My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 2

  “Please inform her grace that Miss Palmer is here,” he said to the butler and took a seat opposite her. “My work in the Foreign Office keeps me away from home a good deal of the time and my mother has often been with the children. Since she has had more experience at this sort of thing than I, with your permission, I should like her to join us for this interview, Miss Palmer.”

  “Of course,” she said politely.

  He looked at the woman carefully. He had noted her to be of medium height, perhaps a bit shorter. She carried herself well. She had light brown hair, parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun on the nape of her neck; a straight, well-shaped nose; and a firm jaw and chin. Would she be inclined to be stubborn? he wondered. A generous sprinkling of freckles splashed across her nose. Ah, perhaps she will not be averse to spending time out-of-doors with the children. His perusal came to an abrupt halt with her eyes. Behind a pair of ordinary eyeglasses were the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen. An intriguing shade of gray-green—like certain pieces of Oriental jade, he thought. Nor did the spectacles camouflage delicately arched dark brows and dark lashes. She smiled nervously, drawing his attention to her mouth. Too wide for conventional beauty, he mused, then abruptly brought himself to the task at hand.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to stare.”

  She nodded, acknowledging his statement, and withdrew some papers from a packet she carried. “My references, your lordship,” she said, handing them to him.

  “References. Yes, of course.”

  There were a few moments of silence as he looked them over. His eyebrows rose significantly and he was about to say something when the door opened and his mother swept into the room. Both he and Miss Palmer rose at her entrance.

  “Miss Harriet Palmer, my mother, Duchess of Wallenford.”

  “Your grace.” Miss Palmer curtsied to the other woman and turned to the marquis. “My lord, I am accustomed to using my second name which is Elinor.”

  “All right. Miss Elinor Palmer is here about the governess position,” Adrian said unnecessarily.

  “Yes, I assumed as much,” the duchess said, taking a seat and waving them back to theirs. She subjected the younger woman to the same scrutiny her son had. “You seem rather young for a governess.” She was blunt, but not unkind.

  “I am nearly four and twenty, your grace—old enough to have been employed for some years.” Miss Palmer looked at the duchess directly. There was a defensive note, but her voice was well-modulated, her accent upper class.

  “Your references speak well for you,” Adrian interjected in a matter-of-fact tone. He smiled politely, but his voice became faintly skeptical as he added, “Do you really speak all these languages?” He handed the papers to his mother.

  “I speak French fluently,” she said. “My German is adequate. My Spanish slightly less so. My Italian ...” She shrugged slightly. “I am afraid my Italian is barely social.”

  “Luckily, the children do not entertain many visitors from Italy,” he said.

  The duchess looked up. “You seem remarkably well educated for a female, Miss Palmer. You read Latin and Greek?”

  Miss Palmer seemed to color up at the disbelieving tone. “Yes, Your Grace, I do,” she said firmly. “My father was educated at Oxford and he thought daughters as worthy of schooling as sons.”

  “I see,” the duchess murmured.

  The marquis and his mother continued to query her about her qualifications and her feelings about working with young children. She told them that, in addition to associations noted in her references, she had helped to rear her younger brother after her mother died. They informed her the position entailed caring for the marquis’s twins, a boy and a girl, aged six. Their mother having died at their birth, the children had heretofore been largely in the care of nursery maids. It was past time to start their formal education. The governess would also have in her care his ward, the nine-year-old daughter of his late brother, the previous Marquis of Trenville.

  All three children were presently residing in Devon. Since the marquis spent much of his time traveling for the Foreign Office, he preferred to keep them in his home seat, though they occasionally came to town with him. Would Miss Palmer object to removing to the country? No, Miss Palmer would not object at all.

  Miss Palmer was then asked to wait across the hall for a few minutes as the marquis and his mother conferred.

  “Well?” He raised a quizzical brow.

  “She is very impressive,” his mother said slowly.

  “But you have doubts.”

