Читать книгу The Earl's Runaway Governess - Catherine Tinley - Страница 15

Marianne ventured downstairs again with some trepidation. Aggie had informed her, when she had brought the water, that dinner would be served in twenty minutes, so Marianne had had a hasty wash, brushed as much dust as she could from her gown, then gone in search of the dining room.

The house was a similar size to her own home, though the layout was different, but she had tried two or three wrong doors before she’d eventually found the correct room. No one was there, but the table was laid for dinner.

In her head she was counting the number of servants they had at home. Seven—and that was just the indoor servants. In contrast Ledbury House, which was probably larger, was surviving on two—hence the dilapidation.

A small fire was burning in the dining room grate, and Marianne crossed to the fireplace to warm her hands. After the cold ride in the carriage she had not as yet warmed up.

Behind her, the door opened and closed, sending smoke from the fire billowing into her face and causing her to cough helplessly.

‘Oh, Miss Bolton—that is the draught! We do not stray too close to the fire unless we know that no one will open the door.’

It was Cecily.

‘The smoke comes into the room and can make you cough if you are too close.’

‘Miss Bolton will soon learn our ways, Cecily.’ Lady Kingswood had followed her daughter into the room. ‘Now, do tidy your hair, child. It is becoming unpinned.’

Obediently, Cecily raised her hands to her hair, which was, in fact, loosening a little at the back.

‘Can I help?’ Marianne, having recovered from her coughing fit, stepped towards her. ‘It is this pin which has become loose—there, now I have fixed it!’

‘Thank you, Miss Bolton,’ said Lady Cecily.

Her mother had already turned away, and now seated herself at the foot of the table. Marianne waited to see which side Lady Cecily would sit, then moved towards the other. That left one place setting—the head of the table where, presumably, Lord Kingswood was expected to sit. Lady Kingswood, noting it, pressed her lips together.

The door opened again, behind Marianne, and she realised from the other ladies’ sudden stiffening that it must be Lord Kingswood. He seemed to pause, then walked silently to his place at the head of the table.

‘Good evening, Fanny, Cecily, Miss Bolton.’

He looked every inch the gentleman, Marianne had to concede. He wore the knee breeches, snowy white shirt and superfine jacket that were currently de rigueur for evening wear. His cravat was tied in a complicated knot and he was fiddling absently with a beautiful pocket watch.

The fashionable clothing showed off his fine, muscular figure to advantage, and Marianne could not help again contrasting his appearance with that of Henry and his friends—some of whom were thin as a lath and others, like Henry, who were inclined to carry extra weight. Lord Kingswood somehow filled his clothes. Their clothing was similar, but there the resemblance ended.

‘Good evening,’ she murmured politely, reminding herself that appearance meant nothing. Lord Kingswood, though a few years older than Henry, was clearly part of the London set. Perhaps he even knew her brother! A wave of fear washed over her at the thought.

Cecily also replied to him, but Lady Kingswood merely inclined her head. Mrs Cullen and Agnes then appeared, with a selection of dishes, and the tension in the air dissipated a little as they all helped themselves to various delicacies.

Feeling she must say something, Marianne managed to engage Lady Cecily in a conversation about foods that she liked and disliked, and as the meal went on she felt Cecily warming to her a little.

The food was delicious—Mrs Cullen was clearly an expert cook. Marianne thanked heaven for small mercies. The house was cold, and rundown, and its occupants were at each other’s throats, but at least there was decent food.

Strange that she had taken her life so much for granted. Until a few days ago she had never had cause to question where her next meal was coming from. Although she had not actually run out of money, she had worried about doing so during the past few days. Now she appreciated the food before her as she never had before. She savoured every bite and was grateful.

‘This is delicious,’ she said aloud. ‘I must compliment Mrs Cullen on the meal.’

‘I agree.’ Lord Kingswood had unexpectedly decided to join in the conversation. ‘I admit I had assumed that with everything else in this house going to rack and ruin the food would be appalling. I admit to being pleasantly surprised.’

Lady Kingswood threw him an angry look. ‘How dare you insult my home?’

‘I was complimenting your cook.’ He eyed her evenly.

Marianne felt the tension rise. Oh, dear! It was all going to start again.

‘Rack and ruin, you said.’ She glared at him.

‘True. I have not been in Ledbury House for many years, and I am saddened to see how run-down it has become.’ His tone was unapologetic.

Oh, why did I compliment the cooking? Marianne thought.

‘Yes, you have not been here for fourteen years. And I wish you had not come now.’

Lady Kingswood’s voice quivered, and she had stopped eating. Cecily was looking anxiously from her mother to Lord Kingswood and back again.

