Chapter Nine
R ory was nervous about dinner. Ridiculous that he should be nervous to dine in his own home with his own daughter and a servant. He hadn’t been nervous when he dined with the prince regent. He hadn’t been nervous when he met Lord Byron or Ludwig von Beethoven. Why should he be pacing the dining room now as though he were a new bridegroom?
He heard steps outside the door and moved quickly to take his seat. Devil take it. If he sat, he’d just have to stand again as soon as the females entered. He quickly decided to stand behind his chair—no, beside his chair. He’d just managed to pose in a manner that he hoped conveyed ennui and nonchalance when the door opened. He straightened as Frances and Miss Brooking entered. His gaze was drawn by Miss Brooking. That red hair was difficult to ignore, and she wore a sea-blue dress that somehow made her green eyes look even greener. The bodice was modest, and he wished it dipped so he might have a view of her collarbone. Still, the long column of her neck was enticing enough.
Miss Brooking was not looking at him, however. Her gaze was on Frances. He transferred his own gaze to the child and noticed she was not wearing black. This was the first time he had seen her out of black except dressed in her nightclothes. Tonight, she wore a lavender gown that still looked far too somber for a child, but which was appropriate for someone in half-mourning. Did anyone expect a child to mourn this long?
Rory came forward and offered Frances his hand. “You look very pretty tonight,” he told her, noting the ribbon at the end of her long braid.
“Thank you.” She took his hand, and he led her to a chair at the right of his own, pulled it out for her, and seated her. She sat down, and the table barely cleared her chin. Rory looked at Miss Brooking, not sure what he was supposed to do.
“Gables,” she said, moving to the seat beside Frances, “do you have a cushion for Miss Lumlee’s use at dinner?”
“Of course, Miss Brooking.” The butler exited through the servants’ door and returned a moment later with a padded cushion. He placed it on the chair for Frances, and when she sat on it, the height was perfect.
Rory was aware he did not need to pull out a chair for his governess, but he did so anyway, and was rewarded with the sharp scent of mint when she moved past him.
He took his own seat and nodded to the servants to bring the first course. As soon as they entered with the trays, he had two realizations. One, he had no idea what foods his daughter liked and had not instructed his cook to prepare anything special. Two, he had no idea what to talk to her about.
As soon as the soup was set on the plates, Miss Brooking subtly showed Frances which spoon to use, then looked up and smiled at him. Rory almost looked over his shoulder when she smiled. He hadn’t been expecting it, but it immediately put him at ease. He lifted his own spoon.
“Frances and I had a lovely afternoon working with your cook on a menu for this evening, my lord,” she said.
“Did you?” Rory didn’t know why he should be surprised. Of course Miss Brooking had thought of everything. He really had to admire how clever she was. Not only would having Frances prepare the menu for tonight ensure she enjoyed the dishes served, but it would also give her practice in one of the skills necessary to manage a household—skills all fine ladies were expected to possess.
If he hadn’t already looked at his ledgers and noted that he was paying Miss Brooking quite handsomely, he would have offered her more.
“What else is on the menu?” he asked, tasting his chestnut soup.
“It’s a surprise,” Frances said. “May I plan the menu again sometime?”
Rory thought this the perfect opportunity to show Miss Brooking he didn’t need to be told what to do. “Of course. I thought we might dine together at least once a week.”
“Oh, good! Grandmama never let me dine with her and Grandpapa, and Mama always said I was too little. But I’m older now.”
“Yes, you are. Miss Brooking said you enjoyed your mother’s handkerchiefs. I have other possessions of hers you might like as well, but I will wait to bestow them until you are a little older.”
“What possessions?” she asked.
“That is my surprise.” The footmen removed the soup and brought the next course. Rory was surprised the first course had ended already. The dinner was going well, but his nerves had not eased. What else was he supposed to speak to her about?
They ate in silence for a moment, and then Miss Brooking—thank God she was present—cleared her throat. “My lord, I was wondering how far your property extends. Frances and I were thinking of taking a long walk and stopping for a picnic later this week. How far might we walk without trespassing on the neighbor’s land?”
Rory considered. “To the west, the property extends almost three miles. The property line is marked by a trout stream, which we share with Mr. Collins, who owns the land on the other side. The bank of the stream might make a good spot for a picnic.”
“Excellent.” She smiled at Frances. “Perhaps we can bring fishing poles and do a bit of fishing as well.”
“I’ve never been fishing.”
“I can show you,” Miss Brooking said.
Frances nodded. “Do we have to walk through any woods?”
“Yes, there is a wooded area where some deer and hares live,” Rory said.
“And wolves?”
