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Marianne looked around the yard. The only other vehicle was a dashing high-perch phaeton, painted in an elegant shade of green, with green and black wheels. She had seen carriages like it before. They were all the crack among the London sporting gentlemen. Henry, of course, owned one—though his was a little smaller and painted red.
So where was the cart or the gig that would convey her to Ledbury House? Mrs Gray had said only that she would inform the family of her arrival. She had no idea who would be meeting her.
The other passengers had also dismounted and were going inside. Those who were travelling on would have a few moments here to relieve themselves, or quickly buy refreshments from the landlord.
Hesitantly, Marianne followed them into the inn.
The interior was dark, cosy and well-maintained. A fire burned in the grate, for the January day was chilly.
Marianne made her way towards the wooden counter at the far end of the room, where a woman who must be the landlady was busy pouring ale. As she walked Marianne found herself warily assessing the strangers in the room. Since the day and the hour she had left home she had not felt truly safe for even a minute. She had no experience with which to assess where danger might lurk, so found herself constantly on edge.
Her fellow passengers were already seating themselves in various parts of the taproom, and there were also two men who looked as if they might be farmers, each with a mug of beer in front of him.
Then she saw him. Her heart briefly thumped furiously in her chest and the hairs at the back of her neck stood to attention.
He was seated with his back to her, at the table closest to the counter. She could see his dark hair, swept forward in fashionable style. He wore a driving cloak with numerous capes. She could also see long legs encased in tight-fitting pantaloons and gleaming black boots. He looked like any one of a dozen London bucks.
Except this time, she reminded herself, you have no reason to fear him.
She kept walking, soothing herself with calm thoughts. As she reached his table she turned her head, compelled to confirm that it was no one she knew.
This man was a few years older than Henry—perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. His hair was similar—thick, dark and luxuriant. But the face was totally different. This man was handsome—or at least he would be if he were not scowling so fiercely. His strong bones and lean features contrasted with Henry’s slight pudginess and rather weak jawline. And now that she could see all of him she realised that his body shape was totally different from Henry’s. He was lean and muscular, with no sign of a paunch. His clothing was similar to that favoured by Henry—and indeed by all the young bucks of London. But there the resemblance ended.
Sensing her standing there, he looked up from his mug and their eyes met. Stormy blue bored into her and Marianne felt a slow flush rise. My, but he was attractive! And she realised his gaze was doing strange things to her.
Breaking away from that endless, compelling contact, she bit her lip and took the final four steps to the counter.
‘Yes, miss?’
Marianne summoned a polite smile. She felt slightly lost and shaky, and she could feel the man’s gaze boring into her back.
Still, she managed to reply to the landlady. ‘I am expecting someone to meet me here. I have travelled from London on the mail coach.’
‘Who is it you are expecting, miss?’
Marianne’s brow creased. ‘I am not exactly sure.’
Inside, panic was rising. What if there has been some mistake? What if there is no governess position?
‘I am to take up a position as governess at a place called Ledbury House. I was told to travel here by mail coach today.’
‘Ledbury House? This gentleman—’ the landlady indicated the fashionable buck ‘—is also travelling there. Perhaps you are expected to travel with him?’
Heart sinking, Marianne swung round to face him. His scowl had deepened as he’d listened to their exchange, and he now raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Curious...’ he mused. ‘And to think I was unaware of the delights this day would hold.’
Marianne was taken aback. She was unsure how to take this. The man’s words had been perfectly polite, but something about the tone suggested the possibility that he was not, in fact, delighted. Accustomed as she was to straightforward politeness, his words and tone felt disconcerting.
Something of what she was feeling must have shown on her face because, as she watched him, his expression changed to one of chagrin.
‘I have no doubt,’ he murmured cryptically, ‘that this is a mess of Fanny’s making and I am expected to fix it. Well, I shall do so this one time, but no more.’ With this enigmatic statement he drained his mug, then stood. ‘You’d best come with me.’
Not waiting for her reply, he swung away towards the door.