  “Not about her education and she strikes me as someone who can handle children ...”

  “But ... ?” His tone was impatient.

  “I do not think she is telling us all there is to know of one Miss Palmer.”

  “Good lord, Mother. Even a governess is entitled to her privacy. What did you see that I did not?”

  “It is probably nothing. Just that the cut and quality of her clothing—not to mention its current style—is superior to what one expects of a governess.”

  “Seemed perfectly ordinary to me.”

  “I am sure it did.” Her tone was dry. “Still,” she added, “it is not unusual for a governess to receive an employer’s cast-off clothing.”

  “Miss Palmer does not seem the type for castoffs,” Adrian said.

  “Whatever type that is,” his mother replied. “Well ... she seems decidedly superior to others we have interviewed. And we have talked with how many—five? Six? I would not have allowed that last one near my grandchildren. I suggest you hire Miss Palmer for a trial period at least.”

  Miss Palmer—the real Miss Palmer—had been waiting anxiously for Elinor to return.

  “You certainly came home in style,” she said, as Henderson stood by to take Elinor’s pelisse and bonnet. “How did the interview go?”

  Elinor whirled before her. “You see before you Miss Harriet Elinor Palmer, governess to the children and ward of the Marquis of Trenville. He insisted on sending me home in a carriage.”

  “My goodness. A position on your very first application! When are you to start? I hope you held out for a decent salary.”

  “I did not have to. What they offered was most generous. I think they were impressed that I can do more than read and write and embroider.” Elinor laughed and grabbed Miss Palmer about the waist to dance a step or two. “Oh, thank you, thank you for helping me. I am finally truly confident this will work.”

  “Of course it will, my dear,” said Miss Palmer, infected by Elinor’s enthusiasm. “We must celebrate. Henderson, some sherry, please. Now, tell me.” She ushered Elinor into the drawing room.

  Elinor quickly summarized the events of the early afternoon.

  “And,” she ended, “I am to report for duty tomorrow. I am to stay at the Trenville town house tomorrow and the next morning we will depart for Devon, for that is where the children are.”

  “So soon?” Miss Palmer asked with regret. “I have so enjoyed having you here. And I shall miss you.”

  “And I, you,” Elinor said. “But the sooner I am out of the city, the better, I am sure.” And, she thought, I will no longer be a drain on your resources, dear friend.

  That night she lay in bed recalling the interview. Working for the marquis would be a challenge. He had been polite and gracious, albeit reserved and proud—not unusual in a man of his status, she told herself. And what does it matter, so long as he is satisfied with the performance of your duties? All that matters is that you stay hidden for the next twelve months. But her thoughts strayed back to the person of her employer.

  He was tall and sturdy-looking. He had deep brown hair and eyes, a broad forehead, well-defined brows, and high cheekbones. His nose might have been straight once, but it now had a slight bump in it as though it had been broken at some time. Rather an ordinary-looking man, she thought, until he smiled with a flash of brilliant white teeth and a shallow dimple that appeared only on the left side. T
he laugh crinkles at his eyes belied his rather austere demeanor. I’ll wager that smile has captured many a heart at a London ball, Elinor mused.

  Under ordinary circumstances, their social paths might have crossed before now, but after her obligatory season in Town, she had spent but little time in the city. She knew Trenville had come into his title when his older brother died of a fever. The current marquis had married the reigning debutante three years before Elinor had made her own come-out. Lady Beatrice had died in childbirth and rumor had it that the marquis was in no hurry to marry again. He was, of course, considered a prime catch by many an aspiring miss and her matchmaking mama.

  The interview had gone well, she thought. Both the marquis and his mother seemed to have accepted Elinor‘s—that is, Miss Palmer’s—credentials at face value. She had tried to answer all their questions with the truth as it applied to herself whenever possible. The fewer lies to keep in mind, the better. Still, she was not at all sure that the duchess did not harbor suspicions. She would have to be careful on that coach journey with the older woman.

