back up her legs and smoothed down the tapes and wires of her crinoline, laying her beautiful, borrowed dress down over it. He slipped her corset back up and pulled her sleeves into place. Then, slowly, he pushed up on his knees until he could kiss her again.

It was a sweet kiss this time, but it smoldered deep inside her nonetheless.

“Thank you,” he murmured against her lips.

“I didn't do anything,” she said with a little laugh.

“You did more than enough.” His arms went around her waist and she scooted to the side so that her hip pressed up against his stomach and she could lay her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair just above where her mask was still snug in place.

He tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. “I want to see you again,” he said, his low voice reverberating through his chest.

But before she could answer, a distant bell began to toll. Midnight. She had to leave or risk being locked out of the house. Then she would have to appear on the front step, asking to be let in while wearing her distinctive dress, mask in hand. The earl would know exactly who she was and that she'd pretended to be something she wasn't. A woman of quality. A woman of standing. A woman who could have walked right into the marquis's ball without a second thought because she'd actually been invited.

The bell tolled again, and she jerked away.

“I'm sorry,” she said in a rush, gathering her skirts in her hands. “I must go. It's better this way.”

“Wait! Your name!” he called as the bell tolled again, but she could hardly hear him. She was running as fast as her feet could carry her through the marquis's garden, trying to ignore the four words that raced through her head over and over again:
What have I done?

Asten watched the woman run away from him in a flurry of star-strewn silk. He sat down heavily on the bench that was still warm from her body.

What had he been thinking? He'd tempted a woman out into a shadowed garden only to lift her skirts and lick her until she fell apart in his arms. He didn't do those sorts of things. He was a solid, steady man, not some rake who bed-hopped around town with willing widows and married ladies whose husbands had long neglected them.

And yet he couldn't bring himself to regret what he'd done. For the first time in years, he felt truly alive. His mystery woman was like a dream—a temptress sent to pull out a side of him he hadn't indulged in a very long time. She was pure passion and pleasure. The way she'd cried out when she climaxed—he was still hard thinking about it. He wanted that in his life. It was as though she'd pulled the black cloth from over his eyes and shown him the truth.

He'd accidentally fallen into a sort of monklike life nearly devoid of passion. All of his efforts focused on the things that gave him honor: his daughter, his work, his estate. But then—with all the subtlety of a hammer swinging through a pane of glass—Miss Falsum had gone and smashed that all to bits.

Of course, now he had to go back home and see the woman who'd prompted this streak of wildness in him. His mystery woman might be fantasy, but Miss Woodward was as real as could be. He'd hoped to distract himself from the beguiling governess with a kiss, but even in the midst of passion she'd never been far from his mind. He'd tried to lose himself in this mysterious woman for a moment, but there Miss Woodward was in little gestures and quirks of tone. The two women were inextricably linked in his mind, and it was bound to drive him mad.

Asten's head fell into his hands, and he gave in fully to his frustration. But then something caught his eye—a scrap of white lying innocently on the gravel of the path. He picked it up. A lady's handkerchief. He ran his fingers over the lawn and the embroidered edge. Around the outside of the scrap of cloth ran an elaborate vine stitched in green. The design came together in one corner, ending with a large pink flower—
Hedera helix
and
Pelargonium quercifolium
. Ivy and geranium. It was unusual and distinctive and he had no doubt in his mind that it was hers.

A smile slid over his lips as he climbed the stairs to return to the ballroom. She hadn't given him her name, but she'd left something of herself behind. He toyed with the handkerchief when he made his way through the crowd, hardly seeing the crush of people around him. It wasn't until he came upon his daughter that he realized his dreamlike state.

“There you are, Papa,” said Eleanora.

Realizing he still held the lady's handkerchief, he gripped it in his balled-up fist and shoved his hand behind his back. “Where is Lady Laughlin?”

Eleanora nodded over his shoulder. He turned and spotted the baroness speaking with the Duke of Raleigh, daughters in tow. It was for the best, really. He sensed that no matter how well he hid his high color and soaring mood, Lady Laughlin would figure it out.

“Did you have a nice dance with Lord Blakeney?” he asked his daughter.

Eleanora gave him a look. “I did when I danced with him nearly an hour ago.”

Nearly an hour? He couldn't help the prickle of heat—embarrassment and pleasure—that rolled through him when he realized that he'd diverted his Miss Falsum for that long.

“What is it you've got behind your back?” his daughter asked.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Papaaa.” She managed to draw out the last “a” in such a way that he knew there was no arguing with her.

