Breaking The Governess's Rules

‘Miss Louisa Sibson.’ The three words were said in a warm, masculine voice—but they were enough to send an ice-cold chill down her spine.

Her hand froze. She kept her gaze downcast and willed the stranger to go. She could not be so unlucky as to encounter Jonathon Ponsby-Smythe here. In Newcastle. He was a habitué of London clubs, fashionable salons and Almack’s—not provincial concerts with second-rate singers.

Louisa forced the breath into her lungs. This man, this friend of Miss Daphne’s nephew, was someone else. This man was not the man who had destroyed her life.

And she was no longer the same naive girl who had believed a man’s whispered endearments of eternal love.

What was the proper etiquette for greeting the man who had taken your innocence and destroyed your girlish dreams?

When I first started writing COMPROMISING MISS MILTON, Daisy’s friend Louisa Sibson was supposed to be a throw-away character. A few lines, nothing more. However, Louisa had other ideas. She arrived, and refused to budge from my mind. She was determined to have her story told. Luckily my editor agreed with her, and allowed me to write Louisa and Jonathon’s story. Because Mrs Blandish and her daughters were also very determined characters, they also had a part to play in this story. Hopefully you will enjoy it.

Louisa’s story was inspired in part by reading Other People’s Daughters: the Life and Times of the Governess by Ruth Brandon, The Victorian Governess by Kathryn Hughes, and Miss Weeton’s Journal of a Governess, both volumes: 1807–1811 and 1811–1825. If you are interested in the actual experiences of governesses, the books are excellent sources.

As ever, I am always delighted to get letters from readers. I can be contacted via post to Mills & Boon, through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com

About the Author

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight)

VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE

AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE

COMPROMISING MISS MILTON

THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS

BREAKING THE GOVERNESS’S RULES

features characters you will have already met in

COMPROMISING MISS MILTON.

BREAKING THE

GOVERNESS’S RULES

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To India Grey,

who has the unfailing knack of brightening my day.

Prologue

1833—Warwickshire

Pain consumed Jonathon Ponsby-Smythe. Every breath seared his lungs. His limbs refused to obey his command. Jonathon fought against it and the heavy blackness that called to him and invited him into its embrace—to death. Jonathon knew he was far from ready to die. His life mattered.

‘Louisa, Louisa.’ The words escaped from his lips, a plea for life, for salvation. With Louisa at his side, he could accomplish anything. With his last ounce of strength, he lifted his hand towards a shadowy female shape. ‘Louisa, help me. I want to live.’

‘Jonathon, oh, my poor, brave Jonathon, you must rest. You are not allowed to die,’ an overly sweet voice cried.

‘Louisa … not you …’ he croaked at the woman with her English-rose complexion and immaculately golden curls. ‘Get her now! Louisa!’

‘Who is this Louisa?’ the woman asked, less sugary and far more imperious. ‘Should I know her?’

‘He wants that little nobody, the governess, Louisa Sibson,’ the brisk tones of his stepmother rang out. ‘Put her from your mind, Clarissa. She is beneath your notice.’

‘Not governess. Fiancée. Find her.’ Jonathon ignored the sudden stab of pain that racked him and forced his body to an upright position. He stared at the pair. They would do as he commanded. ‘I want her here. Now. Louisa. Must marry.’

‘Jonathon is marrying the governess?’ Clarissa shrieked. ‘But you said … Mama said … It is all arranged and has been since we were babies. I am the right wife for him.’

‘Have licence. Marry Louisa today.’ Jonathon frowned. How much time had he lost to the black pain? A few hours? Days? He shook his head to clear his mind. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘He has hit his head, Clarissa, and raves. A good wife knows to allow these indiscretions. Men are like that,’ his stepmother said. ‘Jonny is lucky to be alive, to be given a second chance. I pray he makes a better fist of it.’

‘But this Louisa? I will not have her here. This is my house! I forbid it! He is not allowed to be in love with her!’

