The Reunion by Sara Portman (40)

 

 

 

 

Lucy left Emma’s room and walked to the drawing room to recover both the book and shawl she had abandoned there prior to Emma’s sudden malady. As she walked, she lamented the loss of the opportunity to apply for the position of governess to the Ashby girls. She had never met Lord or Lady Ashby, but if Emma considered them friends, they were surely good, decent people. Though Lucy was reconciled to taking a position, she most definitely wished to avoid one in which she would be ill treated.

Several days had passed since Lady Ashby had mentioned to Emma her intent to employ a governess. She may well have already begun assessing potential candidates. If Emma insisted upon waiting much longer to aid Lucy in finding a position, this particular post was sure to be already taken.

Lucy sighed loudly as she turned the handle and pushed open one of the painted paneled doors that led to the drawing room, noting the household staff had efficiently whisked away the remnants of tea and closed up the room after she and Emma had fled so suddenly earlier. She crossed the room to retrieve the shawl and book and, as she did so, walked through a slanted column of light caused by the late afternoon sun shining through the windows. Each of the three tall windows opposite the door created such a column, giving the room odd, striped bands of shadow and light.

Lucy had not seen the room in such a state before. Sunlight saturated the room at midday, when it was commonly used, and by dinnertime lit tapers in the sconces would provide a weaker but equally warm source of light.

The household staff saw it this way. They saw it striped in fading afternoon sun, or fully engulfed in darkness before the sun rose or fires were lit. The tentacles of this thought took an odd, fixating hold on her. Was Emma right to caution her so sharply? Was she entering an entirely new realm? Lucy had never lived a life of privilege or luxury, but neither had she ever been a servant. Modest living and domestic service were two very different things.

It was only common sense to understand the lives of some occupants in this house would be unrecognizably different to the others depending on their station. Same house. Entirely different worlds.

She shook her head at the silly thought. She was already in a different world. She was a simple vicar’s daughter. She was no duchess, nor the daughter of a peer. Her life would not be unrecognizable because she came into a household like this one at a lesser station. Life at the parsonage house had never been so segmented. She was both family and domestic there, as were her mother and father.

As she picked up the book and shawl, she looked down and noted how the line between light and dark slashed across the front of her dress.

Where had all this fanciful thinking come from? Emma, well-intentioned though she may be, was wrong—Lucy was perfectly suited to a position as a governess. Yet, after one pleading conversation, here she stood, dancing in shadows, questioning her entire future.

My goodness. She shook her head. She was too practical for that.

She stared unseeingly at the shadow-striped floor and tapped her fingers on the cracked spine of her book. Emma would come around. She always eventually came around to Lucy’s sensible view of things. It was one of Emma’s best attributes, really. But would it be too late? Here—this evening—was a very good opportunity with a very good family.

Hmmm. She shifted her weight between her feet and continued the rhythmic tap of her fingers along the book in her hands. Perhaps all was not lost and she could at least build some sort of a start. She could not very well introduce the topic of needing a position at dinner, of course, but perhaps she could offer to play—exhibit her qualifications in pianoforte. Then the evening would not be a total loss.

“Are you lost?”

Good heavens.

Lucy spun about to discover she was not alone in the drawing room. She blinked. A man rose from a chair in the shadow-shrouded corner of the room and took several steps toward her. She could not make out all the details of his features, but he was tall and finely dressed.

She blinked again and looked back at the doorway through which she had come. Had he been there the entire time and she’d not even noticed him?

A heavy weight began to congeal inside her. She’d been staring at shadows and daydreaming like a ninny and had made a perfect idiot of herself in front of none other than Lord Ashby.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said in her most sensible tone, rushing to repair his impression that she must be a half-wit. “I was just retrieving my things. I had not realized the dinner hour was so nearly upon us.”

“Oh, I don’t believe it is upon us quite yet,” he said. “Worley summoned me early so that we might meet before dinner.”

His response was not unkindly given, and the tightness that had bunched around Lucy’s neck and shoulders upon his greeting unwound a bit—though not entirely. Of course he had come early to meet with the duke. They were political allies, were they not? They must meet regularly. Where was her head? If Lord Ashby had arrived only for dinner, he would be accompanied by his wife.

“It appears His Grace is a bit delayed, however,” he said, stepping forward into the slash of light.

“I apologize for disturbing you,” she said, nodding politely and gathering her book and shawl more tightly to her. She was conscious of wanting to make a positive impression with Lord Ashby, but how precisely did one going about doing such a thing after he had caught her woolgathering?

“I have the sense it is I who has disturbed your private thoughts, rather than you disturbing mine.”

Lucy groaned inwardly and felt the flush rising in her cheeks. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. It seems I was preoccupied.”

