A Lady Becomes A Governess. Diane Gaston
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had not died, his army life would have changed drastically.
He had to admit he’d travelled to Holyhead mostly to give himself time away from these duties and regrets. Time to think. He could have easily sent a servant to escort her to the estate.
He rose when the innkeeper brought his key. As he settled back in the chair next to the bed, Miss Tilson’s eyes—unexpectedly hazel—fluttered open.
‘Where?’ she managed, her voice cracking.
He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on the bed table. ‘You are safe, Miss Tilson,’ he told her. ‘You are at an inn in Moelfre.’
Her brow creased as if she were puzzled. ‘Miss Tilson,’ she whispered. ‘Claire.’
He helped her to sit and held the glass as she drank. ‘I am Lord Brookmore.’ It still sounded strange on his tongue. In his mind Brookmore was still his brother. ‘Your employer.’
She stared at him a long time and it seemed as if he could see a range of emotions flit through her eyes. Puzzlement, horror, grief and, finally, understanding.
* * *
Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. This was not another fever-filled vision, but a real man touching her, helping her drink. Once she quenched her considerable thirst, she became acutely aware that she wore only a thin nightdress. From where? From whom? Had even the clothes she’d worn—Claire Tilson’s clothes—been lost? Her throat tightened again, but this time from grief. Claire. Nolan. All those poor people.
She shrank away from the man and he sat back in his chair, placing the glass on the side table.
He was Claire’s new employer, he’d said, and he thought she was the poor governess who’d been swept away by that killing wave. He did not look like a man who would hire a governess. His rugged face and muscular frame made him look untamed. His piercing blue eyes seemed a thin shield against painful remembrances. Dark hair, longer than fashionable, was as windswept as a man who’d galloped over fields on a wild stallion. The shadow of a beard covering a strong jaw gave him a rakish air.
Her eyes darted around the room. Why was such a man alone with her? She certainly had never before been alone with a man in her bedchamber, in her night clothes.
‘Why—?’ Her throat closed again and she swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’
His blue eyes fixed on her. ‘I waited at Holyhead. News came of the shipwreck so I rode here to see if you’d...survived.’
The shipwreck. Again she watched the wave consume Claire. Again she felt the rowing boat smash against rocks and plunge her into the water.
She shivered with the memory and he rose again, this time to wrap a blanket around her shoulders. Her skin heated at his touch.
She looked up into his face. ‘How many? How many survived?’
‘Eleven, the innkeeper said,’ he replied.
Only ten others? What about the woman and her two children? Were they swept out to sea like Claire and the gentleman with her? Her eyes stung with tears.
‘My God.’ She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.
She could feel him staring at her, even though he was still and silent. How humiliating to become so discomposed in front of this stranger. It was so unlike her.
She wrested some control, finally lifting her head and taking deep breaths.
Without speaking, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her tear-soaked face.
The handkerchief was still warm from his body.
‘Thank you.’ She took another deep breath and started to return the now soaked handkerchief. She pulled it back, laughing drily. ‘I—I will have it laundered.’
What a silly thing to say. She had no means of getting it laundered. She had no money. No clothes. Nothing.
She, of course, could identify herself. Send word to London of her predicament. To Lord Stonecroft. Who else was there to help her in London? But why would she want to ask for his help when she wanted to escape him? Being his brood mare seemed even worse than drowning.
Lord Brookmore sat back in his chair again, his face averted.
She should tell him she wasn’t Claire Tilson, that she saw Claire washed overboard.
Oh, why had Claire drowned and not her? Claire had independence. She had work for which she earned her own money and she also had the hope of finding a man to love her some day. Claire would have fared so much better than Rebecca, who had nothing to look forward to but a prison of a marriage. Why could fate not have let them trade places in death as easily as they’d worn each other’s clothes?
She stole another glance at Lord Brookmore and her heart quickened.
He thought she was Claire. Perhaps she was the only one who knew she was really Lady Rebecca Pierce, doomed to marry Lord Stonecroft.
She could not die in the watery depths instead of Claire. She’d have been willing to do so. But she could trade places with Claire now. She could live Claire’s life for her.
Escape her own life.
Lord Stonecroft would not mourn her; he’d merely be annoyed that he must search for another brood mare to marry. Her brother would not mourn her. He’d get to keep her dowry. She could not sacrifice her life instead of Claire’s, but she could become Claire.
Guilt pricked at her. She’d be deceiving this very handsome man. What a way to repay his kindness.
He did need a governess, though, did he not? She could be a governess. How hard could that be? It would help him, would it not?
‘I—I had a fever, I think,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember much except—’ Except plunging into churning, cold water and thinking she would die. ‘Except the wreck.’
His eyes fixed on her again. ‘I know nothing more than you were saved and you were ill.’
‘Am I still to be your nieces’ governess?’ Will he accept her as Claire? she meant.
‘If you feel up to the task, yes.’ His voice was stiff and formal and so deep she felt the timbre of it as well as hearing it. ‘If you need a long recuperation—’
‘I am well enough.’ She sat up straighter as if to prove it. ‘I am quite recuperated.’
‘Good.’ He stood. ‘I will send for the maid and some food, if you are hungry.’
She didn’t really know if she was hungry, but the mention of food made her stomach growl. ‘Thank you, sir.’
He nodded. ‘We can travel to Brookmore House as early as tomorrow, if you are able.’
Better to leave soon, although, out of ten other survivors, who was likely to know she was not Claire? Someone must have already identified her as such. ‘I will be ready for travel tomorrow. I am certain.’
He nodded. ‘Very good. Anything you need, Miss Tilson, just ask for it. I will see that it is provided to you.’
She glanced down at herself. She needed everything! Lady Rebecca would not hesitate to enumerate each necessary item, but she could not imagine Claire doing so.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she murmured instead.
‘I will take my leave, then.’ He inclined his head. ‘Miss Tilson.’
‘My lord,’ she responded.
After he walked out the door she threw off the covers and climbed out of bed, suddenly restless. The wood floor was cold beneath her bare feet and her legs were weak. She made her way to the window and looked down upon a village street, its whitewashed buildings glowing in the waning light of early evening. Wagons and carriages rumbled by and villagers hurried here and there as if this