Chapter 11
Is it true that our brother is courting you?
” Ophelia asked three mornings later. Ivy guiltily halted in the act of wrapping a dummy sword handle.
The house had been in an uproar from the moment the viscount had stated his “intentions” toward her, and neither she nor Owen had had the time to speak with the girls.
The dowager was tight-lipped with anger, and Miss Pithins had not visited again, although her lady’s maid had told the Brackley cook’s assistant that Miss Pithins had thrown a very expensive vase across the room.
The servants were in a tizzy about the impending arrival of Barnes, their first proper overnight guest in years, and there had been a number of awed and accusatory glances thrown in Ivy’s direction, as if she had betrayed them by acting as one of them only to turn around and secure the master’s affections.
Stomach clenching with shame, Ivy finished her task and brushed a strand of hair from Ophelia’s face.
“It is true that your brother is courting me, but I will share a secret with you now, and with your sisters later. Do I have your word that what I say will not leave your lips?”
Ophelia nodded with determined maturity.
“The courtship is not real. Your brother and I are helping each other. I am avoiding marriage to another man, and your brother is avoiding the attention of unmarried ladies, and we are doing that by pretending to have him court me.”
Ophelia studied her with eyes that saw more than a ten-year-old’s should. “So you are not going to marry?”
“No. In a few months our ‘courtship’ will end.”
“Will you leave us then?”
Ivy nodded sadly. “My father insists that I must leave my governess role here and marry. This pretend courtship is only delaying the inevitable.”
“Then why can you not marry my brother for real?”
At the innocent question, butterflies took flight in Ivy’s stomach.
She could not marry Owen for a number of reasons that included her brother and the fact that Owen appeared unwilling to expose his heart again after Heidi, but for a moment, the thought of being the growly viscount’s wife was not entirely horrid.
“Because we are not a fit,” she said, even though that did not feel like the right answer.
At Ophelia’s crushed expression she added, “But I still have several months left with you and your sisters, so we do not have to worry about goodbyes yet. Besides, your new governess will arrive soon, and you will adore her. I promise.”
Ophelia seemed unsure, but before Ivy could sing Diane’s praises, Opal and Ollie ran over, leaves clinging to the hems of their skirts as they waved swords over their heads.
“I am a pirate!” Ollie growled, pointing her sword at Ivy. “Give me your loot or you shall perish.”
Ivy lifted her own sword and gently tapped it against the six-year-old’s. “I have no loot, but I enjoy a good fence anyway.”
Ollie’s eyebrows pinched with menace. “So be it, lass!” She made the first lunge, which Ivy easily parried. She thrust again, and Ivy ducked. While Ollie continued taking swings at her, Ivy gently instructed her on her foot placement and how to anticipate a rival’s moves.
“Your swings are wild, Pirate Ollie. Control is key.” Ivy shifted her shoulders in time to avoid a jab from Ollie’s twin, Opal. “Two on one!” Ivy cried in mock dismay. “You did not say you brought a pirate friend.”
Opal tried not to giggle but failed as she and Ollie continued to try to outwit their governess.
Ivy and the girls spent the next hour working through thrusts, parries, and footwork. One day the girls would be able to hold their own with any of their male counterparts.
The girls’ cheeks were red with exertion when suddenly Ophelia’s head whipped around, and her eyes filled with panic. “Is that our brother cantering toward us?”
“Make haste!” Ivy squeaked, collecting the wooden swords in her arms and frantically whirling around, searching for a place to stash them.
They were in a small clearing a good distance from the house and out of eyesight of the manor.
There was nothing between them and the trees except for crunchy, fallen leaves. “Help me bury them under the leaves!”
The eight girls hurriedly swept leaves over the pile of swords.
“Grab hands in a circle,” Ivy instructed.
They made a ring and held hands, and as Owen drew closer Ivy closed her eyes and intoned, “May the heavens bless upon us this wondrous—Oh, Lord Brackley. What brings you to our daily prayer session?”
On foot the man was taller than most; on horseback he was a giant.
Plumes of warm breath puffed from his horse’s nostrils and the beast pranced in agitation, ready to continue his run.
Owen expertly controlled him with powerful thighs and steady, gloveless hands.
He wore a dark navy riding coat, and his hair curled beneath the brim of his hat.
