Chapter Eleven

R ory was waiting in the foyer when Miss Brooking returned. “Where have you been?” he demanded as soon as she stepped inside. She looked up at him with those lovely green eyes, so cool and calm, and untied her bonnet, which was damp. It must have begun to rain, and damn if he needed one more thing to worry about. His nerves were so on edge, they might fall off a cliff at this point.

“I was with my mother,” she said. “Today was my day off.” Her hands stilled on the ribbons as she studied his face. “What’s wrong?”

“We cannot find Frances.”

“What do you mean? Were you playing hide-and-seek again?”

“No. No games. She’s run away. You should have been here.” He knew blaming Miss Brooking would solve nothing, but he couldn’t stop the accusation. His daughter had not been seen for almost two hours now, and he was panicking. He hadn’t panicked like this since he’d been informed of the carriage accident that killed his family, and he’d raced on horseback to the scene, hoping against hope to find his wife and child alive.

Now the panic was back, and he couldn’t seem to focus his thoughts. All he could think was that he couldn’t lose Frances. He’d lost everyone else. He couldn’t lose her too.

“Where is Mrs. Mann? And Mary?” Miss Brooking asked.

“Out looking for Frances. I was about to send a footman to fetch you from your mother’s. If you had only come home earlier—”

Miss Brooking raised her gloved hands. “I will not apologize for visiting my mother or taking my full day off, but I am here now, and we will find Frances. Let’s not stand in the foyer. Come to the parlor, sit down, and tell me everything.”

He had the urge to argue with her, but her words made sense. Standing in the foyer and making accusations would not help them find Frances. He needed to give Miss Brooking all the information and make a plan. But he didn’t have to do it her way.

“Parlor be damned,” he said, and headed for his library. He needed a drink. Once in the library, he poured himself three fingers of brandy. “Want some?” he asked.

“No. Tell me what happened.” She retied the ribbons of her bonnet.

“Frances has been misbehaving all day. I don’t know the half of it, as I had correspondence to attend to, but I heard some of it. She broke a vase, argued with Mrs. Mann, refused to eat her dinner.”

“What did you do?”

“Me? You think she ran away because of me?”

“I just want all of the facts,” she said, her tone the one she might take with a young child trying her patience.

“After she broke the vase, I was angry. I admit, I let my temper get the better of me. I stormed out of the library and told her if she continued her naughty behavior, you would never come back.”

Miss Brooking closed her eyes. Rory gripped his crystal glass. “I know. I shouldn’t have said that. You would have said the right thi—”

“No matter.” She cut him off as though she were the head of the household, not him. “Fortunately, it is early in the season, and we have a few hours of light left. I’ll go out and search for her. I have an idea where she might be.”

He set the glass down. “Where?” She turned and started away, and Rory found himself going after her. “Where?” he repeated.

“For the last few days all we have talked about was the picnic at the stream. I think she might go that way— if she ran away. Are you sure she’s not in the house?”

“We searched it,” he said, catching up to her and easily matching her stride.

She paused at the staircase. “Did anyone look in the nursery and see if her mother’s handkerchiefs are gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Harriet?”

He felt a shock jolt him as though he’d been struck by lightning. “Harriet?”

“Her doll, my lord. Is her doll in the nursery? She would not run away without her doll.”

Rory shook his head. “I-I don’t know.”

But Miss Brooking was already on her way up the stairs, and he went after her. Of course the child wouldn’t leave her doll. Why hadn’t he thought to look in the nursery? He passed her, opened the door to the nursery, and marched inside. He found a doll and held it up. Relief poured through him. The doll was here.

“That’s Marcella,” she said. “My doll.” She scanned the room quickly. “Harriet isn’t here. Let’s go toward the picnic spot and the trout stream.”

Rory dropped the doll. “It’s a three-mile walk.” Surely a girl couldn’t walk three miles on her own.

“She’s been gone two hours. Hopefully, she went part of the way, realized how foolish her idea was, and is on her way back.”