“Wolves? No, there aren’t—”
“We don’t need to worry about wolves in the daylight,” Miss Brooking interrupted. “They don’t like to come out during the day.”
Rory had no idea if this was true or not, but it didn’t matter because there weren’t any wolves in England. Before he could add this, Miss Brooking was discussing fishing again. Finally, when Frances seemed more excited than worried, she looked at him. “Will you come too, Papa?”
Miss Brooking looked at him, and he couldn’t stop himself from looking back at her. He was not the sort of man who enjoyed being outdoors. He didn’t enjoy hunting and could count on one hand the number of times he’d fished in his own stream. But he was also aware this was exactly the sort of opportunity to spend time with his daughter that Miss Brooking had been hinting at.
Well, he was eating dinner with the child right now, wasn’t he? He didn’t have to go trudging all over the property too, did he?
“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your adventure with Miss Brooking.”
“Oh, but it wouldn’t be an intrusion,” the governess said. “I could use help with showing Miss Frances how to fish.”
He met her gaze and swore there was a challenge in it. She had no idea who she was dealing with if she thought it would be that easy to best him. “I’m not very good at fishing myself,” he said. “I think my advice would more prove detrimental.”
“What is detrimental ?”
“Unhelpful,” he told Frances.
“Is this your first time fishing too, Papa?”
“No, but I haven’t fished there in many years.”
“How long have you lived here?” Frances asked.
“Since before you were born.”
“Why haven’t I ever been here? Why did you never come to visit Mama and me in London?”
Rory hadn’t been prepared for these questions. He hadn’t thought how he might broach the topic of the break in his marriage with Frances, much less how to explain such a thing to a child.
“Goodness, but those are a lot of questions,” Miss Brooking said. “It’s time for dessert, and that means sweet conversation to complement the food.”
“What is sweet conversation?” Frances asked. Rory wanted to know as well, but he would have accepted any change of topic that saved him from discussing his failed marriage with his seven-year-old.
“Something light and fun,” Miss Brooking explained. “How about a game?”
Frances clapped her hands as the footmen removed the course and brought dessert. “What game?”
“I’ll call out a letter, and everyone must say an animal that begins with that letter until we can’t think of any more. Then it’s another person’s turn to choose a letter. Are you ready?” She looked at Frances, who nodded eagerly, and then at Rory, who spread his hands in surrender. What choice did he have at this point?
“The letter is H.”
“Hound,” Frances said.
“Hare,” Rory said.
“Hog,” Miss Brooking added. “Your turn, Frances.”
“Er…” The girl looked at Miss Brooking, who made a sound like a neigh under her breath.
“No cheating!” Rory said.
“Horse!” Frances answered.
“Hedgehog,” Rory added.
“Hen.”
Frances looked at her governess. “What was that animal you showed me in the book, Miss Genevieve? The big one that lives in the water in Africa?”
“Oh, a hippopotamus?”
“That one!”
Miss Brooking raised her brows. “Your turn, my lord.”
He couldn’t think of any more animals whose named began with H. And he didn’t even care if he lost the game. He hadn’t had this much fun since…since the last time he was with his friends Henry and King. They played a few more times, ate a delicious serving of baked apples, and then Miss Brooking declared it was time for Frances to prepare for bed.
“Aww!” Frances said. “I don’t want to go to bed.”
“I never met a child who did want to go to bed,” Miss Brooking said, rising. “Up you go.”
Rory stood too and felt his hands shake as he reached into his waistcoat. He’d had an idea just before dinner, and he’d been going back and forth in his mind all evening as to whether to see it through. This was his last chance. He grasped the handkerchief and pulled it out, willing his hand to cease trembling. “Before you go,” Rory said. “I wanted to give you this.” He held out the handkerchief.
Frances looked at Miss Brooking, who nodded. The girl stepped forward and took the handkerchief. “Thank you.”
“I wanted you to have something of mine as well as your mother’s.”
Frances put the handkerchief to her nose. “It smells like you, Papa,” she said.
“Does it?”
“Yes.” She looked down at the snowy white cloth. “Does this mean you are going away?”
“No, not at all. I just wanted you to have it. Foolish idea.” He shook his head, feeling ridiculous.
“Not at all,” Miss Brooking said. “It was very thoughtful.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Then, to his shock, Frances reached up and wrapped her arms around his waist. Rory hadn’t been expecting the embrace and didn’t quite know what to do. He patted her head. Finally, she moved away and looked up at him with a big smile. His entire chest felt warm at the sight of that smile. He wanted to make her smile every day and all the time. “Goodnight!”
“Good—” He had to clear his throat. “Goodnight.”