His jaw was unshaven again, his green eyes sweeping over the flushed little girls and their wild hair.
A blush crawled down the skin of Ivy’s chest, and she was thankful for the cloak she wore against the autumn chill.
This giant, handsome, rough-and-yet-still-polished viscount was supposed to be courting her?
What had she been thinking, agreeing to this?
No one would believe that someone like him was seriously courting someone like her.
“Prayer in the fields?”
“It is God’s cathedral,” she replied solemnly.
Owen swung down from the horse and petted his neck with smooth, firm strokes.
Ivy averted her eyes, not understanding why the gesture should make her stomach flutter.
“I have always thought so, Miss Bennett.” His attention stayed on her for a moment too long, until Olena’s horse whinny broke the awkward moment.
Owen’s brow furrowed as he took in his disheveled, red-cheeked sisters. “Girls, are you feeling well?”
“It was a long walk,” Ivy said hurriedly. “They are flushed from the exertion.”
All the girls nodded, except for Octavia. The three-year-old turned curious eyes on Ivy, as if wondering why they must keep their fun swordplay a secret.
Owen seemed unconvinced. “Girls, head inside to the kitchen. Tell Cook the viscount said you are each to have a hot chocolate.”
The girls squealed with delight and took off for the house, the littlest lagging behind but her legs pumping no less fiercely.
The moment they were out of earshot Owen murmured, “You look as if you are keeping secrets, Miss Bennett.”
Ivy ducked her head. “I do not know what you mean, Lord Brackley. And remember, you must call me Ivy now.”
“Ivy.” He spoke her name in a low way that drew out the syllables and caused a shiver to trip down her arms. “And no more Lord Brackley. That is my father’s name.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The look he gave her was half amused, half annoyed. “Do not ‘my lord’ me, either. If this courtship were real and leading to marriage, I would never stand to hear those words cross my future wife’s lips.”
Wife. The gravity of what they had done struck her anew with the utterance of that single word.
“This may have been a mistake,” she choked out. “I do not think—no one will believe—”
Owen dragged his hat from his head and tossed it on top of his saddle. “No one will believe what?”
“No one will believe you are courting me with honest intentions.”
A line appeared between his brows. “Why not?”
She made a distressed sound. Was he really going to make her say it? “You are a handsome, wealthy, and well-respected viscount, and I am… me.”
She could not parse the look he gave her, not even when his eyes dropped and insolently traveled from the hem of her dress to the top of her head. Her cheeks were flaming by the time he finished. “Nonsense.”
“But—”
“Barnes arrived a half hour ago,” he interrupted, cutting off further protests. Ivy groaned. “I suggest we discuss the specifics of our ruse.”
“What else is there to say?”
“There are several details that need clarification.
First, as of this moment, you are no longer employed by me.
It would not do for anyone to think I am courting my governess, not because I am embarrassed by it, but because I find the power imbalance revolting.
You and your brother are my guests now. That said, you have my blessing if you wish to continue visiting with the girls.
“Second, we must discuss what the courtship will look like. The dowager is far too perceptive. If she suspects this is not what it seems, she will not hesitate to spread rumors that may impede your chances with Hartford.”
“All right.” Ivy fiddled with the edge of her cloak. “So we must make it look real. How would you go about wooing a woman you truly wished to wed? Would you bring her flowers? Write her love poems?” She could not help thinking of his Prussian mistress, and wondered what he had done for her.
“I am not the type to write poetry.”
“I did not think so.”
He tugged at his cravat, looking awkward. “I have not courted a woman in the traditional sense. I suppose I can send you flowers if that is what you wish.”
“That is too generous of you, my lord.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “Are you mocking me, Ivy?”
“I would not dream of it.”
The look he gave her told her he knew better. “We will need to be seen in public. I will need to walk with you. Dance with you. Look at you as if you are my world.” He cleared his throat. “But it is not real. I wish to reiterate that.”
Ivy grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Do not worry, your lordship. You are far too grouchy for me to grow fanciful about.”
There was a flash of surprise in his eyes, and something that looked a lot like disbelief. “Did you just call me grouchy?”
“Do you deny it?”
“Most people are not so brave as to say it to my face.”
“Alas, I am not most people. I am your love interest.”