“Hasn't anyone told you not to poke your nose into your father's affairs?” he asked.

His daughter laughed. “You have no affairs to poke around in.”

Isn't that the truth.
Except not any longer.

“It isn't that you're boring,” Eleanora was saying.

Boring? He'd just made a woman scream with ecstasy in a garden. He was the very opposite of boring.

But of course he couldn't tell his daughter that. He couldn't tell
anyone
that.

Instead he held up the handkerchief. “It seems that Miss Falsum dropped this. I had thought to return it, but I can't seem to find her.”

Eleanora's eyes fixed on the cloth, and her lips thinned before curving into a tiny smile. “I believe Miss Falsum has left. Where did you say you found it?”

“Just on the floor,” he said, sweeping his arm vaguely back over half the ballroom. “Since she's your friend, I thought you might know how to return it. It seems the noble thing to do.”

Except none of his intentions toward the woman who dropped it were noble. The taste of her was gone from his tongue, and he wanted more.

“I'm afraid Miss Falsum's residence is quite the mystery to me. I only see her rarely at balls like this one,” Eleanora said as she picked up her dance card. “If you'll excuse me, I believe Lord Lilmer has this dance.”

A short, distinguished-looking man approached Eleanora and offered her his hand. Asten hung back and slipped the handkerchief into his pocket. He would find the woman who dropped it, but until then he'd carry with him the reminder that passion could still fire his blood.

Chapter Eight

The day after the ball, Mary sat in the drawing room across from Lord Asten and Lady Eleanora trying her very best not to blush beet red. She'd never been one for embarrassment, and she was discovering it was a thoroughly annoying emotion. But really, what could she do when every time she looked at the earl she became wet between her legs? It was undignified and thrilling and she wanted to feel his tongue against her again more than anything in the world.

She'd willfully forgotten her position the night before. That was the only explanation for the insanity that had gripped her, broken when the church bell began to toll the midnight hour. She'd jumped up, pushing away from Lord Asten, because if she didn't she might never leave his arms. Then she ran as if the hounds of hell were on her heels until she reached the street. The shocked driver of a parked hansom cab had tossed his cheroot away and taken her back to Belgrave Square with no questions about why she'd emerged from what amounted to nothing more than a hole in a hedge edging a grand home.

Mercifully, no one had seen her as she stole in through the servants' entrance of Asten House and up the back stairs to her room. She shut the door, ripped off the dress, and stuffed it far back into the little cabinet that held her neatly folded garments. Realizing that she still wore her mask, she tore at the black silk ribbons and threw it down onto the bed. Gasping for air, she allowed herself five minutes to worry about what she was going to do if she were ever caught. Then, with the brutal efficiency of a woman who'd managed other people's lives for years, she shoved the panic aside and stopped making a spectacle of herself. Lord Asten would never know that the woman who'd danced with him and then encouraged his seduction was living under his roof.

But then there was the problem of her handkerchief. Missing. She remembered touching it in her bodice when she slipped through the open French doors and into the ball, but when she awoke that morning it was nowhere to be found. She'd shaken out the ball gown and all of her linen. Nothing.

It was silly to worry, really. A casual stranger who picked it up wouldn't be able to trace it back to her. No one ever paid enough attention to the family governess to remark on her accessories.

Yet despite all of her reassurances, she couldn't quite shake the edge of fear that it might be found in the marquis's garden and traced to her.

In the evening she'd look again through her things, but for now she had to quiet her mind because this afternoon wasn't about her or the lost handkerchief or even the rapaciousness the earl seemed to have released in her. Instead it was all about Lady Eleanora, for Lord Blakeney had asked her father's permission to call when Lord Asten had rejoined the ball.

“Miss Woodward,” said Lord Asten, pulling her attention away from her silent worries. “Do you know, I think my daughter would've danced through her slippers last night if she'd had the chance.”

A small smile touched Lady Eleanora's lips. “I've rarely had such a full dance card.”

It wasn't any wonder to Mary. Her charge had practically sparkled with confidence when she danced. Yesterday, Lady Eleanora had been her true self—charming and beautiful and intelligent. The woman London was meant to see.

“Aren't you glad you went after all?” Lord Asten asked.

“Papa,” Lady Eleanora said with a note of censure of which only seventeen-year-old debutantes have a true mastery.

“Have it as you will,” he said, sliding his eyes over to meet Mary's.