Marianne stood rooted to the spot, uncertainty bedevilling her. Should she go with him? A stranger? And she was to travel with him unaccompanied? Miss Marianne Grant, a lady, would never have done so. Miss Anne Bolton, a governess, could.
Conscious that all eyes were all on her, Marianne was surprised to find determination rising within her. Surprised because she did not often need to be brave. She was normally a placid, timid creature, most at home with a book in her hand and harmony and peace all around her.
This unknown gentleman was expecting her simply to climb into a carriage beside him—without any chaperon, maid or footman accompanying them. Perhaps he had a groom? Well, even if he didn’t, it was clear that everyone expected the governess to go with him and be grateful for the ride.
Although he was handsome, and strangely compelling, she was almost relieved to be wary of him—being guarded would be much, much safer than being attracted to him.
Torn between the surprising temptation to sit down somewhere safe and wait for an unknown rescuer and the even stronger temptation to run, to get as far away as she could from the danger inherent in being alone in a carriage with a man, Marianne recognised that her best option was simply to get into the carriage and hope she would be safe with him.
She had very few options. She must get to Ledbury House, where she would have food and a place to sleep, and where she could perhaps eventually feel secure.
You are no longer Miss Marianne Grant, she reminded herself, but a poor governess, and you need this situation. Hopefully she would be safe and unmolested by this man for the last part of her journey.
Swallowing hard—she could almost feel the fear in the back of her throat—she gave the landlady a polite nod and followed him out to the yard.
There he was, barking orders at the ostlers, instructing them to harness his horses to the carriage as soon as they could find the time. Two men and a stable boy had immediately jumped to their task, apparently caught out by the gentleman’s earlier than anticipated departure from the taproom.
Marianne walked slowly towards him. He glanced sideways at her, then turned his impatient gaze back to the ostlers. They stood like that, with Marianne feeling increasingly awkward and unsure, until the four beautifully matched greys were ready. The gentleman then held out his hand.
Confused, Marianne just looked at it.
‘Your bandboxes?’ he said mildly.
‘Oh!’ She passed them to him, and he stowed them in the back. One of the ostlers handed her up, and the gentleman got up beside her. He threw the men a couple of coins, and then they were off.
Marianne had never ridden in a high-perch phaeton before. It was high up, and there were no sides to speak of, and she was with a strange man who was taking her off to God knew where.
As a governess, this was now her lot. She had not the protection of any relative, nor even a servant known to her. Anything might happen to her, and no one would know or care.
It was not to be wondered at that fear, her constant companion these days, was now screaming inside her.
The carriage continued along the narrow streets of Netherton and onwards to the countryside beyond. Once free of the village the gentleman increased speed, driving his horses to what Marianne worried was an unsafe pace.
She wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself against the cold air and gripped the side of the carriage with her left hand. When they turned a bend in the road at what she felt was unnecessary speed, she could not prevent a small gasp.
Hearing it, he raised an eyebrow, but only slowed the pace slightly.
Marianne bit her lip. Between anxiety about being alone with a young man and driving too fast, she was all inner turmoil. Still, he had not so far shown any interest in her person. Except—Her mind wandered back to that first compelling gaze, when their eyes had been locked together and she had felt...something. Had he felt it too? Or had she imagined it?
The narrow seat was built to just about accommodate two people, with the result that he was seated uncomfortably close to her. His left thigh was aligned with her right leg, and she could feel his muscles tighten and relax as he concentrated on the exertions of driving. She could even detect his scent—a not unpleasant combination of what she thought was wood smoke and lye soap.
He seemed incredibly big and powerful and dangerous. And she had no idea who he was as he had not even had the courtesy to introduce himself.
They rounded another bend—to find a wide farm cart coming straight towards them! Marianne moaned, anticipating the inevitable collision. Their pace was too fast and the road too narrow to avoid it. She gripped more tightly and closed her eyes.
Seconds passed. Nothing. They were still moving! Opening her eyes, she was amazed to see that somehow they had passed the cart without collision. Twisting around, she saw that the cart was also continuing on its way. She sank back into her seat, unable to account for it.
