Chapter 10
The breakfast parlor smelled faintly of freshly baked rolls, poached eggs and fried ham, the silence broken only by the dry crackle of a newspaper being turned.
Lord Blackmeer sat at the head of the table, one booted leg stretched long beneath the linen, his traveling coat exchanged for a dark green jacket of soft wool.
A silver coffee service stood before him, polished bright enough to catch the sun.
He had acquired the taste for coffee in the army and now preferred it to tea—strong, hot, and unsweetened—the only thing he could stomach before he faced the day.
The room itself seemed to hold its breath.
The footmen stationed by the walls stood as if carved from stone, their gazes fixed forward, not daring to move a muscle.
Even the butler, old Mr. Harding, looked somehow taller—his spine rigid, chin lifted with the gravity of serving the master on his first morning back at Westford Castle.
Each plate set down, each cup filled, was a ceremony.
William scarcely noticed them. He skimmed the columns of the Times without taking in a word. The black print blurred, the rhetoric of Parliament and dispatches from abroad dissolving into nothing. His mind had wandered elsewhere—against his will, against his judgment.
To her. He saw again the way her lips parted as she spoke, plush and ripe as if meant for kissing, the quickening flush, the earnest brightness in her eyes when she spoke of Tacitus as though she were born to scholarship.
He had not expected that, not from a governess dressed up like a lady for Charlotte’s amusement.
And yet—those eyes, clear and intelligent, had unsettled him almost more than her luscious curves.
He cursed under his breath and folded the paper sharply.
Charlotte. This was her doing. But for her meddling, he might never have noticed Jane Ansley at all—or not so immediately, not so ruinously.
Had she only remained in the schoolroom, quietly unseen, he might have passed his days in peace.
He had come to Westford Castle to recover, to rest after the campaigns, not to debauch young governesses.
But the thought would not be banished. In days past, he would have coaxed her with a smile, with soft words and practiced charm, until she yielded in secret.
He might have found some excuse to linger near her door, to slip inside under cover of night.
And if he wished it now, he could do the same—no one would gainsay him.
She held no position that could shield her.
He could bed her as often as he liked and the world would scarcely stir.
But he was not that man any longer. His rake’s days were behind him, left on the gaming floors and in the boudoirs of London.
He had earned respect and he meant to keep it.
He had not fought his way back into the good graces of society through battle and command, only to squander himself on such liaisons.
She was a temptation he could not afford.
The door opened. Charlotte swept in, muslin skirts whispering over the carpet, her expression still tinged with last night’s vexation. She settled herself on his right-hand side, and her eyes, bright in the morning light, were fixed on him with deliberate steadiness.
“You might at least look contrite, William,” she said at last.
He lifted his coffee cup. “For what?”
“For speaking to me like a schoolmaster with a cane,” she retorted. “You chastised me as though I were a difficult child, and talked to poor Miss Ansley as though she were less than nothing. She fled the room as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.”
William set the paper down entirely, his expression cooling. “Charlotte—”
“No,” she cut in, her shoulders squared in open defiance. “You forget yourself. This is still our father’s house. You are not the duke yet. To sit there glowering and issuing dismissals—who appointed you judge?”
His jaw tightened. “Someone must remind you of propriety. You dress up the governess in borrowed finery and parade her before me—what did you expect?”
“I expected you to behave like a gentleman,” she said crisply. “You might have corrected me without striking her down with your tongue. She had done nothing but answer you honestly, and you made her pay for it.”
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Perhaps I was… blunt.”
“Blunt?” Charlotte gave a little laugh that was all scorn. “You were cruel, William. Admit it. You made her run.”
His gaze flicked away to the tall windows and the gardens beyond. “I spoke too sharply,” he conceded at last; the words seemed dragged from him.
Charlotte’s face softened, but her tone did not. “Then do the proper thing and ask her forgiveness.”
William stared at her, incredulous. Apologize to the governess? The very notion was absurd. And to be left alone with her—God help him, nothing good would come of it. He was far more likely to do something that would demand a real apology than to manage one sincerely.
He folded the paper with deliberate care and laid it aside. “Let us not quarrel again, Charlotte,” he said evenly. “I have no wish to spend my first morning at Westford Castle in dispute.”
Her eyes mellowed, though her chin retained its stubborn tilt. “Nor I, brother. But you were harsh—harsh to me, and harsh to her.”
“She is just the governess,” he said, voice clipped.
“She is not only that,” Charlotte retorted swiftly. “Her grandfather was a viscount, and her uncle holds the title still. Her own line fell on hard times, but she is no peasant plucked from the fields. You speak as if I had dressed up a dairymaid. It was not so improper as you pretend.”
His mouth tightened, a grim curve. “You know very well that what you say is not true. Her bloodline matters little now. Whatever she once was, society sees her only as what she is—a dependent, in our employ. And that is what matters.”
Charlotte bristled, but he raised a hand, forestalling her. “Enough. I will not quarrel. But you must see this for what it is. You risked your reputation—and mine—by thrusting her forward. That must not happen again.”
For a moment the air between them held taut, like a string drawn to breaking. Then Charlotte inclined her head, the gesture slight but unmistakably yielding.
* * *
It had been several days since his arrival at Westford Castle, and—thank God—he had not laid eyes again on Miss Ansley.