Rory was doubtful. “I’ll order the rest of the staff to join the search around the house.”

“And send for Admiral.”

“The dog? Yes, of course. We’ll take him with us.” Why hadn’t he thought of the dog? He didn’t usually panic under stress. He was always the calm, brave one.

A few minutes later, he sent the staff out to search and met Miss Brooking on the back lawn with the dog. She looked tired, and he realized she had probably walked all the way to her mother’s and back, and now he was asking her to walk another three miles. A gentleman would have suggested she stay back at the house, but Rory couldn’t be a gentleman right now. He needed her with him. She was thinking clearly, and she knew Frances better than he did.

What he wouldn’t admit was that he was terrified out of his mind they would find Frances injured or drowned, and he needed the nanny to help him keep calm. She had that effect.

“Ready?” she asked, and gestured for him to lead the way. He started off, glancing up at the skies, which were overcast and looked rather unpromising. But it wasn’t raining at the moment. Miss Brooking kept pace with him until about a mile from the house. What had been a wild garden with wild plants and grasses turned into a wooded area that sheltered foxes, deer, rabbits, and innumerable birds. He found the narrow path, but he hadn’t thought before about how untended the path and the woods were. The ground was uneven, and at one point a large tree limb had fallen across it. The dog jumped the limb, and Rory easily climbed over it, but he paused to hold out a hand to assist Miss Brooking. She lifted her skirts then tried to find a place to put her foot and hold on to his hand, but Rory, impatient, finally grasped her about the waist, lifted her, and placed her on the other side.

“Thank you.”

He waved a hand. “Keep up and keep looking for her.”

He was looking to his right and left all the time and trying not to think about the possibility that Frances might have wandered off the path and could be lost anywhere in the wooded area. If that was the case, they wouldn’t find her tonight. She’d be out alone, in the dark and the rain, for it had started drizzling again after the first mile.

Finally, after what felt like days but was probably only three-quarters of an hour, he heard the sound of rushing water, which indicated the trout stream was just ahead. He turned to be certain Miss Brooking was still with him. She was a few feet behind, her face determined, but white with fatigue. Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand, pulling her along for the last few yards.

The trees gradually thinned, which meant the rain fell heavier, and he wiped his face to see better. “No sign of her,” he said.

“Give me a moment,” Miss Brooking said.

She stared at the stream and then looked up the bank and back down. At least, that was what he thought she was doing, until he noticed the dog. Admiral had been walking with them along the path, zigzagging here and there to sniff something interesting. He’d return, walk beside them, then gallop off again. But now the dog stood still, ears perked, and head cocked.

Listening.

He put his nose to the ground and began sniffing.

Miss Brooking looked away from the dog and back at the wooded area. “She’ll want somewhere to hide,” she said. “She’s afraid of wolves, and if she made it this far, she will have realized she can’t cross the stream. She might also look for a place out of the rain.”

“Let’s look for fallen trees or shallow, sheltered ravines.”

“Good idea. You go upstream, my lord, and I will walk downstream.” She tried to release his hand. He hadn’t even realized he still held her hand, and he wasn’t about to let it go now.

“I’m not losing both of you,” he said. “We stay together.” He glanced at the dog, who was moving downstream. “Let’s try that way first.”

She followed him—not that she had much choice, considering he was still holding her hand—and they moved along the edge of the woods, letting the dog take the lead. “Frances!” Miss Brooking called. “Frances? Where are you?”

Rory hadn’t thought about calling for her before. He assumed, if she’d run away, she didn’t want to be found, but now he started calling too. A few hours outside, and she might be wet and hungry and ready to go home. “Frances!” he called. “Answer me!”

“Frances! Sweetheart, please answer!”

“Fran—”

The dog’s head jerked up, and Miss Brooking squeezed Rory’s hand. “Listen,” she said. Rory froze and listened. He heard something rising above the sounds of the rain and the stream. It sounded like a sort of hiccupping bird call. Admiral gave a quiet huff and shot into the woods.