‘He will forget her. She is nothing. A trollop who had ideas bigger than her station.’ His stepmother snapped her fingers. ‘Patience and fortitude will win the day, my dear. Remember that and he will always come back to you.’

Jonathon summoned the last of his strength. Forget Louisa? Never. Louisa was his life. His lodestar. ‘Find Louisa.’

‘Rest, my darling, later.’

Jonathon searched his memory and met the heavy curtain of blackness. Something had happened to Louisa. Dead? Injured? His fault? Pain shot through him as Jonathon rejected the notion. She had left. They had quarrelled and she had refused to come with him in the curricle, said that he drove too fast. So he had driven the horses faster to show her. ‘Clarissa, fetch Louisa to me. Now.’

Clarissa backed away and glanced over her shoulder. ‘She is not here. I don’t know where she is. But I promise I will see you back to health, Jonathon. Then. then you can find her if you wish.’

‘Find her!’ He bit his lip and pain pounded on his lungs and skull. ‘Please.’

‘Jonathon,’ his stepmother said in her brisk voice, ‘Louisa Sibson is not coming. Not now. Not ever. Clarissa will nurse you back to health.’

‘Never?’ Jonathon searched his memory. Had he gone back and insisted that Louisa come with him? He had wanted to. Louisa hadn’t been in the curricle when it had overturned, had she? Every breath was fire and the pain in his head screamed worse than ever. He felt the memory of the crash slip away from him and become lost. ‘Was she in the curricle? Clarissa, you would not lie to me. Did I kill her?’

Clarissa turned away, sobbing, unable to meet his eyes.

‘No one is lying, Jonny,’ his stepmother said with great precision.

‘Venetia, where is Louisa? What has happened to her?’

‘She has gone for ever from our lives, Jonny. You had to indulge in your needs and to go against my advice.’

‘Dead.’

His stepmother was silent for a long moment. ‘You will not see her again. Jonathon, you were spared. No one but a fool would have left a cart on a blind bend.’

Louisa had died in the accident. His stepmother had admitted it in that roundabout way of hers. The knowledge hammered against his chest. The one person in the world he loved, that bright shining girl, dead. He had sworn to protect her, but instead he had destroyed her.

‘It would have been better if we’d never met.’

‘You can’t turn back the hands of time, Jonny.’ His stepmother gave him a fierce look. ‘You can only go forwards. It was providence that led you here to Clarissa’s. If the farm manager had not found you, I shudder to think.’ She put a cool hand on his shoulder. ‘You have everything to live for.’

Jonathon collapsed against the linen-covered pillows and willed the darkness to take him to Louisa. His body refused to die.

He turned his head and met his stepmother’s icy gaze. ‘You are wrong, Venetia. Without Louisa, I am beyond redemption.’

Chapter One

Four years later, August 1837—Newcastle upon Tyne

‘Miss Daphne Elliot.’ The three words were said in a warm masculine voice, but they were enough to send an ice-cold chill down Louisa Sibson’s spine.

Her hand froze on the soft folds of Miss Daphne Elliot’s woollen shawl. Louisa kept her gaze downcast and willed the stranger to go. She could not be so unlucky as to encounter Jonathon Ponsby-Smythe here. In Newcastle. He was an habitué of London clubs, fashionable salons and Almack’s, not provincial concerts with second-rate singers. Louisa forced the breath into her lungs. This man, this friend of Miss Daphne’s nephew who had sponsored the concert was someone else. This man was not the man who had destroyed her life. And she was no longer the same naïve girl who believed a man’s whispered endearments of eternal love.

Dimly she heard Miss Daphne answer with delight in her elderly voice and the low rich voice answer again. And she knew her luck in England remained resolutely poor.

Louisa concentrated on the shawl.

What was the proper etiquette for greeting the man who had taken your innocence and destroyed your girlish dreams? Particularly when one of the women most responsible for giving her a new life was enthusiastically greeting him?