  Two

  The next day Trenville’s coachman was prompt in calling for Elinor. As her meager belongings were stowed on the carriage, she bid Miss Palmer and the Hendersons good-bye. She had posted a letter to her brother, telling him only that she had taken a position she was certain would provide for her adequately and instructing him again not to worry.

  She still feared her uncle’s finding her and dragging her back to marry the repulsive baron. She had awakened from horrifying dreams twice in the last week. She managed to quell these feelings, though, and she was rather looking forward to this new adventure in her life. There was something exciting about actually being another person for a while—and, after all, she would return to her own self and her own life soon enough.

  On arrival at the Trenville town house, Elinor was shown to a well-appointed room near the now idle schoolroom and other rooms set aside for children. The marquis and his mother were out, but they had instructed that a tray be delivered to her room for tea and she was to join them later for dinner. Elinor freshened up and readied herself for dinner.

  Dinner was rather informal as there were only the marquis, his mother, his secretary, a Mr. Huntington, and herself. Thomas Huntington was some five or six years younger than his employer—mid—twenties, Elinor thought. He had reddish blond hair and blue eyes. He displayed a ready smile and there was a clean and wholesome look about him. In some undefinable way, he made her think of Peter.

  “I understand you will be journeying to Devon on the morrow, Miss Palmer,” he said conversationally as they were introduced in the drawing room before dinner.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I am quite looking forward to it, for I have never been there, nor have I lived near the sea.”

  “Where do you hail from, my dear?” the duchess asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Elinor asked to gain time to think. Had any of Miss Palmer’s papers mentioned a place of origin?

  “Where is your home?” the duchess repeated.

  “Yorkshire, Your Grace.” She settled on an area near her own native Lincolnshire and mentally crossed her fingers that there was nothing to the contrary in those papers. “But not at all near the sea.”

  “The seaside can be quite glorious when the weather cooperates,” Huntington said.

  “I quite like the sea even in a storm,” Trenville offered.

  “Comes from your years as a sailor, I daresay.” Huntington turned to Elinor to add, “Trenville was with Nelson in the Mediterranean, you know.”

  “No. I did not know. How very interesting.” First the navy, now the Foreign Office, she thought. Was he motivated by desire to serve, or by desire for power? She looked at him speculatively. He inclined his head in the slightest of not-quite-embarrassed bows and smiled at her. She felt a bolt of warmth jolt through her and quickly lowered her gaze.

  “Adrian loved the sea in all its moods even as a small boy,” the duchess said. “I must admit there is something awe-inspiring in the fierce uncontrolled power of a storm on the sea coast. But these days, I much prefer Wallenford’s seat in Wiltshire.”

  “Only because Father rarely leaves the place,” Trenville teased.

  “I think he has you there, Your Grace.” Huntington grinned at her.

  “Well ...” The older woman pretended hauteur.

  Just then dinner was announced. With only the four of them in attendance, the conversation continued for the rest of the evening in a generally light vein. The others were careful to enlighten Miss Palmer on people and places they mentioned. She learned that the marquis’s home in Devon was called Whitsun Abbey and had actually been part of a monastery until Henry VIII had awarded the property to an ancestor of the current residents for services not fully delineated for succeeding generations.

  “That worthy ancestor also appropriated the name of the abbey for a family name,” the duchess said, “though he changed the spelling—out of ignorance or a fit of anticlerical sentiment. Who knows?” She chuckled.

  Miss Palmer also learned the household included, in addition to the children already mentioned, his lordship’s widowed sister-in-law, the dowager Marchioness of Trenville, as well as her companion.

  The next morning, Adrian observed that it was quite an entourage setting out for Devon. He himself would alternately ride his mount and join the ladies in the Wallenford carriage. Another, less elegant carriage transported luggage, the marquis’s valet, his French chef, and the duchess’s personal maid. Miss Palmer was invited to join the duchess in her finely appointed traveling coach embossed with the crest of the Duke of Wallenford. The secretary was to await certain dispatches in London before following them in a few days.