“That’s her,” Miss Brooking said. “She’s crying.”

“I hear it. Follow the dog. He has her scent now.”

The crying grew louder, and he followed the sound toward a large tree further back in the woods. As they neared the tree, he caught sight of the dog, head turned to look back at them as though he were wondering what was taking so long. Miss Brooking released Rory’s hand and ran forward, rounding the tree, and then falling to her knees and pulling what Rory assumed was Frances into his arms. Rory approached more slowly, and as he rounded the large tree trunk, he saw Frances with her face buried in Miss Brooking’s neck. The dog had moved closer, too, nosing them both. The governess was whispering, “I have you now. Shh. You’re safe.”

For a moment, Rory felt as though he were falling. Everything went sideways. Relief surged through him, but something else sent him off balance. He reached out and grasped a tree trunk, steadying himself. He could still hear Miss Brooking comforting Frances. Rory tried to think of a time when he’d been held like that, when he’d been comforted as a scared child.

He couldn’t remember even once.

Rory straightened, feeling steadier now, and Miss Brooking looked up at him. Then, to his astonishment, she lifted Frances and pushed the child toward him. Rory waited for the child to refuse, to fight to stay with her governess, but she reached for him. His breath catching in his throat, Rory took her in his arms, holding her in a way he couldn’t remember ever being held himself. Frances wrapped one small arm about his neck and pressed her face against him. The other arm held her doll. Miss Brooking had been right that she wouldn’t leave it.

“You’re soaking wet,” he murmured, unsure what else to say. He wasn’t used to whispering reassuring words or calling anyone sweetheart .

“I’m cold,” she said.

Rory refrained from mentioning that she wouldn’t be cold if she had stayed at home. Now wasn’t the time. “Let’s get you home and warm.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder, and her bespectacled eyes met his. He wasn’t sure how much she could see, as her eyeglasses were wet, foggy, and had smudges of dirt. “Is Miss Genevieve going back with us?”

“Of course I am,” the governess said immediately, laying her hand on Frances’s back. “And something tells me you won’t argue about sinking into a warm bath when we get there either.”

“I’m hungry,” Frances said, burying her head back in Rory’s shoulder.

“Then let’s go home.” He started back, carrying his daughter. She was too big to be carried like this, but nothing could convince him to put her down. He liked the weight of her in his arms, liked knowing she was safe because he had her. He would keep her safe.

Despite the steady rainfall and the weight he carried, the walk back seemed to go quickly. Admiral led the way, veering toward his master as soon as they approached the house. Rory began barking orders to the servants who were about, asking for food and warm water and dry clothes.

He walked into his home, dripping everywhere, and carried Frances straight up to the nursery. Once there, Miss Brooking took over, ordering the fire built up and the bath brought as soon as possible. She began pulling wet clothing off Frances, and he backed out of the room and closed the door.

“My lord, I have dry clothing waiting for you.”

He turned and saw his valet was waiting. With a last look at the closed door of the nursery, he followed Chaffer. Once he was clean, dry, and fed, he summoned Gables. “Is my daughter in bed yet?”

“I am not certain, my lord.”

“Find out, and as soon as the child is asleep, I want to see Miss Brooking.”

The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. Er—in here, my lord?”

Rory looked about his bedchamber. The carpet, wallpaper, and upholstery were done in peacock blue and gold. He imagined Miss Brooking would look lovely surrounded by those colors. But he couldn’t meet with the governess in his bedchamber. “I’ll go down to the library. Have her meet me there as soon as the child is asleep.”

“Yes, my lord.”

*

Chaffer had put out a coat and waistcoat, and offered to tie Rory’s neckcloth, but he declined. Now he wished he’d done as his valet wanted, because he felt undressed in his breeches and shirt sleeves. Of course, he had every right to walk about in his shirt sleeves. This was his home. He entered the library, glad that Gables had made certain the fire in the hearth was built up. Rory’s hair was still damp from his bath, and he sat at his desk and poured two glasses of wine. He didn’t want anything stronger than that. In fact, he didn’t do more than take a single sip. What he had to say to Miss Brooking was too important.