Miss Brooking curtseyed and escorted Frances out, and Rory looked about the dining room and the footmen staring straight ahead, unseeing.
“Go,” he said.
The footmen exited, leaving him alone. Rory sat down in his chair again, leaned back, and smiled.
*
Lord Emory continued to surprise Genevieve. Every time she spoke to him, he rebuffed her and behaved as though he would send her packing at the first opportunity. And then the next thing she knew, he was doing something that made her tear up. Dratted man.
Frances had gone to bed quite easily for a change. Genevieve had tucked her in with Harriet and one of her mother’s handkerchiefs. Her father’s handkerchief had been placed near the box on the shelf, and Genevieve told herself she had only picked it up to put it away. But when Mary had come in to take Genevieve’s place and watch over Frances throughout the night, Genevieve had taken the handkerchief to her own room. Now, she’d washed and changed for bed, and she still had the slip of cloth. She placed it on the nightstand, determined to return it to Frances in the morning. She climbed under the covers, blew out the candle, and lay in the dark.
She was glad Mr. Notley was gone and Lord Emory seemed content to stay home. Everyone would sleep well tonight. And yet she didn’t fall asleep. She turned to one side and then the other, trying to find a comfortable position. She lay on her back, and then her stomach, and, finally, turned back on her side.
In the dark, she stared at the nightstand, a vague rectangular shape in the low light of the banked fire. But she could see the white of the handkerchief. Slowly, she reached for it and brought it to her nose.
It did smell of him. He had a scent that made her think of amber, something rich and sensual. She noted the undertones of vanilla and other darker spices. Closing her eyes, Genevieve remembered the feel of his arms as they came around her. She hadn’t embraced him in the library for any purpose other than to give him comfort when he was obviously in need of it. But he’d put his arms around her too, and ever since that moment, she hadn’t been able to forget how solid his arms had felt, how broad his chest and shoulders, how secure she’d felt against him.
The scent of him trapped in the silk handkerchief brought it all flooding back, including the one thought she’d most tried to suppress. For a brief moment, when she’d held him and he’d held her, she’d wanted to turn her head toward him and place her lips on his neck, just below the curve of his jaw.
Wicked, wicked thought. He would have let her go at once with the accusation that she was a wanton woman. She was his child’s governess. He didn’t think of her as any more than that.
Very well… Even she couldn’t convince herself that there wasn’t something between them. But just because she saw admiration in his eyes when he looked at her, that didn’t mean he wanted to act on it. They should absolutely not act on it. If there was one rule a governess should follow, it was to avoid entanglements with the master of the house. She’d known of more than one governess who’d been seduced by her employer and let go with a bellyful. Genevieve had determined that would never be her.
That promise had always been easy to keep. She’d never looked twice at any of her other employers. Of course, she’d never had as much interaction with them as she had with Lord Emory, but she didn’t think that would have mattered. None of them looked like Lord Emory with his eyes the color of rich brandy, his dark, wavy hair, and that striking face. He was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen, but it was more than his appearance that drew her.
She had always been drawn to the vulnerable. That draw was one reason she enjoyed caring for children. But a vulnerable man didn’t need her to bandage a cut or sing him a song or tuck him into bed.
Genevieve closed her eyes at the image of that last act, savored it for a moment, then pushed it away. She couldn’t be the one to heal him. She wasn’t even sure she could heal Frances. Perhaps he and Frances might heal each other. Tonight had been a good step toward that healing. Her task was to stay out of their way—out of his way.
But she didn’t put the handkerchief back on the nightstand, and when she woke up in the morning, she was still holding it in her hand.
*
The day dawned gray and dreary. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and fat drops of rain plopped against the window at irregular intervals. “I do not think we will be able to have our walk and picnic today,” Genevieve told Frances as the girl ate her porridge, Harriet and Marcella sitting in the other chairs at the table. Genevieve had surreptitiously replaced Lord Emory’s handkerchief beside the box that held Lady Emory’s handkerchiefs.
“I hate the rain.”
“There wouldn’t be any flowers without it,” Genevieve pointed out.
“I wish the rain might have waited until tomorrow.”
“Hopefully, the skies will be clear tomorrow, and we may take our walk then.”
“What shall we do today?” Frances asked.
“French?” Genevieve glanced at the girl, who made a face. “Or perhaps addition?”
Frances made a groaning sound.
“How about music?” Genevieve suggested, not feeling up to French or mathematics herself. “I believe you told me you play a little piano.”
“My grandmama had a pianoforte, and she showed me how to play a little.” Frances seemed eager as she warmed to the idea.
“Mrs. Mann told me there is a music room in the back of the ground floor. I shall ask her for the key, and we shall hope to find a pianoforte.”
