Chapter Seven

G enevieve told herself she’d known this position would not be easy. From the moment she met Frances, she’d anticipated a challenge. But then, she’d thought the challenge would be with the little girl, not her father. Clearly, she had judged the situation all wrong. Frances was desperate for love, attention, and affection. She was understandably angry with her father, who had taken no interest in her. Most titled men took little interest in their daughters until the females reached marrying age, but this sort of inattention was particularly hard on a little girl who had lost her mother and then been shipped off to live with grandparents she barely knew.

Frances needed someone to love her and comfort her and make her feel safe. Genevieve could and would do those things willingly. Once Frances trusted her, the little girl would be easy to manage and, Genevieve thought, a pleasure to teach and care for.

The father was a different matter entirely. He was proving quite difficult to deal with. First, there had been the drunken party in the middle of the night. Then he had insisted on accompanying her to her childhood home. And now, when he clearly saw his daughter needed spectacles, he said the most asinine, old-fashioned thing she could imagine.

But then, perhaps she had expected too much from him. Why shouldn’t he be like every other man and believe a woman’s only value was in her beauty and whatever feminine accomplishments Society deemed most valuable at the moment?

“Miss Brooking!”

She looked over her shoulder and saw he had followed her along the path. Dratted man. She needed a moment to calm her temper before speaking to him again.

“Miss Brooking!”

She stopped and whirled around. “My lord, I need a moment to compose myself. If you’ll excuse me—”

He grabbed her arm lightly before she could walk away. There was that frisson again. That was the only word she could use to describe the way she felt when he touched her. But she was not in the mood for it at present. She pulled her arm away.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

“My lord, it is either walk away or tell you what I am really thinking, and I promise you that you do not want to hear that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t. Give me a moment to compose myself and—”

“Speak. Say what you are thinking.”

“Fine. How dare you stand there and tell me that your child does not need to see clearly because she was born a girl? How dare you reduce her to her looks and marriageability? She is a person, my lord. Not an ornament to be hung on a man’s arm one day.”

He stared at her, his gaze steady. “Go on.”

“How can you reduce her world to only what she can see right in front of her face? She deserves to see the entire world and experience it too.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

He crossed his arms.

“I need a bottle of the perfume the late Lady Emory wore.”

Now he blinked, and the mask of indifference he wore faltered for an instant. “I beg your pardon?”

“Frances misses her mother. She is worried because she is beginning to forget her, but one thing she does remember about her is her perfume. I’d like to give her a bottle of that scent to help her remember her mother and to feel close to her.”

“How can she feel close to her? The woman is dead.”

“So is my father, and yet whenever I pass a man smoking a pipe with the tobacco he used, I remember my father, and that memory makes me smile.”

A muscle in Lord Emory’s jaw flexed, and when he spoke, he barely parted his lips. “Harriet was a vain, grasping woman. There’s nothing about her memory to make one smile.”

The anger burning inside Genevieve began to fade. It appeared Frances was not the only one hurting. “My lord.” She reached out to touch his arm, but he drew back as though her hand were a hot coal. The mask of indifference slammed down over his face again, and she realized he’d said far more than he’d intended.

“It’s late,” he said. “I’ll wait in the coach while you fetch Frances.” Without pausing for a response, he turned and marched out of the garden.

Genevieve put a hand to her heart and sank down on a bench a few feet away. She closed her eyes. She should have realized Lord Emory had no affection for his wife or her memory. There had been enough signs to that effect. He didn’t know his daughter at all, which meant he probably had not spent time with her or her mother before Lady Emory’s death. The couple must have been estranged. No wonder his face took on that pained expression whenever Frances said the name of her doll. He didn’t like to be reminded of his late wife.

Not wanting to anger him any further by keeping him waiting, she returned to the house and found her mother and Frances chatting as though they were old friends. Mama looked up at her, caught her expression, and gave her an inquisitive look. Genevieve shook her head and smiled at Frances. “Your papa is waiting in the carriage. We had better not tarry.”

“But I like it here,” Frances said.

“Then you must come back,” Genevieve’s mother told the little girl. “You are welcome anytime.”