“No apology is necessary.”

He smiled at her. It was not a dismissal. It was…kind. Perhaps she hadn’t disturbed him. Perhaps he had waited some time and was happy for the distraction, however insignificant. He stepped back slightly and, even in the dim light, Lucy could see it was to allow his eyes to drop all the way to her feet before returning to her face as he took in her full measure. She squared her shoulders and did her best to appear both pleasant and deferential, as she presumed one should when being evaluated by a prospective employer.

“Are you always such a daydreamer?” he asked finally.

“I am not,” she assured him firmly. “I am usually quite sensible, as a matter of fact. I have always been reliable, I assure you. My mother has relied upon me from a very young age in aiding her in her work with parishioners in my village. I was never wayward or flighty as a child.”

A smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “No?”

“No, my lord, not at all.”

His only response was a mildly dubious lift of one brow. How was it that lords always managed to seem so…lordly? Lucy had simply stopped gaining height at the age of thirteen. She had felt small compared to nearly every person she had ever met, but compared to this broad-shouldered man who towered over her in heavy boots and dark coat, she felt positively elfin. How did one project competence and sensibility under these conditions?

“You are probably wondering who I am,” she said. “My name is Lucy Betancourt. I am…” She paused. She had begun to say she was a friend of the duchess, but amended her words. “I am at Worley House as companion to the duchess during her confinement.” Better that he see her as an employee, rather than a friend of the family.

“I am sure she is quite grateful for your companionship.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Perhaps because he seemed so kind, or perhaps because his expectant look demanded some continuation of the conversation, she added, “I am sorry to have intruded upon your wait, my lord, but perhaps it is fortuitous that I have done so.” Lucy smiled brightly at him, then faltered. Would Lord and Lady Ashby would prefer a stern governess? She amended her expression to a more neutral, less happy one. It would not do to appear overeager, after all.

She thought idly as she stood, not quite smiling, not quite scowling at the man, that Lady Ashby must be a particularly lovely woman. He was handsome enough to have set thousands of lashes fluttering across London before he was married, and with his title to match, he would have had his pick of any lady. His eyes were the dark gray of smoldering coals.

Those eyes, she realized, were staring at her in patent confusion. “Fortuitous in what manner?” he inquired.

She immediately regretted her choice to speak boldly, though the quirk of his brow did appear more amused than annoyed. There was no help for it now.

In for a penny, as they say…

“I am so terribly sorry to be presumptuous, my lord. I mean only that I am…that is, circumstances are such that I find I must…” Her flush deepened. Lucy looked up at the imposingly tall man with dark eyes and hair too perfectly unstudied to be accidental and knew without question that she was making an absolute fool of herself.

She had to get through it now that she had begun. Pleasant, but not eager, she reminded herself. Serious, but not stern. “As a matter of fact, I had hoped for an introduction as…well, you see, once I am no longer needed here, I will be in need of another position.”

She felt the heat in her cheeks rising and concentrating into burning splotches. Even as she knew she appeared more foolish with every word, she continued speaking, somehow unable to stop. “My Lord,” she said, stepping forward, “I apologize. It was very unconventional and impulsive for me to approach you in this manner, and I am sorry for it. It was poorly done of me, but I assure you I am not usually impulsive. I had hoped to make a positive impression when first we met.” She smiled bravely up at him, wishing fervently that he would somehow at least see the good intention behind her error.

Again, the eyebrow danced. This time his dark eyes danced as well. “Did you, now?” he asked, seeming more curious now that she’d explained.

She relaxed just a bit. At least he could see the humor in it. She considered it a boon that she had not been summarily dismissed. “Of course, my lord. I’m sure you can understand my desire to gain your favorable opinion.”

“You desire my favorable opinion?”

“Certainly.” She tilted her head to the side and peered up at him. “On what other basis would you select me, my lord?”

* * *

Bex Brantwood peered down at the pixie-sized person who stared back up at him with wide frost-blue eyes that matched her frock and decided he must have misheard the girl. “Select you?” he asked.

She bit her lip, drawing his gaze to her mouth, which was just as sweetly pink as her cheeks at that very moment. She looked like a fairy sprite—an odd, nonsensical fairy sprite who had wandered distractedly into the room and then calmly requested that he select her.

“You seem to know considerably more of me than I know of you,” he observed.

“Oh, of course, my lord,” she gushed, clasping her hands in front of her. “How thoughtless of me.” She ran her hands down the front of her frock and took a deep inhale of air before beginning. “I am the only daughter of the vicar in the village of Beadwell. I am a longtime acquaintance of the Duchess of Worley. I play both the pianoforte and harp and am widely read. At four and twenty, I have recently concluded that it is well past time I cease to be a burden to my parents and make some arrangement for my future, so you can understand how fortuitous it was to learn that your visit to the duke and duchess would be coinciding with my own.”