The idea had flashed through his mind when he saw Frances clinging to the governess right after she was found. Miss Brooking had known all the right things to say to the child to calm her. She had known where to look and maintained her composure throughout the search. Rory had not a doubt in his mind that if Miss Brooking had been at Lilacfall Abbey today, his daughter would have never run away. They might all have had a happy dinner—Frances chattering and Miss Brooking looking lovely in green.

But this wasn’t about how lovely the governess looked, or even about that kiss in the closet. This was about his daughter. He didn’t ever want her to go missing again. He didn’t ever want to feel that sense of panic.

And there was only one way to ensure his daughter would stay put and be safe.

He heard a tap on the door to the library and rose as it opened. Miss Brooking stood in the doorway, looking tired and wet and disheveled. She obviously hadn’t had a chance to change or dry off. But then, he had told Gables he wanted her to come directly.

“Gables said you wanted to speak with me, my lord.”

“I do. Come in.”

She did, but left the door open slightly.

“Close the door,” he said. She glanced at him but did as he asked. She came to stand before his desk, her hands clasped before her soggy gray dress. Her hair was half up and half down, falling about her shoulders in dripping red curls. Her bonnet fell down her back. The knot of her ribbons looked small and tight. It would probably have to be cut if she were to remove the bonnet. Looking lower—

No, it was better if he didn’t look lower. The wet fabric of her dress clung to her body and left little of her form to the imagination.

He lifted his glass of wine then pushed hers forward. “You look like you need this,” he said.

She lifted it and took a sip. “I’m dead on my feet, so if you intend to sack me, might it wait until tomorrow?”

“Sack you—why would you think I would send you away?”

“Isn’t that what this is about? You were angry I wasn’t home. Your daughter ran away, and even if I wasn’t at home, I should have taught her well enough not to run away.” She sipped the wine again. “Granted, this is the argument I think you are making in your head. I haven’t been here long enough to do anything of the sort. I should have warned you, though. She acts up when people go away. She fears being left alone more than anything else. So, you see, your threat that I would not return was the worst possible—”

“ Miss Brooking, ” Rory interrupted before she could say anything else that would anger him or make him feel more culpable than he already did. “You should stop speaking while the hole you are digging is still shallow enough that you might climb out. I didn’t summon you here to terminate your employment or to hear a litany of my offenses. I have enumerated them in my mind often enough.”

“Then why did you summon me?”

“To ask if you would consider becoming Frances’s mother.”

There. He’d said it. He’d made the offer. He hadn’t thought he’d be terrified if he said it that way. Her acceptance or refusal weren’t about him. Or so he’d told himself—but his hands started shaking, and now he could feel his heart beating against his chest.

Miss Brooking took another sip of her wine, her green gaze cool over the rim of the glass, seeming completely unaffected by the proposal he’d just made. “I didn’t hear you correctly, my lord,” she said after a long silence wherein the blood rushing in his ears seemed to grow louder.

“You heard me, Miss Brooking.”

She took another sip of her wine. A very long sip, draining the glass. Rory raised his brows. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected as she appeared.

“Another glass, Miss Brooking?”

She nodded and set the crystal goblet on his desk. He filled it halfway, but she didn’t lift it again. “I don’t understand what you are proposing, my lord.”

“You understand perfectly, Miss Brooking. It occurred to me this afternoon, while my household was in a panic and my daughter missing, that everything is calmer and more peaceful when you are here. Furthermore, when we found Frances—largely due to your efforts and insight—her reaction to you showed me something else. The child needs a mother. You seem like the perfect candidate.”

“May I?” She waved a hand at one of the chairs before the desk.

“Of course.”

She sank into the chair. “My lord, forgive me for being forward, but this situation is new to me. Are you asking me to marry you?”

