Chapter Nine
One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.
The words circled endlessly through Maggie’s mind, sung in a deep baritone, so low it was scarcely a singing voice at all. Her heart pounded, creating a sort of metronome for the music.
The song was meant to be cheerful—a counting-down tune, like The Twelve Days of Christmas—but now, in her head, it sounded sombre and grim. Almost like a warning.
A tap on her shoulder made her start. Maggie’s head snapped up, and to her horror she realised she had dozed off at her desk. Jenny stood over her with a wry smile, while Emma giggled behind her hand.
“You were almost snoring. I had to wake you,” Jenny teased softly. “Let us hope Mrs Thornton or the duke doesn’t catch you.”
Maggie paled at the thought. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I only closed my eyes for a moment while marking Miss Emma’s arithmetic, and I—”
“It’s quite all right,” Jenny interrupted, more gently now. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Emma was busy with her Geography, then leaned closer. “I daresay you were unsettled after yesterday.”
Maggie winced. “Unsettled is putting it mildly. I was certain I’d be turned out on my ear.”
“So was I. But his Grace didn’t seem half so angry as I expected. Still—perhaps no more exploring for a while.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Maggie muttered.
The reason she was so tired was that she had lain awake for most of the night, certain a summons would come at any moment to send her away.
She had heard plenty of tales of such things—especially with governesses.
A hard-hearted master or mistress might dismiss a servant without warning, even in the middle of the night.
After what she had done, Maggie would not have been surprised to be turned out at once.
She had gone into a room that was known to be forbidden, played an instrument she had no right to touch—and, astonishingly, had seemed to escape unpunished. That could not be right. Surely consequences must come.
All evening, she had sat in a fright, waiting. The afternoon slipped away, then the evening; after supper she found herself in her room, in the dark, listening for footsteps in the corridor.
She had not changed into her night-things; she doubted she could sleep. Yet at some point she must have dozed off on top of the bed, for she woke rumpled and disoriented at Joan’s customary knock. No summons had come. Even now, with luncheon approaching, none had come still.
Perhaps I shan’t be dismissed after all. Still—best tread carefully.
Mrs Thornton had told her she would receive her wages with the rest of the staff, in a fortnight. If she could just keep her post until then, she’d have a month’s pay in hand.
Not that she meant to leave. It was a comfortable position, and the duke’s infamous reputation had worked in her favour. Every governess in England would have leapt at a post in a ducal household—if the master hadn’t been known as the Gambling Devil.
A rustle of pages caught her attention. Emma was supposed to be using the globe to answer her questions, but instead she was peering down into a book spread across her lap, half-hidden under the desk.
“What do you have there, Miss Emma?”
Emma’s head jerked up, her face scarlet. “It’s a book,” she confessed. “I… I took it from Mama’s room yesterday.”
Maggie’s smile vanished. She rose at once. “Oh, Emma, you mustn’t! Your uncle would not like that at all.”
“She was my Mama,” Emma said, pouting. “Why can’t I look at her things?”
“Perhaps your uncle means to save them for you until you’re older. For now, he prefers us to stay out of her room,” Maggie said gently but firmly. “We were very lucky not to get into trouble before.”
Already, she was frantically considering how to put the book back. It wouldn’t be possible; she was sure of that. No doubt the room was locked now, and even if it wasn’t, she could not risk being caught inside a second time.
The book on Emma’s knees was not a novel or a story-book, as Maggie had expected. It was a big, old book with yellowed pages and a nick in the cover.
Maggie held out her hand, and Emma obediently handed over the book.
“Instructions For Courtly Dances,” Maggie read aloud, surprised.
Opening the cover, she flicked through pages and pages of close-packed writing, interspersed with neat little illustrations of men and women.
The dances were shown from various angles, from straight ahead as if one was watching the dance, and from above to show the directions the patterns should take.
The book was clearly very dated, as it did not show the waltz, and the clothes the illustrated people wore were very old-fashioned.
“I would like to learn how to dance, one day,” Emma said wistfully. “Uncle says that I’ll learn my accomplishments when I’m older and have need of them. But why must I need to learn to dance or play music? Can’t I just do it?”
Maggie bit her lower lip. “I don’t see why not,” she murmured.
Jenny sucked in a breath. “Maggie—”
“One little lesson won’t hurt,” Maggie insisted. “We can push the tables back and try a few steps before luncheon.”
“Hurrah!” Emma clapped her hands in delight.
Jenny sighed but smiled faintly. “Oh, very well—but only half an hour.”
Grinning, Maggie helped move the tables and chairs aside until they had a clear space in the centre of the room.
“Do you know how to dance, Miss Winter?” Emma asked.
“I do. I even know a few newer dances not in this book. But most are much the same. Shall we start with a jig or a measure? Jenny, what do you think?”
“Don’t ask me,” Jenny laughed, resuming her seat with her knitting. “I can’t dance to save my life—at least, not your fine ball dances. I dance at weddings and village feasts, and that’s all.”