An hour later, Genevieve pulled open the heavy drapes of the music room and nodded as she looked about. Not only did the room boast a pianoforte, it also held a harp under a large white Holland sheet. Mrs. Mann assured them that both instruments were tuned regularly and the room cleaned weekly. Indeed, Genevieve didn’t find a speck of dust. She opened the pianoforte and gestured for Frances to sit on the bench. “I would love to hear your song.”
Frances looked at the keys. “Where is middle C? I forgot.”
Genevieve showed her, and the girl pounded out a few notes of a tune Genevieve herself had taught to many students. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Shall I teach you the next section?”
“Yes.”
They had been practicing about a quarter hour when the hair on the back of Genevieve’s neck tingled. She tried to ignore it but finally gave in and turned. She jumped when she spotted Lord Emory standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Frances turned as well. “Did you hear me playing, Papa?”
“I did. I remember learning that piece as well.”
“You can play the pianoforte?”
“A little, but I haven’t played for years.”
Frances jumped up. “Play for me.”
“I really haven’t played for years, Frances.”
“ Please . Please, please, please.”
Genevieve stood and motioned to the bench. Lord Emory looked as though he wished he’d stayed away. Then he smiled. “I only remember the right hand. I will play if Miss Brooking accompanies me.”
Frances looked at her governess, hope in her eyes. Genevieve sighed. How was she to say no to both of them? “Very well.” She took a seat on the left side of the bench, and Lord Emory sat beside her. Immediately, Genevieve wished she had thought of some excuse to bow out. Why hadn’t she encouraged Frances to practice with her father? Lord Emory’s broad shoulders made the bench feel far too small. Her body was pressed against his, no matter how close to the edge of the bench she scooted. He was warm and smelled of amber, his body strong and solid beside her.
“Ready?” he asked, looking down at her. Genevieve forgot how to breathe for a moment. He raised a brow, and she finally managed to nod.
She placed her hands on the keys, annoyed to see they were shaky. Lord Emory placed his on the keys as well. He began, and she followed at his pace. He played quite slowly at first, hesitant and seeming to try to remember the notes, but as they moved along, he gained confidence. By the end of the piece, he had added a few dynamics and flourishes, and even Genevieve was impressed.
Frances clapped at the end and said, “Again!”
Oh, no . Genevieve stood rapidly. Her head was already swimming at his closeness. She couldn’t stay pressed against him. “Maybe another time. I’m sure Lord Emory is quite busy.”
“I hate that name. Emory,” he said suddenly. “No one calls me that. Call me Rory.”
“That seems far too familiar, my lord.”
“May I call you Rory?” Frances asked.
“No.” He bent down and tapped her on the nose. “You call me Papa .”
Frances smiled at him, and Genevieve couldn’t stop herself from smiling as well. Finally, a connection seemed to be forming between the two of them.
He glanced at Genevieve, who quickly schooled her face. “In point of fact,” he said, “I am not at all occupied today. Every day I hear you laughing and shouting and having a brilliant time with that dog. I wanted to join in today.”
Genevieve glanced at the window again. “I fear it’s too wet to go out today.”
Lord Emory—Rory—put his hands on his slim hips. “Are there any indoor games we might play?”
“What about hide-and-seek?” Frances said. Genevieve was not at all surprised by the suggestion. Hide-and-seek was Frances’s favorite game. She was very good at it, too. Genevieve only found the child about half of the time. That was particularly worrying, considering Frances had been running away when they’d first met.
“Brilliant idea,” he said. “I shall seek first. What shall I count to?”
“Wait a moment. We must have some rules.”
“Aww!” Frances said, giving her governess an exasperated look.
“No hiding in the servants’ area or quarters. Our game should not disturb their work or leisure.”
“Fine.” Frances nodded. “Count to one hundred, Papa.”
“I have one more rule,” he said. “No hiding in the attic. It’s dark and dusty. I need to speak to Gables about having it cleaned.”
“Very good,” Genevieve said. “Close your eyes, my lord, and begin counting.”
“One, two, three…”
Genevieve and Frances scampered out of the music room, and Frances giggled. Genevieve watched as the girl ran toward the parlor. She made for the library, where she could crouch behind the furniture and read a book while she waited to be found. But it didn’t take long at all for Lord Emory to find her, and then she helped him hunt Frances, who had somehow managed to squeeze herself behind a cabinet.
Genevieve counted next. She found Lord Emory in the dining room behind a curtain, and then they spent a good quarter hour hunting for Frances. “She’s almost too good at this game,” Genevieve whispered. “We had better hope she never decides to run away again.”