Do something! Marianne was thinking to herself.

‘I have often thought,’ she said, her tone deliberately relaxed, ‘that pretty, comfortable houses remain beautiful through the ages, no matter the ups and downs of the families living within them.’

Is that enough?

Lady Kingswood looked at her. ‘This is a pretty house, isn’t it?’

‘Very pretty.’

Her hostess reached for a dish and spooned some potatoes and leeks onto her plate. At the other end of the table the Earl was glowering, and he seemed to be getting ready to say something. Something unhelpful, Marianne was sure.

She tapped her fingers on the table, considering. Then decisively she raised her hand to her face, hoping to catch his attention. It worked. He glanced at her and she gave him a level stare. She did not look away, but simply maintained the gaze.

His eyebrows flew upwards, then he flushed slightly and broke the contact. But he did not say whatever it was he had been preparing.

Marianne returned to her own meal, feeling that she had at least prevented all-out war at dinner.

* * *

What a managing, impudent young woman! Ash was thinking. How dare she presume to check my behaviour!

He had no doubt that was what Miss Bolton intended. The level stare she had sent him had left him in no doubt as to her meaning. He was to bite back his retort and allow Fanny to continue to play the injured widow.

Well, it will not do!

He no more wanted to be here than Fanny wanted him here. He had never asked to be Earl. John’s father and his own papa had been twin brothers, and his father had constantly talked of the lucky chance of being the younger son.

‘Just think!’ Papa used to say. ‘If I had been born just twenty minutes earlier my life would have been made a prison by the responsibilities of the Earldom! It would have been farms and quarter-days and conscientiousness, with no time to enjoy my life.’

He had instilled in Ash an abhorrence of responsibility, convincing him as a boy that John’s life would be unending dreariness and care. Ash had maintained that conviction, and even now was wary of anything that smacked of responsibility. He relied on himself and nobody depended on him. He was free to come and go as he pleased, and he liked it that way. What was more, he was determined to ensure that the Earldom would not trap him into conventionality or duty.

He might be Earl in name, but he was damned if he would be sucked into spending his time here, in this run-down, isolated house!

Only his obligation to John had ensured Ash’s temporary return. That and the knowledge that if he absented himself or passed responsibility to Fanny the place would be bankrupt within six months.

He had gone through John’s financial affairs with the lawyer, and had seen enough to know that with care and attention and some of his own money he should be able to restore the accounts to good health in a year or two. Only John’s illness—and his inability to manage his affairs as a result—had led to the downturn in fortunes. Wages had not been paid, good staff had left, and everything had gone downhill from there.

Ash had been busy in London these past two days. His valet and coachman were to follow him here tomorrow with his trunks, and he had charged his secretary with finding a good steward. He had found time to visit his closest friends to explain that he would likely be absent for a while. Most of them had thought it a great joke.

‘But, Ash!’ one had said, punching him light-heartedly on the arm. ‘You have never had any cares! I give it a month, then you will tire of this diversion!’

‘I only wish that were true, Barny,’ he had replied, somewhat sadly. ‘But I cannot see a month being long enough to fix this dashed mess!’

Barny had been right about one thing, though. Ash had indeed never carried any responsibility. Nor had he ever wished to. He was blessed with a decent fortune from his mother’s family, which enabled him to live comfortably as a single man. He rented a house near Grosvenor Square, overpaid his servants to ensure he would avoid the inconvenience of hiring and training new ones, and spent his life entirely at his own leisure.

He was at no one’s beck and call, he had no ties and he liked it that way. Responsibility meant limits and not being in charge of one’s own course.

Wistfully, he reflected that if not for John and this confounded mess he would be at White’s right now, enjoying good company and fine wine. Instead of which—

‘We shall retire to the parlour and leave you to your port.’

Belatedly he realised the table had been cleared and the three ladies were departing. Rising swiftly, he nodded politely, then sank back into his chair with relief when they had gone.

Although a favourite with the ladies—one of his tasks in London yesterday had been to bid farewell to the dashing high-flyer whose company he had been enjoying for nigh on two months—he was nevertheless unused to domesticity, families and, frankly, histrionics. His life was normally calm, devoid of drama and well-organised. And he liked it that way.

His mama had died when he was young, leaving her entire fortune in trust for Ash, and when he’d come home from school and university he and Papa would enjoy good food, fine wine and a wide range of male sports. Ash was a skilled horseman, boxer and fencer, and Papa had ensured he had access to all the best clubs.

And always, always, Papa had ribbed his brother, the Third Earl, teasing him about his dullness and domesticity.