Genevieve handed Harriet and Marcella to Frances. “Go and settle the dolls in the carriage. I will be there in a moment.”

The little girl did as she was told, and Genevieve turned to her mother. “Did the footman take my trunk?”

“Yes. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, just the clothing. Thank you, Mama.” She kissed her cheeks. “Please send for me if you don’t feel well.”

“I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, have an enormous task before you.” Mama glanced at the door. “He’s a proud man, and he’s hurting.”

Genevieve raised her brows. “You gathered all of that in the five minutes you spent with him?”

“He doesn’t hide it as well as he thinks.”

“Well, fortunately, I am only governess to Frances. Her father is not my concern.”

“Just keep reminding yourself of that fact.”

Genevieve reminded herself Lord Emory was not her problem or her charge all the way back to Lilacfall Abbey. The man himself said nothing, but fortunately Frances was engrossed in playing with her dolls and didn’t seem to notice the tension. Or perhaps she did notice it, and that was why she busied herself playing. Back at the estate, Genevieve spent the rest of the day playing with Frances and then a long hour coaxing the girl into the bathtub. Many children did not like to wash, but once they were in the tub, they rather enjoyed it. Frances, on the other hand, trembled the entire time.

When she was clean and dry and wrapped in a towel, Genevieve held her and asked why she feared baths. Tearfully, the little girl admitted she was afraid of the water. Genevieve made a mental note to accustom the child to the water and show her baths could be enjoyable.

Once the girl was settled in bed, Genevieve unpacked her trunk and sorted her things in the chamber Mrs. Mann had given her next to the nursery. They’d decided Genevieve would sleep in the nursery the first few nights to keep an eye on Frances and be close in case she needed anything. Then one of the maids would be given that task so Genevieve might have her own chamber, as was customary for a governess.

The longcase clock in the grand foyer had just chimed twelve times when Genevieve finally climbed into the nursery bed to the clip-clop sound of horses’ hooves. Abruptly, she realized Lord Emory and Mr. Notley must have gone out. She’d been so busy with Frances’s bath and unpacking, she hadn’t heard the men leave or noticed how quiet the house had been. But it was quiet no more.

The front door slammed open, and boots clicked on the marble floor. Above the din, Lord Emory’s booming voice gave what sounded like commands to the staff. Frances stirred but did not wake. Genevieve closed her eyes, hoping everything would quiet now, but she opened them again at the sound of voices in the garden below.

She heard Mr. Notley’s voice and then a woman’s voice, and then what sounded like a rather heated argument. Frances stirred again, and Genevieve rose from bed and made her way to the window. She pulled back the curtains and looked down to see a woman and Mr. Notley squabbling below. With a furtive glance at her sleeping charge, Genevieve opened the window and poured out the last dregs of the pitcher of water. She intentionally missed the couple, but she aimed close enough to get their attention.

“Oi!” Mr. Notley called. “What’s this?”

“Go and argue elsewhere!” she hissed. “You’ll wake Miss Lumlee.”

The woman peered up at the window. “Genevieve Brooking, is that you?”

Genevieve blinked. She hadn’t expected to know the woman Notley brought home.

“It’s me, Rose Musgrave.”

“Rose?” Genevieve had a sudden image of a little girl with glossy black curls. She had sat behind Rose at the village school and stared at those curls for a long, long time, wishing she had been born with pretty brown hair her mother might fashion into springy curls rather than bright red hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. “What are you—”

“Miss Genevieve?”

Oh, drat. Now Frances was awake. “Excuse me, Miss Lumlee is awake now.” Genevieve closed the window and hurried to Frances’s side.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Mr. Notley brought a friend of mine to say hello. She’s a woman I haven’t seen since we were both just a little older than you. I was about to tell them it’s bedtime and to call another day.”

“May I meet her?”

“Not tonight.” She stroked Frances’s hair. “You and I must go back to sleep.” Genevieve tucked Harriet in the crook of Frances’s arm and pulled her covers up to her ear. “Go back to sleep.”