And, most importantly, how had she missed his name as one of the sponsors of the Three Choirs concerts?

Louisa weighed her options. Cutting him dead would be the height of rudeness and would distress Miss Daphne no end. Neither could she turn and flee. There had to be a solution, but her mind refused to offer it.

‘Miss Sibson, are you quite the thing?’ Lord Furniss, Miss Daphne’s nephew, asked. Before Louisa could reply, Lord Furniss swallowed her hand in his gigantic paw. ‘I can see from a glance something is wrong. You have gone pale. It is not allowed to have a beauty fainting.’

Louisa withdrew her hand and looked up into Lord Furniss’s broad genial face. ‘There is little danger. I leave the fainting and attacks of vapours to the débutantes. They are the experts in these matters, after all.’

‘As ever, your wit slays me, Miss Sibson, but you do not have to be brave.’ Lord Furniss’s ruddy cheek became a deeper shade of red. He cleared his throat. ‘Chesterholm, we shall have to leave you. The esteemed Miss Sibson protests far too much. She is unwell.’

‘My health is robust.’ Louisa planted her feet more firmly, and her gaze locked with the clear blue-green of her worst nightmare, and her forbidden dream.

‘How delightful to meet you again, Miss Louisa Sibson.’ He held out his well-manicured hand. It was then that she knew her prayers were destined to remain for ever unanswered. ‘A highly unexpected occurrence.’

Louisa twisted Miss Daphne’s shawl about her fingers. By rights, he should have grown fat. Or have his face be marked with scars, something to show his wickedness. However, Jonathon Ponsby-Smythe’s countenance was as fair as ever—golden brown hair contrasting with intense blue-green eyes. Once she had thought his face with its dimple in the chin angelic, but now she could see the sardonic twist and the hardness that lurked behind the smile, the heartless seducer of women.

Gentlemen must be allowed their little indiscretions as long as they do not interfere with the household. She could remember Mrs Ponsby-Smythe’s precise intonation as Jonathon’s stepmother explained why she was dismissing Louisa immediately without reference, and not allowing her to wait for Jonathon’s return.

Louisa took another steady breath and squared her shoulders. She had found her solution. She would get through this unasked-for encounter with dignity and poise. She would demonstrate to him and the rest of the world that he meant nothing to her. She had learnt from her years in Italy. Let him prey on some other gauche governess who might believe his lies. She was now a woman of means, with standing and a good reputation.

‘Mr Ponsby-Smythe.’ Louisa inclined her head. Even now, a traitorous part of her remembered how his fingers had skimmed along her skin, sending quivers of delight throughout her as they bid each other goodbye despite the quarrel. Naïvely she had thought he offered the world, and instead it was one night. For when does the first-born son marry a governess with no family, except in a fairy tale?

‘Lord Chesterholm, Louisa,’ Miss Daphne squeaked, her withered cheeks flushed an excited pink. ‘You have not been paying attention. Young Jonathon has become the fourth Baron of Chesterholm and changed his name to Fanshaw out of respect to his late uncle. Chesterholm, Louisa.’

Louisa crossed her arms and mentally kicked herself. Such a simple thing as a name change. She had not even considered the possibility when she quickly scanned the list of subscribers to the concert. If she had known… she’d have invented a dozen reasons why she could not attend the concert and why she had to leave for Sorrento immediately, even if Miss Daphne had not finished her sentimental journey back to her childhood haunts. ‘Why did you change your name, Lord Chesterholm?’

‘It was my late great-uncle’s wish. He wanted his name to carry on.’ An arrogant smile crossed his features. ‘It suited me to please him, Miss Sibson.’

‘Why should the reason matter?’ Miss Daphne asked, bewilderment in her tone. ‘You are being very bold, Louisa, my girl, with a man you have barely met. Are you certain that you are not sickening? I have never seen you act this way before.’