‘I apologise.’
Surprised, she looked at him.
He took his eyes off the road long enough to give her a rueful grimace. ‘I was driving too fast. I have been taking out my frustration on you and everyone else.’
This was unexpected! She inclined her head, unable to disagree with him. ‘You were—and you have.’
His eyebrows rose and he chuckled. It was a surprisingly attractive sound.
‘Shall we begin again?’
He slowed the horses to a walk and turned to half face her. ‘Ashington—William Ashington. Also—since very recently—Earl Kingswood.’ He bowed his head to her.
Warily, she nodded back. ‘I am Miss Bolton.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bolton. I understand,’ he continued politely, ‘that you are to be the new governess at Ledbury House?’
‘That is correct.’
She was as suspicious of his politeness as she had been thrown by his puzzling tone earlier. Still, perhaps he could give her some more information about the family.
She watched him closely. ‘I am to be governess to a girl, or a young lady, who lives there with her widowed mama.’
‘Lady Cecily, yes. Lord Kingswood died very recently.’
A flash of pain was briefly visible in his eyes. Interesting. So he was the new Earl and the previous Earl had been Lady Cecily’s father.
‘How old is Lady Cecily, do you know?’
He considered this, speaking almost to himself as he thought it through. ‘John and Fanny were married in ninety-four, and I believe their child was born a year or so after the wedding, so—’ he turned to Marianne ‘—she must be twelve or thirteen.’
‘Twelve or thirteen!’
Marianne had not been expecting this. She had, she realised, been hoping for a younger child, who might be easier to get to know. There was also the fact that a young lady of that age would soon be dispensing with the services of a governess anyway. So this position might not last for more than a few short years, regardless of how she performed in the role.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Oh, no! Of course not. Just that I had somehow expected her to be younger.’ She waited, but he had nothing to say to this. She tried another angle. ‘Is Lady Cecily a quiet young lady, or rather more spirited?’
He snorted. ‘I have met her exactly once—certainly not long enough to form an impression of her character.’
His tone indicated he was becoming uninterested in the topic, so she let it go.
‘You are not, then, a regular visitor to Ledbury House?’
‘I have been there twice in the past fourteen years—once just before Lord and Lady Kingswood’s wedding, and once this week for Lord Kingswood’s funeral.’ His tone was flat.
‘Oh.’ This was a little confusing. If he had been the heir presumptive, then why was he not close to the family, and why had he so rarely visited?
She stole a glance at him. Gone was the indulgent politeness of the past few moments. In its place was the hard jaw that she had seen before. She sighed inwardly. She had no idea why he was so frustrated, or whether any of it was due to something she had said. Still, it confirmed that she was right to maintain her wariness.
They continued on in silence for a few moments, with Marianne trying to think of something to say, and Lord Kingswood seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The road continued to twist and turn, and Marianne, despite herself, began to relax a little as she saw how deftly the Earl was handling the reins. She would not, it seemed, perish today at the hands of a breakneck driver.
After a particularly neat manoeuvre in which he negotiated a double bend with skill and ease, she could not help exclaiming ‘Oh, well done!’ Immediately she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I do apologise! It is not for me to comment on your driving.’ She held her breath as she waited for his response.
His brows arched in surprise. ‘Indeed it is not. However, I shall indulge you, as you seem to have gone from abject terror to trusting my handling of the team.’
She blushed. ‘Oh, dear! Was it so obvious?’
‘Er—you were gripping the side as if your life depended upon it and gasping at every turn in the road. So, yes, it was fairly obvious.’
‘I have never been driven so fast before, and have never sat in a carriage so far above the ground. It all seemed rather frightening. I would not presume to judge your driving skills.’
He threw her a sceptical look. ‘Would you not?’
Her blush deepened. He knew quite well that she had been judging him.
‘Miss Bolton, have you heard of the Four Horse Club, sometimes called the Four-In-Hand Club?’
‘No? What is that?’