It took only a few minutes before the little girl’s breathing slowed and deepened, and then Genevieve went back to the window. Mr. Notley and Rose were gone. But they should have never been outside arguing to begin with. Frances, not to mention the staff, needed uninterrupted sleep, and this was the second night hers had been disturbed.

She found her robe and her slippers, put them on, and took an unlit candle, which she lit from one of the sconces outside the nursery door. Then she made her way downstairs, holding her breath for fear she might meet Notley and Rose engaged in some activity she did not want to observe.

But the only people about were Gables, the butler, and Mr. Chaffer, the valet. He was carrying a blue coat of superfine away from a closed door.

“May I help you with something, Miss Brooking?” the butler asked her.

“I need to speak with Lord Emory. His friend has disturbed Miss Lumlee’s sleep and mine, yet again.”

Mr. Chaffer and Gables exchanged a look, and Gables said, “I think it better you have that conversation in the morning, Miss Brooking.”

Before Genevieve could answer, a footman rushed into the foyer and, seeing her, whispered something to Gables. “Excuse me,” the butler said, and the two men hurried away.

Genevieve looked at the valet, who nodded at the closed door he’d just exited. “His lordship is in the library.”

“Thank you.” Genevieve started in that direction.

“He’s quite foxed,” Mr. Chaffer said.

Genevieve sighed and squared her shoulders. At the door to the library, she tapped three times and, at Lord Emory’s grumbled “What now?” opened the door and stepped inside. It took her a moment to locate him, as he was sprawled on a couch across from the desk. It was upholstered in red, and a similar couch in cream sat opposite it on the Turkish rug before a low fire. It seemed clear this couch was one preferred by Lord Emory, as a stack of books sat beside one end, as well as a glass and a decanter of a liquid that matched his brandy-colored eyes.

“May I come in?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door.

“Not you,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “The last thing I need is another lecture.”

“May I?” She gestured to the cream-colored couch, since he did not remember his manners and stand or offer her a seat. He waved a hand, his sleeve flapping at his wrist. Chaffer had been carrying his coat, and he was dressed in shirt sleeves, waistcoat, breeches, and boots. His cravat was loose, the white ends making a contrast against his blue waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.

“Go on, then,” he said. “What have I done now?”

“It’s Mr. Notley, actually. His, er, companion and he were arguing loudly below the nursery window and woke your daughter and me.”

“I’ll have a word with him.”

“I think this requires more than a conversation, my lord. If you are to establish a relationship with your daughter, you must be present in her life. That is difficult if you are out until all hours and sleeping off the effects of drink most of the next day. Not to mention, you are not in London. This house is near a small town, where most people are acquainted. In fact, I know the woman who was Mr. Notley’s companion tonight. I am afraid your reputation will suffer if this continues.”

He raised a brow. “My reputation? Clearly, you don’t know my reputation, or you’d know a bit of gossip in Devon can’t do any damage.”

“It’s one thing to drink yourself into a stupor every night on the Continent,” she said, “and quite another to do it in the countryside of your homeland. Not to mention, you have a child to think about. Your actions may tarnish her reputation by association. If this is how you intend to behave, it might be better if you sent her away to school, where she won’t be present when—”

“No.” He sat up so quickly, his boots thudded on the floor and caused the stack of books to topple over. “She won’t go away to school.”

His reaction was rather heated, and she took a moment to wonder why. “Fine,” she said calmly. “In that case, you should keep your debauchery away from the house where she is sleeping.” Genevieve rose. “We can speak more in the morning.”

“What else is there to say, Miss Brooking? You think me a terrible father, and you’re correct. I am a terrible father. I was a terrible husband too.” He lifted a hand. “Not without reason, but you wouldn’t know anything about that. All anyone wants to talk about is how I left Harriet alone in London. How I deserted her.”

“My lord, that is none of my business. Goodnight.” She started to move toward the door, but he grasped her hand, and she couldn’t make herself pull away.

“No one wants to consider that I may have had my reasons, or that the woman I courted was a complete fabrication. Once the license was signed, I met the real Harriet Dowling. She should have been an actress for how well she played her part.”