‘Hasn’t the esteemed Miss Sibson confided about our friendship? That was remiss of her.’ Jonathon’s blue-green eyes burned with a fierce light as his fingers captured her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Miss Sibson and I are acquainted. Old friends. Is that not true, Louisa?’

Even after all this time, a warm pulse went through her as he used her first name, rolling it slightly on his tongue and making it sound like no one else had ever done. Louisa ruthlessly quashed the feeling.

‘I had the pleasure of teaching Lord Chesterholm’s younger sister several years ago … before I departed for Italy.’

‘That is true. You were my sister’s governess, among other things.’ His fingers tightened and caressed the soft inside of her wrist where her glove gapped.

Louisa tugged at her hand. Surely he had to let her go. It was beyond the bounds of all propriety. He knew why she had left. The coward. He had not even bothered to answer her letters—not the one after the dismissal or the other even more desperate one four months later informing him of her delicate condition. Instead he had left the task of irrevocably severing relations to his stepmother.

She could hear Venetia Ponsby-Smythe’s cut-glass tones echoing down the years. Her relationship with Jonathon was a misalliance. Mrs Ponsby-Smythe daily expected the announcement of her stepson’s forthcoming marriage to the Honourable Clarissa Newton to whom he had been betrothed since they were in the cradle. Louisa and the child she carried must stand aside and forge a new life … for the good of everyone. Venetia Ponsby-Smythe had said that while she sympathised with Louisa’s plight, such things happened when women behaved lewdly. The knowledge of a child would not bring him back, Mrs Ponsby-Smythe had advised, and could Louisa even prove the babe she said she carried was Jonny’s. Then, when Louisa had been ready to storm out, Venetia Ponsby-Smythe had waved her hand and offered to provide Louisa passage to Italy as she did feel responsible for her stepson ruining one of her former employees. Her one condition was that Louisa should never return, never contact her again. Faced with starvation, Louisa had accepted the offer with tearful gratitude. She had even kissed the woman’s hand.

‘Fancy you knowing Aunt Daphne’s delightful friend, Chesterholm.’ Lord Furniss’s voice rang out, recalling her to the present. ‘Who’d have supposed it? Miss Sibson, you have been keeping secrets from me.’

‘Miss Sibson keeps her secrets very well.’ Jonathon’s eyes pinned her. ‘Some day, Miss Sibson, you must tell me how one can rise from the dead. I visited your grave not more than three months ago.’

Miss Daphne and Lord Furniss exchanged shocked glances as the entire Assembly Hall fell silent. Louisa wanted to sink down beneath the floorboards and hide. Everyone was looking at her as if this mess was somehow her fault.

Dead? A gravestone with her name? Louisa fought against a wave of dizziness. She had suffered a sort of death. She had even forbidden her friend Daisy Milton to tell Jonathon where she was if he should ever ask. But it was not what Jonathon meant. He had thought her dead. In the ground. Buried.

‘But you are gravely mistaken, Chesterholm. Miss Sibson is happily very much alive,’ Lord Furniss boomed into the silent void. ‘She nursed my late great-aunt through her last illness. She is a pillar of strength to Aunt Daphne. Words fail me to think of her dead. Who could have been so cruel as to give you misinformation? You must have had the wrong person.’

As Lord Furniss finished, suddenly the room was filled with noise.

Louisa shot Lord Furniss an admiring glance. He had taken her part. The tiny gesture meant so much. She was far from alone. She had friends.

‘Rumours of Miss Sibson’s demise appear to be without foundation,’ Jonathon said in a clipped tone. ‘They are to be regretted.’

‘I remain as I always have been—alive,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I know nothing of a gravestone. It must belong to someone else.’

‘Nevertheless, it is a surprise.’

‘I trust a welcome surprise,’ Miss Daphne said, fluttering her fan. ‘Louisa is such a treasure. My sister looked on her as the daughter she never had.’

