The Governess and Mr. Granville. Abby Gaines
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her.
Serena picked up her cutlery and turned her attention to her fish. For the next few minutes, the only sound was the clink of silver on china. Judging by her high color, Marianne was lost in fretful contemplation of the upcoming dinner party. Dominic doubtless thought he’d solved his marriage dilemma in one easy step; the measured pace of his eating radiated smugness.
Serena reined in her impulse to argue further. She was the one who’d suggested Dominic should marry. To object to how he went about it was unreasonable...at this stage.
* * *
Dominic couldn’t sleep. A few days ago he’d thought he would never remarry. Now he’d not only decided to walk down the aisle again, but Marianne had identified a candidate who seemed exactly what he needed.
Everything in him rebelled.
He stared at the elaborate ceiling cornice above his bed, only just able to discern the acorn-and-leaf pattern in the light of the half-moon. Lord, there must be another way.
He’d loved Emily from childhood, and at their wedding he’d promised to love her until death parted them. A promise all too easily kept. The truth was, he would love her forever. Was it fair to propose marriage to another woman, even one who accepted—perhaps welcomed—the convenient nature of the alliance?
The alternative was worse. Even if it were possible to feel again the way he’d felt about Emily, why would he want to? The agony of losing his wife was no longer rapier-sharp, but he remembered it well. When Serena had talked of a second chance, all he’d been able to imagine was a second chance to suffer. A man would be insane to expose himself to that again.
Which brought him back to a convenient marriage. Deep down, despite his prayer, Dominic knew there was no other way. Not if his daughters were to be successfully presented to society, if his sister was to be spared the agony of a chaperone role.
He thumped his pillow into a more amenable shape and turned over.
From a distance—upstairs?—he heard a cry. Then another. In the next moment, it became full-on wailing.
One of the children. Likely a bad dream; Nurse would attend to it. Dominic pulled his pillow over his head.
A minute later, the noise hadn’t abated.
Dominic lay there another minute. Was it possible Nurse had gone suddenly deaf? Maybe Marianne would... No, she was a famously sound sleeper. Suppressing a curse, he pushed the covers aside and got out of bed, pulled on his breeches and shirt. And since he could hardly go wandering around the house in his shirtsleeves, a dressing gown on top.
The noise was louder outside his room, deafening by the time he reached the nursery. He pushed open the door.
“Nurse, what is this infernal—”
He stopped. The woman standing at Louisa’s bed wasn’t the comforting figure of his sixty-year-old nurse. It was Serena—Miss Somerton.
She scooped Louisa up into her arms, staggering a little as she straightened.
His daughter’s cheeks were brilliant red, her eyes glassy.
Dominic charged forward. “What’s wrong with her? Where’s Nurse?”
“Her granddaughter was due to be delivered of a baby tonight.” Miss Somerton blushed at the intimate topic. “Marianne gave Nurse permission to attend her.”
He touched the back of his hand to Louisa’s forehead. “She has a fever. Have you summoned a doctor?” He made for the bellpull.
“The doctor can’t do anything.” Serena raised her voice so he could hear over his daughter’s cries. “It’s an ear infection.”
“How do you know?” Even as he asked, Dominic noticed that Louisa’s left earlobe was red. “It might look like an ear infection, but what if it’s something more serious?”
Like measles.
“Louisa suffers these infections quite frequently, though more often in winter.” Serena’s tone said he should know that. “Experience suggests there’s nothing much to do beyond comforting her.” Rocking his daughter in her arms, she murmured, “Hush, dearest, I’m here now.”
Louisa continued to scream.
“There must be something we can do,” Dominic said, aghast. “She’s obviously in pain.”
“I’ve sent the nursery maid for some laudanum. A few drops won’t harm her, and it’ll help her sleep.”
“What about Nurse’s special tonic?” he said desperately. “That seems to fix anything.”
Serena smiled, and her face took on that impish look he was beginning to associate with her. Highly inappropriate in a governess.
She’s not a governess anymore.
Still, to be smiling like that, she couldn’t be too worried about Louisa; Dominic felt his own panic ease.
“Nurse’s special tonic is just lemon barley, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve discovered that unless Nurse herself administers it, it doesn’t work.”
“Lemon barley?” He struck a hand to his chest. “That tonic has cured me miraculously numerous times.”
Serena’s smiled widened as she stroked Louisa’s hair. “I apologize for disillusioning you.”
“Let me take her,” Dominic said. “She’s heavy.”
He half expected her to protest, convinced as she was that she knew better what his children needed, but she willingly offered Louisa over.
The transfer proved awkward, as Louisa burrowed into Serena’s neck. Dominic’s suddenly clumsy fingers brushed Serena’s shoulders and upper arms through her clothing. She stiffened.
By the time he held his daughter, he felt as if he’d been wrestling quicksand. Serena’s cheeks were pink, her gaze downcast.
It occurred to him that the high-necked garment she wore might be a dressing gown. It certainly wasn’t the dress she’d worn to dinner, which had been white, with a pink ribbon and a ruffled hem. Simple, but pretty. Whatever this peach-colored garment was, it boasted the shabbiness of long wear.
To allow them both time to collect themselves, Dominic paced the room, trying to keep his steps rhythmic. With no better plan of his own—indeed, he didn’t have a clue—he followed Serena’s example, stroking Louisa’s hair, hushing her. Inept though he felt—should he be stroking or patting?—it seemed to soothe the child.
Serena yawned and sank down onto the edge of Louisa’s bed. Dominic walked past the chest filled with toys, many from his own youth, and over to a table where pencils and paper and paints were laid out. One of the chairs had a cushion tied to it, presumably for Louisa. On the table was a painting—if you could call the mess of colors that—anchored with two stones from the garden. Dominic eyed the “masterpiece” with misgiving. Was Serena a poor tutor, or was his daughter entirely lacking artistic talent?
“Louisa uses color to great effect.” Serena had followed the direction of his gaze.
“It’s a mess,” he said.
“It’s the work of a five-year-old, Mr. Granville.”
The sudden frost in her voice was a defense of his daughter, he realized. About which he could hardly complain.
“Actually,” she continued, “it’s a portrait of you.”
Dominic leaned over to get a better look at the painting. Louisa’s head flopped forward; quickly, he cupped it, hugging her securely. “I appear to have three eyes.”
“It’s perhaps not a good likeness,” Serena admitted. “Maybe,” she continued, still frosty, “that’s because the children don’t see enough of you to remember what you look like.”
Dominic