Maggie was about to reassure her when a brisk tap sounded at the door—and before she could answer, it opened.
The duke stood there, his broad frame filling the doorway entirely.
He wore a weather-beaten brown coat, the sort a gentleman might use for walking his grounds.
His cravat was missing, revealing a small triangle of bare skin at the base of his throat.
Maggie found herself staring at that small piece of skin.
Horrified at herself, she dragged her gaze away and down to her feet, and instead stared at his Hessians, which were in need of a good polish.
His hair was disarranged, blown untidily around his head as if he’d been out in the wind.
There was a sheen of dampness in his hair, too, which indicated he had been outside, as it was still raining.
The silence seemed to drag on forever, although it could not have been more than a second before Emma spoke up.
“Hello, Uncle! We’re going to have dancing lessons!”
Maggie wished the floor might open and swallow her whole.
The duke’s brows lifted. “Dancing lessons? That is not, I think, within your remit, Miss Winter.”
She met his eye and gave a nervous smile. “Well, a change is as good as a rest, surely?”
His expression did not shift. “I do not believe I’ve ever heard that saying.”
“Oh, it’s very well known.”
“Is it indeed?”
“Mm-hmm. Of course, if you disapprove, we can simply put everything back and resume Geography. Miss Emma has been doing excellently with her—er—globes.”
“Globes?” he repeated, one brow rising higher.
“Yes,” Maggie said feebly. “It’s quite the modern method. Very serious in schools these days.”
More silence. More embarrassment. After a moment, the duke stepped inside the schoolroom, having to fold himself sideways to slip through the narrow door.
“I bow to your experience in the matter, Miss Winter,” he remarked, his voice heavy and thoroughly disapproving. “Emma, why do you suddenly want to learn to dance?”
Emma brightened. “Mama was the best dancer in London, remember? You said so yourself. I want to dance like her.”
The duke rubbed the back of his neck. “I may have spoken with a brother’s prejudice when I said she was the best dancer in London.”
Emma pouted a little. “But I would like to learn, Uncle.”
They stared at one another—tiny girl and towering duke—locked in a silent battle of wills. Maggie felt an urge to hide a smile behind the cover of the book but managed to compose herself at the last moment.
“Very well,” the duke said at last, sighing heavily. “But if you are to learn, you must learn properly. Miss Winter, have you danced at balls in Society? In good Society, I mean?”
Maggie caught herself on the cusp of saying yes, of course, many times before she remembered that she was supposed to be a modest, quiet governess and not a lady fallen from a great height.
“No,” she managed, an unconvincing lie.
He nodded, unsurprised. “Then I shall assist. We will begin with a waltz; it is the simplest. Emma may practise with Jenny. You and I shall demonstrate.”
There was a tiny pause while this sank in.
I am going to dance with the Duke of Burenwood.
Right now.
He moved to the centre of the room, neatly shucking off his jacket and tossing it into a corner. Then he extended his hand towards Maggie.
Their eyes met. His were questioning, eyebrows raised. Maggie had no idea what he saw in her eyes, but she felt baffled.
I’m going to dance with him. Nothing about this man makes sense.
She set aside the book and tentatively extended her hand towards his.
When she touched his palm, she was surprised to find it rough and firm, like a worker’s hands.
Generally, gentlemen prided themselves on having soft, delicate hands, smooth and well-cared for.
There was nothing wrong in that, of course, but when the duke’s strong, rough fingers closed over hers, a strange shiver ran through her, swift and unaccountable.
She moved towards him almost as if it were a dream.
She had waltzed, of course, but not in a while, and she missed a beat before getting into position.
He stepped closer, to her consternation, and did not release her hand.
His other hand found her waist, steady and sure.
Maggie remembered, just in time, to lift her free hand to his shoulder and rise lightly onto the balls of her feet.
He was watching her, face composed. She was certain her own cheeks were crimson.
I have underestimated him, she thought, breath catching. I thought I had the measure of him, but I don’t, not at all.
“Are you quite comfortable, Miss Winter?” he asked, his voice low. There was a challenge beneath the civility.
“Perfectly,” she managed. “I am looking forward to waltzing again.”
He smiled faintly and glanced at Jenny. “Clap the time for us, if you please—three-four. Emma, watch closely. Now then, one… two—”
They never reached three. The faint, rhythmic rattle of carriage wheels on wet gravel rose from the driveway below.
A shadow crossed the duke’s face. He stepped back at once, releasing her hand and waist. Maggie felt oddly chilled where his touch had been.
Jenny went to the window, Emma close behind. The little girl gave a delighted cry.
“Oh, Uncle! You’ll never guess who it is—Aunt Harriet’s come to visit!”
Maggie happened to be watching the duke’s face when she said it. His expression shut like a trap.
“There’s someone in the carriage with her, too,” Jenny added curiously. “It’s a lady.”