He was, and in the most indirect way possible. He didn’t want to marry again, but at least this time, he was approaching it with a clear head. He was using her, and if she used him, well, it didn’t matter, because there were no feelings involved, no emotions. He wouldn’t have his heart broken again. His heart was safe this time. “I suppose I am asking you to marry me.”

She blinked at him and reached for the wine again.

Rory watched her down the contents. “From your reaction, I take it your response is a no.”

She lowered the glass. “Am I allowed to say no?”

“Of course. I understand this puts you in an awkward position, but I wouldn’t sack you for refusing me this favor.”

“Favor?” She fumbled with the goblet, almost dropping it. “My lord, if you asked me to hold your hat, that is a favor. A marriage proposal is much more than a favor .”

“Don’t think of it as a marriage proposal,” he said, coming around the desk. “I’m asking you to become Frances’s mother. That’s the proposal.”

“But I have to marry you in order to do so.”

“Yes. It makes your governess position permanent. That’s a benefit, yes?”

Miss Brooking put a finger to the spot between her eyebrows and massaged. “I think the confusion results from the fact that we are not from the same class.”

Rory crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. “ Is there some confusion?”

“You see, your class sees marriage as a business arrangement, while my experience has been somewhat different. My parents married for love.”

“Yes, well, I tried marrying for love, and I don’t recommend it.”

Her gaze met his, and he wished he hadn’t spoken without thinking. Truth be told, her reaction was unnerving him. He’d thought she would jump at the chance to marry him. Genevieve was, in his eyes, still young and attractive, but she was old enough to be considered on the shelf. She couldn’t be holding out for other offers. Not to mention, marrying him would vastly improve her financial situation. Wasn’t marriage to the son of a duke what every governess wanted? He was offering her the chance to do the one thing he loathed—use him for her own advancement.

“My lord, if I might be honest with you?”

He nodded curtly.

“I hadn’t expected to ever marry. I’m not sure marriage is for me.”

Fascinating, Rory thought. He had never thought he might be in the position of having to persuade a woman to marry him. Yet might this be a ploy to make him think she didn’t want marriage when she really did? “Why is that?”

“I have been a governess for many years and lived with over half a dozen families, my lord. I have seen something of marriage.”

“And you don’t like what you’ve seen?”

“I don’t see the benefit for me, my lord. Right now I have my independence and control over my destiny. I can do what I like, go where I like, spend my income as I like. If I marry you, I become your property and give all of those rights away.”

“But you’d gain a daughter and financial security.” She frowned, but before she could present another objection, he said, “You’d also gain me. You’d be Lady Emory.” He narrowed his eyes, watching for a telltale reaction from her. Her expression didn’t change. She was a good actress. “In addition”—he stretched his legs out so his feet brushed the hem of her dress—“there might be more children. I take it you like children, yes?”

“Yes.” Suddenly, her eyes were huge in her pale face. “But no.”

“No?”

“I-I understood you meant a marriage of convenience.”

He shrugged. “You might call it that.”

“I assumed it would be a p-platonic marriage.”

“Hmm.” Rory gave the idea a moment to germinate. It died. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not the sort of man who can resist temptation. If you were my wife, I’d want you in my bed.” And wasn’t that the part of this arrangement he didn’t want to admit to himself? He was tired of coquettes and nameless, faceless encounters in the dark. He wanted a wife to come home to. His mind jumped back to the way Miss Brooking had held Frances and whispered comforting words when she found her. Now, he was reaching for the stars. He would be fortunate to have a wife who didn’t turn away from him.

Miss Brooking jumped to her feet, swaying slightly. “My lord, I don’t think—”

He put his hands out and grasped her shoulders to steady her. “Yes, you do. You think too much. Just marry me, Genevieve. You’ll like it.”

“How do you know?” she asked, defiant.

Rory smiled. He pulled her closer, cupped her face with his hand, and lowered his mouth to hers.