“My lord, I am sorry, but I don’t think—”

“I didn’t think either.” He looked up at her, his eyes far away, as though he were remembering the past and seeing it before him. “Everyone told me I was too young to marry. I thought my parents disapproved of her because she wasn’t titled, and her father was a merchant. But they saw what I didn’t. She only wanted me for my title. She didn’t love me at all. Couldn’t stand the sight of me, in fact.” He let out a bitter sort of laugh. “Ironic, as I was so eager to marry her because love was all I wanted. I was starved for it, and do you know why?” He focused his gaze on Genevieve.

She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. She wouldn’t let them fall. He wouldn’t appreciate her pity.

“Because I was sent away to schools when I was but eight. I went from one school to another where I was bullied by the older boys, cuffed by the teachers, and beaten by the headmasters.”

Genevieve sank down onto her knees, turning her hand so she was holding his. “My lord, I am so sorry. I understand now why you don’t want to send Frances away to school.”

“You don’t understand the half of it. It’s my fault she’s dead, you know.”

His fault? “No.” Genevieve shook her head.

“Yes. Everyone says it was a carriage accident. They were traveling during a heavy rain, and one of the wheels came off and the coach overturned. The coachman was killed and the outriders badly injured. I don’t know if Harriet and”—she saw his throat work as he swallowed—“the baby died instantly. I hope so. It was hours before help came.”

Genevieve put her free hand over her mouth. She hadn’t known there was a baby that had died in the accident. Poor Frances had a sibling. And, from what it sounded like, she had been one of the few survivors, and she’d been trapped in the coach, perhaps in the wet, for hours. Quite suddenly, her fear of the water made sense.

“My lord, it’s terrible, but accidents happen.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t an accident. It happened on my birthday. My thirtieth birthday.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Now he was simply not making sense.

“That makes it even more tragic, Lord Emory. You should lie back down. You must be tired.”

“It was my fault, you know? I pushed that old witch out of my mind and only remembered her and the curse too late.”

Genevieve stared at him. Witch? Curse? Had he been doing more than simply imbibing in spirits? “My lord, what happened wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.”

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. She died because of me. She didn’t deserve to die that way, and my son…” His voice broke, and Genevieve didn’t know what to do but take him in her arms and hold him. She’d expected him to weep, but he simply put his arms around her and held her back. Finally, he moved away.

“I’m drunk and taking advantage of your kindness. Go now before I do something else I shall have to apologize for.”

Genevieve nodded. She should go, but she didn’t want to leave him like this. Still, he was right. She was his employee, not his confidante. “Very well, my lord. You will consider what I said about the disruptions?”

“You are a determined woman, Miss Brooking.”

“I’ve been told that is my best quality.”

“Oh, no.” His eyes roved over her briefly before he put a hand over them. “That’s not your best quality at all. Goodnight, Miss Brooking.”

“Goodnight.”

Breathless and far too warm, Genevieve fled the room, closing the door behind her and leaning against it. She pressed a hand against her belly, trying to quell the fluttering that threatened to turn into desire. She let out a slow breath. The house was quiet and dark now. She’d left her candle in the library, but she dared not go back to get it. The look Lord Emory had given her was seared into her mind, and her body had reacted all too predictably. How could she not react when a man that attractive lowered his lashes and raked his gaze over her with obvious desire?

He wanted her, and—oh, yes —she wanted him.

Even worse, her lingering dislike of him was fading. She felt acute empathy for him and his doomed marriage. She could imagine him as a young man, deeply in love. So in love, in fact, he went against his parents’ wishes and married the girl who held his heart.

Only to find out, after the marriage vows were spoken, that his wife didn’t love him at all and had only married him to elevate her own station. What must it be like to find oneself irrevocably linked to someone who had not only deceived you but seemed to actively dislike you? No wonder Frances had never seen him. It was a wonder she had been conceived at all.

Genevieve wished she could embrace him again and soothe his pain. And even as she thought it, she knew it was a dangerous idea. She could not touch him again, or they might both make a mistake they couldn’t undo. Genevieve clenched her fists, vowing to draw the line that they would never cross now.