He blanched, and she could not help laughing again. “You cannot act like that in front of others. You must pretend to truly care for me. We shall practice. Compliment me.”
His eyes trailed over her body before he jerked his gaze away. “You are not so terrible.”
Ivy’s lips parted in horror. “Owen! Your flattery needs serious improvement. You are not so terrible,” she mimicked.
“Shameful. Can you not think of one thing you like about me? Here, I shall give you three compliments you can use when we are in front of others.” She stuck her tongue between her teeth and thought. “You can tell me I have pretty eyes.”
“Honey.”
“What?”
“You have eyes the color of warm honey.”
She paused, surprised. “Yes, that is poetic. Very good. You can also say I look like…” She searched around for inspiration, her gaze falling on a wild aster. “A delicate flower.”
“But you do not.”
Ivy fisted her hands on her hips. “My lord—”
“You do not look delicate, or like you will wilt. You look strong and competent, and wise and unyielding. More like an oak than a silly flower.”
She went speechless at the unexpected compliment that had more meaning than any flattery she had received in a long time. “That is actually quite nice, but I do not know that others will think calling me an oak is a compliment.”
“Fine. You are as pretty as a flower.”
“Delightful. And finally, you can say I am a docile and virtuous lady with many accomplishments.”
He stared at her.
“Well, I am accomplished.”
“You are accomplished,” he parroted.
“Now, if you can only remember to say those things without appearing ill.”
“Therein lies our trouble. This will have to be a carefully orchestrated balancing act. We must appear to be smitten in front of others, but not too smitten lest we put Hartford off, or convince Barnes there is something real to it.”
“I do not think Barnes would make that mistake, but I shall speak with him again.”
“Please do. As for social engagements, I have gone through a pile of invitations and chosen three engagements where we can start making our courtship public, and where Lord Hartford should also be in attendance.”
Her heart pounded. Was this truly happening?
Was she going to attend a ton gathering on the arm of a viscount and with her eye on a marquess?
How had her life changed so rapidly? Ivy’s palms turned clammy.
What had seemed a perfect solution at the time now felt as if it were spiraling out of her grasp.
“The first event is hosted by a business partner of mine. He lives in the country and puts on an annual party before he leaves for London. He has business dealings with Lord Hartford, so I believe the marquess will be in attendance.”
Ivy mentally ran through the gowns in her wardrobe. Most of them were out of fashion. Would she have time to order new dresses on her salary? Doubtful. She would need to have her current dresses turned and ribbons and lace added to spruce them up. “When is the party?”
“In a fortnight.”
That should be enough time if she delivered the gowns to the modiste shop straightaway.
Owen rubbed the back of his neck. “I secured invitations for Barnes and your governess friend, Miss Diane Wixby, as well.” His horse bumped his shoulder, and he petted him reassuringly, his large hand dragging down the horse’s nose.
“Perhaps it is a blessing your brother is here. I am not a gentleman, no matter what title I have had thrust upon me. It is best to remember that, lest we find ourselves believing this is real.”
By we he clearly meant her. He seemed very concerned about the possibility that she would start to think the courtship was real, no matter that she had repeatedly reassured him she had no designs on his affections.
“My lord, I do not harbor secret plans to entrap you in a real marriage. Unless you have forgotten, I wish to wed someone else.”
He stared at her with intense, jade-green eyes, until she flushed under his scrutiny. “You react to me.”
She pulled her cloak tighter. “What does that mean?”
“It means I know how fanciful young women can be. You and I are not a match, Ivy. You are not someone I would ever truly marry.”
His words pricked at her affable manner. She had not thought Owen was the type to feel superior about his position, but it seemed she had been wrong. Was this what Barnes had been trying to warn her about?
“Once again, I must stress that I have no illusions about you,” she said coolly. “Do not fear that you will end up wed to me. In fact, I shall take great joy in ending the courtship when the time comes. Does that appease you?”
A line appeared between his brows, and his lips parted, but before he could insult her further, she took off at a brisk walk, clutching her cloak at her chest. She was grateful when a few moments later she heard his horse’s hooves recede in the distance.
As her doubts about Owen crept in, she thought once again of the Dove and the hysteria in London. She would have to find a way to question Owen about his visits in the city. Perhaps Lord Brackley was not the man she had thought he was after all.