Secrets in the Regency Ballroom: The Wayward Governess / His Counterfeit Condesa. Joanna Fulford
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face was there. His words echoed in her memory. She could still feel the warmth of his hand on hers. The memory set her pulse racing, like that other memory of his lips on her skin. When he was near it was hard to think of anything else. His presence drew her as a moth to a flame and, just as surely, she knew that yielding to temptation would mean getting badly burnt. Men of rank might dally with their servants, but they did not marry them.
The knowledge brought with it a feeling of overwhelming sadness. If things had been different…if they had met under other circumstances…but she could not imagine any circumstances under which they would have met. Her uncle, though a gentleman, did not move in such exalted circles. He was flattered by the notice of a man like Sir Charles Mortimer. What would he have said to the notice of a viscount? What would have been his reaction if such a man had offered for her hand? She knew the answer too well: the offer would have been accepted immediately and she would have been expected to comply. Her heart beat a little quicker at the thought. If she had been promised to a man like Marcus Edenbridge would she have sought to escape the match? The answer brought another wave of warmth to her neck and face. Just as quickly she realised how ridiculous it was even to consider the possibility. Ridiculous and dangerous. She was not safe yet. This post was her refuge, her protection. She would do nothing to jeopardise it, no matter what her personal inclination.
In the morning she would resume her duties as though nothing had happened. When she and Marcus Edenbridge happened to meet, she would behave with the utmost propriety. Never by word or sign would she let him suspect what she felt for him. This evening, delightful as it had been, was a one-off occasion, a favour perhaps for past aid. It would not happen again. He had discharged his obligation and in future his socialising would be done among his social equals. The knowledge gave her a pang; she had enjoyed herself this evening. It had given her a glimpse of another world, one to which she would never belong. It served to reinforce how very different were their social positions.
In the days that followed the Viscount behaved with the utmost propriety when their paths crossed. He visited the nursery each day and took a keen interest in what Lucy did, but he never lingered or tried to interfere in any way. To Claire he was unfailingly civil, but never more than that. Just occasionally the grey eyes betrayed a stronger emotion, but it was never given further expression.
He also rode with them less frequently, having many other matters requiring his attention. Although she missed him, Claire was grateful for the distance between them. Sometimes she would look from her window and see him ride out across the estate, sometimes alone, but more usually with the land agent. Then she would know that she and Lucy would be riding with Trubshaw that day. Her young charge made good progress and gained in confidence. Soon she was clamouring to be let off the leading rein. The next time that Marcus appeared in the nursery she petitioned him on that score.
‘I’ve been riding for three weeks now, Uncle Marcus. Can’t I please ride Misty without being led?’
He dropped to one knee so that they were face to face and then he smiled. ‘I don’t see why not.’
Lucy flung her arms round his neck. ‘Thank you, Uncle Marcus.’
He returned the hug and looked over the child’s shoulder to Claire.
‘The pony is quiet enough. I think she’ll come to little harm,’ he said. ‘In any case, one learns by doing. Is that not so, Miss Davenport?’
‘Indeed it is, sir.’
Lucy looked at him solemnly. ‘Will you come with us, Uncle Marcus?’
He grinned and ruffled her hair. ‘I have a lot of things to do today.’
She threw a conspiratorial glance at Claire. ‘But I might fall off.’
‘Well, you might,’ he agreed. ‘But then you’ll just have to get back on, won’t you?’
‘Yes.’
The tone and facial expression were so forlorn that Claire was unable to restrain a grin. Her young charge was clearly not above using feminine wiles to get her own way. Even so she didn’t expect him to succumb. His expression said very plainly that he knew what she was about, but to her surprise she saw him smile.
‘Oh, all right, then, you ghastly brat. I’ll come.’
Undismayed by this mode of address, Lucy smiled up at him.
‘But only if you have completed all of your lessons first,’ he added, with belated severity.
Desperately wanting to laugh, Claire turned away and fixed her attention on the view from the window. The Viscount stood up, regarding her with a speculative expression.
‘You will inform me later, Miss Davenport, if Lucy has not done everything she ought.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He looked at his ward and jerked his head towards the desk. With the sweetest of smiles Lucy returned to work. Seeing her once more bent over her copybook, he turned back to Claire. Though she had assumed an expression of becoming gravity she was unable to hide the laughter in her eyes. It was fascinating, all the more so because she was quite unconscious of the effect it had on the beholder. If they had been alone, he would have taught her about the dangers of exerting fascination. As it was he could not permit himself that very attractive luxury so, reluctantly, he made her a polite bow instead and then took his leave.
Claire didn’t set eyes on him again until they met in the stable yard that afternoon. However, apart from a brief, polite acknowledgement of her presence he focused his attention on his ward. Claire was glad of it. It also afforded an opportunity of watching them together. He was, she thought, a good teacher, for he was quiet and firm in delivering instruction, but always ready to praise. As always, Lucy hung on his every word, clearly eager to please him. She learned quickly. He had only to tell her something once and she remembered it.
As she was off the leading rein a groom and not Trubshaw attended them. And as it was Lucy’s first solo outing the pace was necessarily gentle, but Claire didn’t mind. It was just pleasant to be out of doors on so fine a day and in so beautiful a place. All the trees were turning now, the foliage a glorious display of red and russet and gold, and the autumnal air was rich with the scent of leaf mould and damp earth. It was good to be alive on such a day. She glanced at her companions. It was good to be in such agreeable company. Even if it could not last for ever she would enjoy it now.
Lulled by the easy pace and the beauty of her surroundings, Claire was totally unprepared for the sudden violent eruption of a pheasant from the long grass at her horse’s feet. For one heartbeat she had an impression of beating wings and a squawking cry and then her startled mount shied violently, throwing her hard. Earth and sky and trees spun crazily for some moments afterwards, so she lay quite still until the scenery had stopped moving and she could get her bearings again. Then she was aware of someone beside her and of anxious grey eyes looking down into hers.
‘Claire, are you hurt?’
For a second she did not reply, being aware only that he had used her Christian name, a mode of address that he had never employed before. Then she shook her head.
‘I… I don’t think so. Just a little dazed, that’s all.’
‘Can you sit up?’
A strong arm brought her to a sitting position and supported her there. She managed a wan smile. ‘Nothing broken, I think,’ she said. ‘Only my pride is a little bruised.’
‘That will mend. Can you stand?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
She made to rise, but was saved the trouble for his arm was round her waist, lifting her onto her feet. It stayed there while the groom was despatched to retrieve her horse. Feeling somewhat foolish and not a little self-conscious, she disengaged herself from his hold and took a tentative step away. Without warning the ground shifted under her feet and she swayed. If he had not caught her she would have fallen.
‘I think that’s the end of your ride for today,’ he said. ‘We must get you back to