  Adrian appreciated efficiency in the people who worked for him. He hoped the new governess would fit that mold. God knew this business of finding someone merely to teach young children had taken far more time and attention than he had anticipated. So far, he found little to criticize in this latest addition to his household. Her conversation the night before had been lively and knowledgeable, her questions intelligent and showing genuine interest. He suspected she may have held back on offering an opinion a time or two, but such behavior was understandable in light of her position and on such short acquaintance. At least she was not the shy, retiring mouse of a woman usually associated with that role.

  He found himself considering the more personal attributes of his new employee. Since his mother’s comment about her clothing, Adrian had paid more attention than was his wont. She did wear her garments well—and she had an enticing figure on which to hang them, he thought. She would probably make quite a splash in a fashionable ball gown. And a man could drown in those eyes.

  Enough, he told himself. Whitson men do not take advantage of females in their employ. It makes absolutely no difference what she looks like so long as she handles her schoolroom duties adequately. However, his pompous self-flagellation did not prevent his mind from wandering back to her frequently in the course of the journey. He was tempted to simply enjoy her company in the coach and as he shared meals with the ladies After all, there no sin in a man’s appreciating an attractive woman, no matter who she was.

  On the other hand, this was no time to lose control of the rigid self-discipline he had practiced for more than six years now.

  By the end of the long, tiring journey, both Elinor and the duchess drooped with exhaustion. When the carriage finally entered the long driveway of Whitsun Abbey, Elinor observed the duchess’s demeanor brighten considerably.

  “Thank goodness we have had good weather for these days of travel.” The duchess enthusiastically leaned forward to glance out the coach window. “Just look at the sea in the distance. I do love this place.”

  “It is quite lovely,” Elinor said, trying to take it all in at once. “The Abbey looks as though it were born to this spot.” It was constructed of large gray stones overgrown with ivy that, at this time of the year, displaye
d a myriad of colors—varying shades of green, gold, vermilion, and brown. With the sea in the distance, it was a sight to behold. But it was not only the Abbey that was a sight to behold, she thought, as its owner came into view.

  What was it about this man that caused such heightening of her senses? She could not recall ever having met another man whose mere personal presence caused her to react so. Stop being such a ninny, she scolded herself. He is your employer. You are the governess, not some simpering schoolroom miss.

  The duchess interrupted her thoughts. “I first came here as a bride. This property has always been one of my favorites.”

  “I can readily see why,” Elinor murmured politely.

  “Adrian was born here and grew up here—that is, until he went away to school. Now that I think on it, neither of my sons truly lived at the Wiltshire seat, except for school holidays. Adrian prefers this place above all other Trenville and Wallenford holdings.” The duchess babbled on in her delight at returning to the Abbey. “My husband, though, grew up in Wiltshire and much prefers it, though we were quite happy here until he inherited the Wallenford title. Oh, it has been an age since I was here—and I do love it best in autumn.”

  As the carriage came to a stop, Elinor smiled at her companion’s pleasure. The duchess had maintained a polite formality throughout the journey, confining herself to general topics. Now she seemed almost garrulous—and as excited as a schoolgirl. The marquis was there promptly to hand his mother down, then turned to her fellow traveler. As she had been at all their stops along the way, Elinor was instantly aware of his physical presence when he took her hand to help her alight.

  “Welcome to Whitsun Abbey, Miss Palmer,” he said. “I hope you will enjoy Devon.”

  “I am sure I shall.” She breathed deeply of the salt air and tried to maintain her composure. “It is very beautiful here,” she added, looking off to where the late afternoon sun sparkled on the water.

  “You are seeing it at its best,” he affirmed. “September is always the loveliest time to visit the seaside.”