John, Ash knew, had been raised from babyhood to be the next Earl Kingswood, and had taken his responsibilities seriously even in childhood. He would obediently leave Ash playing in the woods or fishing to go off with his father and his father’s steward to inspect a broken bridge or visit a tenant farmer, leaving Ash perplexed at John’s dutiful compliance.

Ash had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be up to filling John’s shoes, and that thought scared the hell out of him.

There! He had admitted it.

Remembering that there was no manservant to appear with the alcohol that he suddenly craved, Ash rose and began searching in the rosewood sideboard. Success! Two bottles of port and some dusty glasses. Blowing into a glass to clear the worst of the dust, he then wiped it with his kerchief and filled it with port.

Lifting the glass, he made a toast to his cousin, then sampled the ruby-red liquid.

Not bad, he thought. A pity you aren’t here to share it with me, John.

Not for the first time he thought with regret on the distance between himself and John since his cousin’s marriage. If they had been closer perhaps he could have helped during these last months—prevented John’s home from deteriorating, his financial affairs from spiralling downwards and his family from becoming distressed. Perhaps he could have learned a little about what he was supposed to do.

And you are still adding to his family’s distress, a small voice in his head reminded him.

He sighed. He knew it. Somehow, though, when Fanny was being Fanny his reason went out the window and it seemed he became eighteen again.

Fanny had always been impractical, he recalled. Of course his eighteen-year-old self had not seen further than her deep blue eyes and blonde curls. Like John, he had become completely infatuated with Fanny when she and her family had moved to the district. Spending the summer at Ledbury House that year had been ecstasy, agony and ultimately a severe lesson. For of course she had chosen John.

And he and John had fallen out over it.

They had both said words intended to hurt the other and, stupidly, had never put it right. Ash had attended their wedding—as John’s cousin he had been obliged to—but afterwards had avoided him. At the time Ash had not been able to bear to see John and Fanny together. In his youthful mind he had thought that what he was experiencing was heartbreak, and the only way to recover was to cut Fanny out of his life—which had meant it was easier not to make the effort to repair his relationship with John.

Somehow years had gone by, and then had come the message that John had died, following a long illness.

His thoughts drifted back towards Fanny again. How did he feel about her now? Despite the momentary echo of his former infatuation when he had first encountered her in the library, it was clear that now he saw her differently. She was an attractive woman, certainly, and yet neither his heart nor his loins showed any interest in her. In fact, his predominant mood when he found himself in Fanny’s company was one of irritation.

And she had known it—had seen straight through him. The governess—Miss Bolton.

He pictured her in his mind’s eye. Now, there was a woman to stir him! She was gently bred—that much was obvious—and somewhere in her early twenties. She was also extremely pretty, with dark hair, gentle brown eyes and a pleasantly plump figure.

His connoisseur’s eye had assessed her at the inn as she had stood there gaping at him. Miss Bolton possessed an indefinable quality that had attracted his attention. At the time he had felt as though something significant had passed between them, but had dismissed the notion as fanciful. Had the circumstances been different, he believed he would have tried to strike up a conversation with her.

Today, though, filled with irritation at having had to leave London and come to this godforsaken place, Ash had not been in the mood to charm unknown young ladies. He had not followed up on his attraction towards her but instead had been consumed with the frustrations of an earldom, an estate and a ward that he had never wanted.

When he had discovered he was to be forced to convey Miss Bolton to the house his annoyance had increased. And that had been before she had criticised his driving! Oh, he had heard her gasp, seen how she gripped the side of the phaeton. For goodness’ sake—did she think him a cow-handed amateur? Why, he was known as one of the best drivers in London!

To be fair, he had warmed towards Miss Bolton a little as they’d neared the house—her innocent approval of his driving skills had amused him, and he had felt sorry for her when he’d heard Fanny call her a lightskirt. As if he would be so crass as to bring a paramour to Ledbury House!

But then he recalled that Fanny had never been known to show insight. Or common sense. Suddenly the qualities that had attracted the eighteen-year-old Ash—particularly Fanny’s flightiness and love for drama—seemed much less attractive in a thirty-year-old Dowager Countess.

And Fanny had never read him as the governess had tonight at dinner. Somehow Miss Bolton had known that he was about to react to Fanny again—that he was prepared to keep the argument alive. Her still, calm gaze had discomfited him.

He shifted uncomfortably. What right had she—an almost-servant in his employ—to behave so towards him? Miss Bolton, he decided, was much too presumptuous.

Draining his glass, he set it down with a thump and went in search of the ladies.