His temper and his blood had cooled. Perhaps he had exaggerated her allure.
Perhaps she was no more distracting than any woman might be for a man denied indulgence as long as he had by war.
Had he been wise, he would have delayed his journey east, lingered instead in London a few weeks longer at Miss Nadia’s infamous House of Delights.
But had he stayed, his father would have dragged him to every ballroom in Mayfair before he’d even had time to wash the blood from his uniform.
He gave a bitter smile. In his youth no maid on the estate was safe from him; he would lift their skirts while they tended the fires, drag them into shadows and take his pleasure.
Dazzled by his handsome face, or cowed by his station—he never knew which.
They were heedless tumbles, thoughtless as a boy’s hunger left unchecked by an indifferent father.
Later, thanks to Ravensby, his tastes refined, giving way to more polished encounters.
Everyone believed Ravensby had corrupted him, but in truth the man had merely shown him how libertines of their rank conducted their affairs.
He took a turn in the gardens. The day was warm, the skies washed clear by the early summer sun.
Westford’s gardens—renowned throughout the county and beyond—were heavy with the perfume of roses, lilac, and peonies.
Already there were visitors at the far end of the lawns, where the public were permitted to wander, sketching the great fountains or strolling beneath the avenues of lime trees.
As he walked, a sound carried to him—a girlish voice, rising and falling in careful cadences.
Another voice followed, gentler, correcting, instructing.
He slowed. Ahead, spread upon a plaid blanket beneath the dappled shade of a chestnut, sat Lady Margaret with her governess.
A small table had been carried down for their books; Margaret read from it, her thin child’s tones serious and sweet, while Miss Ansley leaned beside her, listening intently, asking a question now and then.
He stilled, unseen for the moment, the sight hitting him hard.
Miss Ansley wore no daring silks today, only the severe dress of her station—dark calico, buttoned to her throat, her hair simply pinned.
Not a wrist nor the collarbone showed. And yet the memory of what lay beneath those stern lines rose too vividly before him.
The very concealment made him ache to tear the fabric aside.
He clenched his jaw, damning himself for a lecher. He was a fool to think of her so.
Margaret recited carefully, each word slow and deliberate: “Charity begins at home; for he that loveth not his own family, how shall he love his neighbor as himself?”
She hesitated, frowning. “But why was I not invited to William’s party? I am his sister too, am I not?”
“Of course you are, darling,” Miss Ansley soothed, her voice low. “But you are still very young. I am certain his lordship would have been glad to see you there.”
“He did not look glad to see me at all,” Margaret said stubbornly. “He hardly spoke to me since he came back. He is just like Mama and Papa, and Charlotte too. No one cares to spend time with me.”
“Oh, hush now,” Miss Ansley said softly. She slipped an arm around the child and drew her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair. “They all love you more than you can imagine.”
William’s first instinct was to step forward and rebuke them both—the schoolroom was the proper place for lessons, not the grass. But Margaret’s wounded tone gave him pause. He made himself known instead, striding forward with a smile.
“Margaret,” he said warmly.
His sister whipped about, swiping at her eyes with quick, proud hands, unwilling to let him see she had been on the verge of crying. His heart clenched at the sight. He remembered Charlotte at the same age, looking very much alike, blinking back tears in precisely that way.
He bent and ruffled Margaret’s hair lightly.
“You did not miss much, I promise you. The party was terribly dull. Mrs. Hughes’s daughters tortured us all with their singing.
Had I marched the pair of them to the front at Salamanca, the French would have surrendered on the instant—only to make the music stop. ”
Margaret gave a startled giggle, her face alight with mischief.
“There,” William said, satisfied. “Better, hm? And do not pout, little sister. We shall have a feast of our own—only family. You shall preside, and perhaps you may read us something. A poem, perhaps?” His gaze slid toward Miss Ansley, allowing himself the faintest smile. “Not Byron, though, if you please.”
“Of course not, my lord,” Miss Ansley said quickly, yet a betraying flush touched her cheeks.
William turned back to his sister. “But tell me—why are lessons conducted in the garden? When I was a boy, the schoolroom was thought good enough.”
“It is such a fine day,” Miss Ansley answered, her voice steady. “Better to be outside, than sit inside dreaming of being here and not listen at all. My father and I often walked as he taught me. I learned more in the air than ever I did at a desk.”
“It is true!” Margaret cried eagerly. “I know all sorts of things. Shall I show you, William? I can recite a fable—even now, if you like.” She looked at him with the desperate hope of a child longing for notice.
He regarded her closely. How had he not seen it before? The shape of her brow, the set of her eyes—so like his own, and nothing of her mother in her face. More than mere resemblance, she was his sister, in ways he had been blind to until now. His heart softened.
“Yes,” he said gently. “Let us hear it.”
Margaret stood very straight, clasped her hands, and began to recite. The words of Aesop fell from her lips, clear and confident, only once hesitating before she hurried on. When she finished, she smiled at him with shining eyes, her small chest rising and falling quickly.
William clapped his hands together, loud and decisive. “Bravo! Splendidly done. You will make something of yourself yet, Margaret, with such a sharp memory.”
Her pride was plain as sunlight, her cheeks glowing. She darted a glance at Miss Ansley, who beamed at her with quiet triumph. And William, watching them both, felt a warmth in his chest that startled him.