She exhaled. Good lord, how did she have breath left after that soliloquy?

He said nothing. So that was it. The poor vicar’s daughter from the local village had decided to arrange for her future and was importuning him to become that arrangement. So much boldness for such a little thing. At least she was honest. That was a bit braver than most girls who might have tried to lure him into a situation that compromised her and forced his hand.

Honesty or not, she had chosen the wrong mark. Security was the last thing he had to offer anyone. All attempts at marital arrangements concerning Bexley Brantwood had come to a definitive halt the previous year when his cousin, the true duke, had returned to claim the title. Clearly this poor girl was too naïve to realize Bex’s only remaining friends were gamblers, ladies of the night, and unscrupulous money lenders.

“I applaud you, dear, for your sensibility in addressing your future. You are young and pretty. Marriage to some amiable and stable young gentleman is, of course, what you should consider. For precisely that reason, I am unable to be of any assistance to you. I do wish you success in your pursuit.” With the briefest of smiles meant to punctuate the end of their conversation, Bex stepped aside so that she might be allowed to exit the room.

She remained standing in place, her eyes growing large as she comprehended his response. “Oh, no, my lord. I understand you might have concerns about taking me on if you believed I intended to marry, but I am much more…practical…than that.” Her cheeks flushed again and her smile took on a self-deprecating asymmetry. “I am well aware that without any family connections or dowry my marriage prospects are dismal indeed. When added to the fact that I am limited to my small village with no gentleman of marriageable age and the lack of funds for even a local season…I…well, I am resigned to my circumstances, sir.” She averted her eyes, but he could see the way her cheeks flamed to be laying bare these truths of her situation. “I understand I must be practical about my future and pursue other arrangements.”

Other arrangements? Christ. What had he stumbled into? Was this angelic sprite of a vicar’s daughter actually offering herself up to him as his mistress? Bex had received such offers in the past, but they were veiled invitations from the jaded London set, not blushing, flustered proposals from the daughters of country gentlemen.

She was very becoming in the way that a china doll is becoming—all pale porcelain and disastrously fragile. Her frost-blue eyes were anything but cold, however. They were quick. They darted everywhere and expressed everything. They had none of the veiled mystery she would need if she truly expected to spend her prettiest years moving from one protector to the next based upon their pocketbook rather than their likeability.

He tilted his head to one side. “So you’ve given up entirely on the prospect of marriage, have you?”

She nodded vehemently. “I have, my lord, and I assure you, I am quite enthusiastic about this next endeavor.”

Bex couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed aloud. This was becoming absurd. If he were a good man—a truly, good man—he would pat her on the head, send her on her way, and perhaps even have a good talk with her father once he’d done so.

Frankly, whatever she thought she knew of his reputation was inflated and he couldn’t afford her anyway, but still his conscience could not find any objection to at least humoring the girl for a few more minutes just to see what else she might say. She’d told him about her skill at the harp, for God’s sake. Who gave a fig whether their mistress could play the damned harp?

“You’re a bold bit of cake, aren’t you?”

She managed to look genuinely confused at his question. She took a small step backward. “I…I apologize,” she said. “I realize it was unforgivably impertinent of me to approach you.”

Don’t back away now, you little minx, he thought. Not now that you’ve put the proposal to me and I’ve not yet answered. She bit her lower lip and the action caught his attention. She was lovely. He had never been particularly drawn to the sweet and innocent, but never had it been offered up to him so audaciously. He regretted that he could not afford her in that moment, watching how her pink lower lip slid temptingly from the hold of white teeth. If he could, he would be quite tempted to accept.

Of course, she may not be as innocent as she appeared. It was very likely, he reasoned, that she was ruined already. That would certainly make a respectable marriage unlikely, wouldn’t it? He looked at her again, hints of her dainty shape visible beneath her prim pastel gown. He wondered whether her boldness would manifest itself in the bedroom, then the unexpected thought captured his imagination.

His body heated at the visions that assailed him and he stepped toward her. “I respect your self-sufficiency and…shall we say, ingenuity… Miss Betancourt. I cannot in good conscience deny you without a fair trial,” he coaxed.

She eyed him warily. “A fair trial?” she asked. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“A sample of your skills, perhaps?” he said, warming more and more to the idea.

“My skills?” she asked, her eyes wide with uncertainty. “I…I could play for you, I suppose.”

His grin widened. “I do not require a musical audition.” The more wolfish he felt, the more visibly apprehensive she became. She had approached him, had she not?

“There are more applicable skills to consider,” he said, and catching her around her doll-sized waist with one arm, he dropped his mouth to hers in a searing kiss.