She tried her hardest not to recall how those same eyes—open and honest with his desire—had fixed on her as she came apart just hours ago. Except that the harder she tried to push the images from her mind, the stronger they became.

This was going to be a very long afternoon indeed.

“And what of your night, Papa? Have you thought about how you might locate Miss Falsum?” asked Lady Eleanora.

Mary's back stiffened.
What is she doing?

“I haven't yet, no,” said the earl. “Where did you say you first met her?”

“I really couldn't say,” said Lady Eleanora, dutifully ignoring Mary.

“It shouldn't be too difficult to find her,” said Lord Asten. “There are a few matrons who seem to know everyone in London. Unless Miss Woodward has come across her at one of her previous positions?”

She painted on a curious smile despite the horrible questions playing out in her mind. “I don't believe I'm acquainted with a lady of that name. Might I ask why you need to find her?”

To ravish her. To undo her. To let her ruin herself.
She'd settle for any of those answers.

“I wish to return something of hers,” said the earl.

Dread crashed over her, and she couldn't help gripping the arms of her chair. Lord Asten had her handkerchief. If he found out what she'd done, her reputation, her respect, everything she'd built up would be gone the moment he turned her out of the house.

“Your dancing together had the rather enjoyable consequence of angering Lady Laughlin,” Lady Eleanora continued.

“Eleanora,” he cautioned.

“It's a wonder Lady Laughlin didn't bite Miss Falsum's head off,” the girl added merrily.

But before he could chastise his daughter, the front bell rang.

Lady Eleanora's teacup clattered back into its saucer. “He's here.”

Sure enough, Warthing announced Lord Blakeney's arrival, and the young man came striding into the room, a bouquet of pure white lilies in his hand. As soon as he spotted Lady Eleanora, his eyes lit up like a man seeing the sun after a long, hard winter.

“Lady Eleanora, Lord Asten, thank you for welcoming me to your home,” said Lord Blakeney with a well-practiced bow.

“The pleasure is ours, isn't it, Eleanora?” her father asked with a smile. “Please allow me to introduce Miss Woodward, my daughter's governess.”

“Miss Woodward.” The suitor nodded respectfully to her.

“Are those for me?” asked Lady Eleanora, eyeing the flowers with a shy smile.

Lord Blakeney thrust the flowers out in front of him awkwardly. “Oh! Of course. Yes, for you.
Lilium candidum
. That is to say—”

“Madonna lilies,” she said as she took the proffered bouquet and breathed in their heady scent deeply. “They're lovely.”

“You know the Latin name?” Lord Blakeney asked.

“That's Papa's doing. We keep a greenhouse in London and a beautiful garden in the country, and he teaches me botany every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon when his work doesn't pull him away.”

“They reminded me of you. They're white like your dress was, you see. And I suppose the moonlight, but mostly your dress,” Lord Blakeney fumbled, explaining himself.

Lord Asten's eyes flicked to Mary's as she suppressed a laugh. If Lady Eleanora and Lord Blakeney weren't engaged by the end of June, she'd eat her best bonnet.

“Lord Blakeney,” she said as the besotted pair stared at one another, “you must be parched.”

“Oh yes! Would you care for a cup of tea?” Lady Eleanora asked.

“Very much, thank you. And perhaps a tea cake?” asked the young man hopefully.

“Cook loves nothing more than to show off her skills with confections,” said Lord Asten. “Please make yourself at home. We can be quite informal in this house when we're among friends.”

The doorbell rang once again.

Lady Eleanora frowned. “That's odd. Lucy and Sophie were going to come tomorrow.”

“Perhaps you mixed up the dates, my dear,” said her father.

“Maybe,” the girl said slowly. “Unless—”

“Lady Laughlin and her daughters, Miss Laughlin and Miss Cordelia,” intoned Warthing from the doorway.

This must be a joke,
Mary thought as Lady Laughlin and her daughters brushed past Warthing and into the room.

“Lord Asten, what a ball we had last night!” the woman cried as she sailed up to the earl and clasped his hands in hers.

The blood roared in Mary's ears. Who was this woman who had the gall to walk into this house, intruding on Lord Blakeney's call when it was a Friday and Lady Eleanora made it well known around town that she took calls only on Tuesdays and Saturdays? And then there was the little matter of that brush of palms. Her jealousy was visceral as she watched that woman touch Lord Asten, when all she could do was look from afar and remember.

It was too much.

“Oh! Lord Blakeney,” said Lady Laughlin, a hand falling to her breast, “Una was just saying what a pleasure it was to dance with a man who is so confident in his steps.”