‘Never mind.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘Well, I think that you are a very good driver,’ she declared.
For some reason this made him laugh out loud. She could not help appreciating his enjoyment and noting how well laughter became him. Then she realised the direction of her thoughts and put an abrupt halt to them.
‘Miss Bolton,’ he stated, once he had recovered a little, ‘I must admit I am grateful that fate brought you to Netherton today, for you have enlivened a dull journey. The Four Horse Club, by the way, is for those of us who have developed a certain level of skill at carriage driving. Now, here we are.’
He swung the carriage around to the left, entering a driveway via a set of iron gates. Ahead, Marianne could see the house. It was a broad, welcoming, two-storey building with tall windows, a wide front door, and ivy curving lovingly up the right-hand side.
‘What a pretty house!’ she could not help exclaiming.
Lord Kingswood grunted. ‘It may look pretty from afar, but it has seen better times.’
It was true. As they got closer Marianne could see signs of ill-use and lack of care. Some of the windows had not been cleaned in a while, it seemed, and the exterior was littered with autumn leaves and twigs—debris that should have been cleared away long since.
Her heart sank a little. What did this mean for her? Could they afford a governess? Would her existence be uncomfortable? Her pulse increased as she realised she was about to meet Lady Cecily and her mother. What if they disliked her?
Lord Kingswood glanced at her. ‘You are suddenly quiet, and all the vivacity has left you. Do not be worried—I have no doubt that they will be glad of your arrival.’
She gave him a weak smile. ‘I do hope so.’
He pulled the horses up outside the house and jumped down. Immediately he came to her side of the carriage and helped her down. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her glove. It felt strangely reassuring.
She looked up at him, noting the difference in height between them. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly, then let it go. She felt strangely bereft as he did so.
Turning, Marianne saw that the front door of the house was open and two ladies stood there. Both were dressed in mourning gowns, and one was a young girl of twelve or thirteen. This, then, was the widowed Lady Kingswood and her daughter.
Lord Kingswood strode forward and Marianne deliberately dropped back a pace.
‘Good day, Fanny,’ he said amiably. ‘Good day, Lady Cecily.’
Marianne searched their faces and her heart sank. Neither looked welcoming. In fact both looked decidedly cross. Still, she was taken aback when Lady Kingswood’s voice rang out, addressing Lord Kingswood.
‘And so you have returned, as you threatened to do! I wonder at you showing your face here again after what you have done to us!’ She turned to Marianne. ‘And who are you? One of his ladybirds, no doubt! Well, you shall not be installed in my home, so you should just turn and go back to wherever you came from!’
Chapter Four
Marianne’s jaw dropped. What? What is this woman saying? She felt a roaring in her ears as all her hopes for a welcome, security, a safe place, crumbled before her. She stopped walking and simply stood there, desperately trying to fathom what was happening.
Lady Kingswood’s face was twisted with raw fury—mostly, it seemed, directed at Lord Kingswood. Lady Cecily held her mother’s arm, supporting her, and her young face was also set with anger. Both were white-faced, their pallor accentuated by their black gowns. Marianne knew that her own face was similarly pale.
Lord Kingswood kept walking, tension evident in every line of his body.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Fanny, stop play-acting.’
‘Play-acting? Play-acting?’ Lady Kingswood’s voice became shrill. ‘You think this is some sort of jest, do you? Did you honestly believe that you could simply turn up here, with your lightskirt, and expect us to simply accept it?’ She took a step forward into the centre of the doorway. ‘You are not welcome here, and nor is she!’
‘Dash it all, Fanny, you have become quite tedious. She is the new governess—not a lightskirt. And if you would pause these vapours for one second you would see that.’ His tone was calm, unperturbed. ‘Besides, you know full well that you cannot prevent me from entering Ledbury House. Nor do you have any say in who accompanies me.’
She gasped. ‘That you should speak so to me! If John were here...why, he would—’
‘Yes, but John is not here, is he?’ He marched up to her and stepped inside.