‘I had not expected to see Miss Sibson again in this lifetime.’ His eyes slowly examined her from the top of her carefully constructed crown of copper-brown plaits to the bottom of her mauve-silk evening gown, slowly, as if mentally taking off each garment.

Louisa fought against the rising tide of heat. She was over him. Every time she woke at night with the memory of their passion lingering in her brain, she gave the same promise—Jonathon meant nothing to her and her rules guarded her reputation. Never again would she be that impetuous woman who was so desperate for love that she believed a rake’s promise of love was for ever.

‘Nor I you, Lord Chesterholm.’ She graciously inclined her head. Two could play at this game. The rules for winning were simple—icy politeness and never to allow any of her inner turmoil to show.

‘Four years, Louisa,’ he said in that slow seductive voice of his, the one which even now made warm tingles run along her spine. ‘Where did you hide?’

With an effort, Louisa closed that particular door of her memory and concentrated on filling her lungs with life-giving air.

The woman she had once been was dead. Long live the reborn Louisa—the one who believed in schedules and rules, rather than following her desires. Jonathon—indeed none of the Ponsby-Smythes with their smug words and self-satisfied manner—had any power over her. This time she had money and a position of sorts in society, maybe not as grand as the one she had dreamt of in those halcyon days but it was one she had on her own merit and one she would keep as long she remembered the rules of conduct.

She tugged one last time and he let her go with such suddenness that she had to take a step backwards. A faint smile touched his lips. He had done it on purpose and was enjoying her discomfort. ‘In some ways, Lord Chesterholm, it has been but a moment, but in others a lifetime.’

‘You never speak, Louisa, about your past,’ Miss Daphne said, putting a frail hand on Louisa’s shoulder and looking at her with faintly accusatory eyes. Louisa shifted uncomfortably. The last thing she wanted was to cause Miss Daphne distress. ‘I had no idea you were friendly with the Ponsby-Smythes. Young Jonathon’s mother was the only niece of Arthur Fanshaw, the late Lord Chesterholm. Did Mattie know? She would have been very interested, I am sure.’

‘Did you offer references, Miss Sibson?’ Jonathon asked with an arrogant curl of his lip. ‘Or was it a little detail you neglected, Louisa? Miss Sibson was never very good on details.’

‘Your sister, Miss Daphne, was always considered an excellent judge of character. She interviewed me and was satisfied. More than satisfied.’ Louisa ignored Jonathon’s barb. She knew what game he was playing—trying to drive a wedge between her and Miss Daphne. Not content with ruining her once, he wanted to ruin her again. Hopefully Miss Daphne was not suddenly going to become difficult and demand particulars. Here. In public. The last thing Louisa desired was a reliving of her dismissal for improper behaviour with the very reason towering over her.

‘Mattie … yes, she had an instinct for character. One I sadly lack. I trusted her judgement on such things.’ Miss Daphne ducked her head like a child, her grey ringlets hanging in submission.

Louisa’s heart squeezed. She had been far too quick to judge. Miss Daphne had a kind heart, far kinder than most people’s. While Miss Mattie knew about the failed love affair and its aftermath, Louisa had never confided the full story to Miss Daphne. Obviously Miss Mattie had done as she had promised and kept the confidence. The thought made Louisa miss the elderly lady with her vinegar tongue all the more.

‘You have been in Italy,’ Jonathon said, his lips becoming a thin white line.

‘Yes, Italy. Sorrento, in the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, to be precise.’ Louisa fixed a polite smile. The next round in the match had begun. Italy had been his stepmother’s idea of precisely the right place for an inconvenient governess in a delicate condition to go. Within moments of Louisa agreeing, Mrs Ponsby-Smythe had produced a ticket for the mail coach and one for a packet leaving London and bound for Naples. And Venetia Ponsby-Smythe had been correct. Eventually Louisa had found a far better life than in the gutters of Warwick. ‘The air there has been more conducive to my health than Warwickshire’s.’