“That is most kind of you, ma'am,” the young man said, but Mary thought she detected a droop in his polite smile.

“And you brought Lady Eleanora flowers,” said Lady Laughlin in an all-too-condescending tone. “What a lovely gesture. It's always a thrill for a young lady to get her first bouquet.”

“I expect it will be one of many we'll need vases for after last night's masque,” Mary said, icing her voice with sweetness to cover the bite of her words.

Lady Laughlin pressed her lips into a thin smile. “Oh, Miss Woodward. You're here again.”

“Where else would I be?” she asked.

“Your governess is extraordinarily plainspoken, my lord.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Asten draw himself up. Her stomach fluttered and she hoped she wasn't about to be dressed down. Not in front of this shrew of a woman.

“I encourage Miss Woodward to give her opinion freely while she is living under this roof. She's become invaluable to us in such a short time,” said the earl.

A flush of pleasure coursed through her, but she tried to hold herself in check. “Invaluable” was how people described their staff. She wasn't a member of this family. If she didn't cling to that reality, she'd be swept away in daydreams, and no good could come of that.

“That is generous, sir,” Lady Laughlin said with false sweetness. “After all, it must be so difficult for Miss Woodward to hear all of this talk of balls and parties and dresses. Perhaps you'll be able to dance at the servants' ball at Rose Hollow this Christmas. If you'd been a gentleman's daughter—”

“I was a gentleman's daughter.” Whether she wanted it or not, she now had everyone's attention and she wasn't going to waver. Mary might not be a baroness, but she wasn't meek. She hadn't become one of London's most-respected governesses by trembling in the face of insult. Instead, she stood up for herself, solid and steady and immovable. She was a woman of principle. She would not be cowed.

“Was?” Lady Laughlin asked with relish. “I do hope this is a shocking story. I love a little scandal in the drawing room from time to time.”

“There's very little to tell. My father was a cotton merchant who bankrupted himself before he died,” Mary said, remembering the shame of learning there wasn't money to keep the house heated, the servants paid, and the larder stocked. “My mother did what she could to scrape together an existence for us.”

Perhaps she did too much.
She couldn't help the lump in her throat at the memory of her mother, the merry widow. As though she'd ever forget it. The unmarked carriages standing a few houses down the street until all hours of the night. The ghost of gentlemen's cigars in her mother's sitting room. The miraculous discovery of a little meat for the table the day after one of their visits. Lady Laughlin was right. It
was
scandalous, and every one in Manchester knew it. Every cut direct from the people the Woodwards had once called friends stung like vinegar poured on an open wound.

“Miss Woodward,” Lady Eleanora said softly, but she shook her head. If Lady Laughlin was going to insult her, she was going to know exactly whom she was contending with.

“My mother managed to remarry, except her new husband didn't want another man's daughter,” she continued. “I was sent to school, but after a year, the money for tuition and board stopped coming. I wrote to my old cook and found out my mother had sailed for Jamaica, where her husband had a plantation. I had no living relatives to take me in. No friends. Nothing. They just left me behind.

“I chose to work because my alternative was to starve. I may never have experienced the dresses and balls you speak of, Lady Laughlin, but believe me when I tell you I'm not ashamed of the woman I've made myself into.”

The clearing of Lord Blakeney's throat broke the tension in the room. “Your story shows an incredible character, Miss Woodward.”

“And it does not go unnoticed in this house,” Lord Asten followed, his gaze fixed on hers as though he could see deep into her soul—into the scarring hurt of abandonment. “Anyone who takes issue with your history shall answer to me.”

The earl couldn't know what those words did to her. They lingered on his lips like a promise.
You have a home
here.
You're wanted
here
.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“That's quite the gripping story,” said Lady Laughlin, sounding not the least bit interested. “You could tell it on the street corners for coins.”

This time the earl stepped forward, positively glowering. “I'm certain it wasn't your intention to be cruel, Lady Laughlin, but you may wish to recast your words.”

The anger in his voice shot through Mary. It was as hard as iron with just a hint of possessiveness, and it thrust her thoughts back to the night before. To what they'd done. To the way he'd whispered to her and how glorious she'd felt in his arms.

A high, thin laugh broke from Lady Laughlin's lips. “Oh, sir, I jest. I'm the first to know that we must take pity on those less fortunate than us. To be abandoned by one's own mother . . .” The tall clock next to the door began to chime the hour. “Oh! Una and Cordelia, we must be going.”