“Let’s look upstairs,” he suggested. They found her in Genevieve’s chamber, hiding in a trunk. As some of Genevieve’s items were still in the trunk and now certainly wrinkled, she rather wished they had made her room out of bounds.
They all trekked downstairs to the music room again, and Frances began counting. She counted very quickly, and while Lord Emory started upstairs, Genevieve decided to hide in the parlor, as it was close. But Mary and Mrs. Mann were in the parlor now, dusting and sweeping, so Genevieve had to choose another spot. She could already hear Frances halfway to one hundred. She remembered a small closet with cleaning supplies near the landing on the second floor, so she lifted her skirts and raced up the stairs.
“Seventy-one, seventy-two, three, four…”
Genevieve arrowed for the closet, opened the door, and found Lord Emory inside. “This spot is claimed,” he said, and closed the door again.
“Eighty-five, eighty-six…”
Genevieve looked about. Her room was nearby, but did she have time to find a place to hide? There was nowhere but under the bed, and she didn’t want to crawl under there.
“Ninety-one, ninety-two…”
Oh, drat. She could hide under the table in the nursery, but Frances would spot her immediately upon opening the door.
“Ninety-five, ninety-six…”
She opened the door to the cleaning closet again. “I’m out of time,” she said, and squeezed inside, closing the door.
“Ninety-nine, one hundred!”
“This is my hiding place,” Lord Emory said.
“There was no rule about sharing hiding places,” Genevieve pointed out.
“You are squishing me.”
“Shh! Or she’ll hear us.” But she was squishing him. The closet was not made for two people, and she was pressed against him, her elbow probably jabbing him in the ribs. She pushed against one of the shelves on the side of the closet. The closet was black as night, but she could feel the rows of wood against her back. “See if you can fit better sideways,” she whispered.
He moved away from the back of the closet and slid past her. The scent of amber teased her nose, and the heat of him made her heart beat faster. Or perhaps the rapid beating was a result of running up the stairs too quickly. That must be it.
He slid into place across from her, but Genevieve realized she had misjudged the amount of space in the closet. If he were the same size as her, they would have been able to stand across from each other with a sliver of air between them. But he was considerably larger than her—broader and taller—and when he stepped into place, she was pressed up against him.
“Oh dear,” she whispered.
“I told you.”
Genevieve tried to figure out where to put her arms. She rested them on his chest then quickly put them at her sides, but her hands tangled with his. She didn’t have enough room to squeeze her hands behind her back, so she had to place them on his chest again.
“I should find another hiding place.”
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
“Stay here or she’ll find us both.” The rumble of his voice seared through her like velvet heat. She tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the emphatic tone of his voice. She realized he was invested in this game.
“Do not tell me you are the competitive sort,” she whispered.
“What other sort is there?” he replied, his breath feathering over her hair.
“The sort who plays solely for entertainment.”
“What’s more entertaining than winning? Shh. She’s near.” He put an arm around her and drew her close. Genevieve went somewhat rigid. Was this a way to silence her? She thought it must have been, but now that she was pressed against him, all thoughts of the game fled. In the darkness, she was all too aware of the solid feel of his body, the warmth of his hand pressed against her back, and the scent of clean linen, wool, and amber. Beneath that was another scent, one undeniably male. His scent.
Genevieve feared she might be tempted to bury her nose in his neck and breathe it in, so she lifted her head.
That was a mistake, because her nose bumped his. Her breath caught in her throat. Oh, dear Lord. They were so close she might kiss him. And then, of course, once she had the idea, she couldn’t put it out of her head. She wanted to kiss him. Was it her imagination, or did the hand on her back tighten? Did he inhale sharply? Did his mouth lower to hers, or did she rise on tiptoes to reach his? In the dark, she couldn’t say what had happened. All she knew was that suddenly they were kissing, his lips sliding over hers gently and hers reciprocating. She slid her hand up his chest and wrapped it around his neck, so she could feel his soft hair on the back of her wrist. He slid his other arm about her waist, so he held her with both arms, somehow pulling her closer. She hadn’t thought they could be any closer, but now her breasts were pushed against his chest. One hand was in his hair and the other closed around the hard muscle of his bicep.
The kiss seemed to linger and build, although as kisses went it was relatively chaste, just a meeting of lips, the soft brush of mouths. Genevieve felt as though she were on fire. If she had been able to force herself to break the kiss, she might have looked down at her feet to see if flames were licking at her boots. Hours or seconds passed as time stood still, and then she heard pounding.
One of them broke the kiss, or perhaps both of them, and she drew back, listening. The sound of pounding came again.
“Someone is knocking at the door,” Lord Emory said, speaking her thoughts aloud.