Marianne felt a pang of sympathy for Lady Kingswood. Despite the woman’s erroneous assumptions about her, Lady Kingswood was a recently bereaved woman who was clearly in distress.
The two ladies had turned to follow Lord Kingswood inside, and Marianne could hear the altercation continuing indoors. Behind her, a groom had taken charge of the horses and begun walking them towards the side of the house. The noise of hooves on gravel, combined with the jingling harnesses, prevented Marianne from making out the words, but she could hear Lady Kingswood’s distress, punctuated by Lord Kingswood’s deep tones.
The door was still open, but Marianne remained rooted to the spot. What on earth was she to do now? How would she get back to Netherton? She would have to walk, and some of her precious coins would have to be spent to pay for the next mail coach back to London—probably in the early hours of tomorrow morning.
She hurried after the phaeton and retrieved her bandboxes from the groom. He failed to meet her eyes and was clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation.
Marianne squared her shoulders, turned, and began trudging down the drive. As she walked, she carefully focused her attention on each step.
Don’t think about reality. About the fact that you have no position. That you will be walking for the next hour just to reach the village. That you have no bed to sleep in tonight.
Could she afford to pay for a meal at the coaching inn? Once she had bought her ticket she would count her coins and decide what she must do.
Stop! She was thinking about exactly the things she should not be thinking about. Just walk, she told herself. Just. Walk.
‘Miss Bolton!’
Surprised, she turned. Judging by Lady Kingswood’s distress, she had not expected the argument between her and Lord Kingswood to end so soon. If she had thought about it at all, she would have said that neither of them would remember her existence for at least a half-hour.
Lord Kingswood was marching towards her, his face contorted with wrath. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going?’
‘To Netherton, of course.’
‘Lord preserve me from melodramatic females!’ He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Give those to me!’
Stupidly, she just stood there, trying to understand what was going on. He took the luggage from her.
‘B-but...’ she stuttered. ‘Lady Kingswood—you surely cannot expect her to accept me as a governess, when she believes—’ She broke off, unwilling to repeat Lady Kingswood’s shocking assumption about her.
‘I can and I shall!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Now, Miss Bolton, please come into the house and stop enacting tragedies. The day is too cold to be standing in a garden exchanging nonsense!’
He turned and began walking back to the house. As if tied to her precious bandboxes by an invisible thread Marianne followed, her mind awhirl.
The door was still open. Marianne followed him inside. And there was Lady Kingswood, seated on a dainty chair in the hallway, sobbing vigorously, and being soothed by her daughter, who threw Lord Kingswood a venomous look.
‘Now then, Fanny,’ he said loudly, ‘apologise to the new governess!’
‘Oh, no!’ said Marianne. ‘There’s really no need.’
‘I think there is. Lady Kingswood has jumped to conclusions and insulted both of us. Fanny! Quit that wailing!’
Lady Kingswood sobbed a little louder. Overcome with compassion—for she could see how distressed the lady was—Marianne rushed forward and touched Lady Kingswood’s hand.
‘Oh, please, Lady Kingswood, there is no need! I can see your anguish. Is there something that can be done to aid you?’ She looked at Cecily. ‘Would your mama be more comfortable away from the hall?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecily. ‘Mama, let us go to the sitting room and we shall have some tea.’
Lady Kingswood let it be understood that she was agreeable to this, and Marianne and Cecily helped her up. One on either side, they supported her through the hallway. Her sobs had quietened.
The Earl did not follow, but Marianne could still hear him, muttering under his breath.
Marianne could not help remembering her own grief in the days after her parents’ death. She knew that she had been in a dark place, and that she had at times been so overwhelmed that, like Lady Kingswood, she had not been able to think straight. Whatever was going on between the widow and Lord Kingswood was none of her business. But she could not ignore someone in need.
Lady Cecily opened the first door to their left and they went inside. The pale February sunshine illuminated a room that was—or once had been—cosy. It was in need of a good clean, and perhaps the door could do with a lick of paint, but the sofa that they led Lady Kingswood to was perfectly serviceable.