Page 23 of The Defiant Governess (Intrepid Heroines #6)

Eight

T he next morning Jane awoke feeling tired and empty.

The mirror revealed hollows under her eyes that betrayed how little she had slept.

At breakfast, Mrs. Fairchild had voiced her concern, but accepted the excuse of a headache.

Jane refused to accede to the suggestion that she return to her bed and insisted she was well enough to give Peter his lessons as usual.

Even the boy seemed to sense that something was troubling her, for he was quieter than usual and quick to follow her every request. As she sat with him, working out sums on a slate, a shadow loomed in the doorway.

“Uncle Edward!” greeted Peter, twisting around in his seat.

“Good morning, imp.”

Saybrook had just returned from riding. His hair was windblown and his face ruddy from the wind, which only heightened the hue of his eyes.

He was smiling, though tiny lines around the corners of his mouth hinted at a lack of sleep.

His wardrobe had recovered from the ravages of yesterday.

The cravat at his throat was knotted perfectly his buckskins were pristine and his boots shone brightly, despite a powdering of dust.

Jane studiously avoided meeting his gaze.

“I thought after lunch you might like to ride over to Smythe’s farm with me. They are breaking some young horses.”

The boy’s eyes shone. “Oh, may I, Miss Jane?”

She nodded, still not looking at the marquess. “Yes, you may, provided you apply yourself to these sums for the next hour.”

“I thought you might like to accompany us too, Miss Langley,” added Saybrook, giving a pointed look at her hair, wound in the usual tight bun.

“No, thank you, milord. Not today,” she answered, her voice cool and even. “Now Peter, twelve plus fifteen....”

A puzzled look crossed Saybrook’s face as he turned to go.

Jane was relieved to have the afternoon to herself.

Her thoughts were still in a whirl of confusion.

She was almost tempted to take Mrs. Fairchild’s advice and slip back into bed.

But instead she donned her oldest gown and took refuge in the gardens, toting a wicker basket and a pair of shears.

The soft colors and delicate perfumes of flowers always had a calming effect on her.

She wandered through the paths, carefully clipping a lush bouquet from the profusion of plantings.

The soft hum of the bees and the scent of lavender and roses made her feel better, if not happy, as she began cutting from a patch of gladiolas.

“Let me take that for you.”

Jane felt a low thrill at the sound of the familiar, deep masculine voice. She turned in surprise, having not heard him approach, and dropped her shears in the process.

“I’m sorry I startled you.” Saybrook bent to pick them up. “Still stealing the manor’s flowers, I see,” he said with a tentative smile

Jane didn’t dare meet his eyes. Surely now that she had admitted her own feelings to herself, they would be more than obvious on her face.

“Thank you, milord.” She reached for the shears and turned quickly back to the flowers, studying them as if particularly engrossed by one of the stems.

“Is something the matter?” he asked quietly. “Have I given you any cause for offense?”

Jane forced her voice to be steady. “How absurd, sir. How could a servant feel any such thing?”

He took her gently by the arm and turned her around. With a searching look he studied her averted face. “Look at me, Miss Langley. Something is wrong. I would hope that we have become good enough … friends that you will tell me what it is.”

His hand was still on her arm, and she was achingly aware of it. Why, his very touch was making her tremble.

As he sensed the tremors running through her, he pulled her closer in a protective manner. She should run, Jane told herself, and yet she was rooted to the ground. Against all reason, she found herself looking up at him.

His head came down slowly, and his lips touched hers.

His mouth tasted warm and spicy, unlike any of the other kisses she had occasionally allowed a gentleman to steal.

With those, she had felt nothing but amusement.

But now, her senses were so overwhelmed that her knees might have given way if he hadn’t slipped his arm around her waist and drawn closer.

Instinctively she arched against him, drawing a soft groan from him as his mouth became more demanding. His tongue teased her mouth open, and when she responded, it delved deep inside, sending a flutter of fire through every fiber of her being.

It was her turn to moan. Without thinking, she dropped her shears and reached up to twine her fingers in his hair, reveling in its thick silkiness. Their kiss deepened. Her own tongue hesitantly began its own explorations, surprised at how quickly it wanted more.

More.

Saybrook gave another hoarse groan. “Jane—Jane, do you know what you are doing to me?” he murmured as he released her mouth to trace a path with his lips down to the hollow of her neck. “Hell’s teeth, I want … I want to make you …

He hesitated, as if unable to say the next words.

Jane forced herself to come to her senses.

“Stop,” she cried, pushing him roughly away.

“Stop this instant!” Her worst fears seemed confirmed.

“You want to make me what—your mistress? Just because I am a lowly governess, do you really think I would stoop so low as to tumble into your bed on command!”

Surprise, and then hurt flared in Saybrook’s eyes. “Jane—Miss Langley—you misunderstand. I want …” He faltered. “That is, I assure you my intentions are honorable …”

Terrified of what he might say next—and that she might be forced to admit her secret—Jane flung the most cutting words she could think of at him.

“And were your intentions honorable towards Peter’s mother? What has become of her?”

Saybrook recoiled as if she had struck him. His face drained of all color and, for a moment, there was a look of infinite pain in his eyes before his gaze hardened to an impenetrable sea-storm hue. He stood rigid, not a muscle twitching.

It was all Jane could do to keep from throwing herself at his feet and begging forgiveness for wounding him so deeply. Oh, for she knew she had cut him to the very quick.

But she told herself it was better that he should hate her rather than despise her.

There was a dead silence between them. Finally Jane spoke up in a barely audible whisper. “I will be leaving Highwood tomorrow morning. I think it best.”

Saybrook’s jaw clenched and unclenched as if he might speak. Instead, he spun around on his heel and hurried away.

Feeling numb, Jane gathered up her basket and shears.

The array of freesia, lilies, roses and gladiolas, a moment ago so gay and colorful, now seemed lifeless—poor stems cut off to wither away.

She walked slowly towards the house, hardly able to take in that this would be the last time she would tread that path.

As soon as she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Fairchild’s hands flew to her face. “Goodness, child! Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“It’s nothing, really,” she lied. “My headache has come back, that’s all.” She put her basket on the table. “I shan’t be down for supper.”

Mrs. Fairchild nodded sympathetically. “You go right up to rest, my dear.”

“I’ll fix you a nice tisane,” added Cook as she came round from the pantry.

At that moment, Henry burst through the back door. “Is there something amiss here?” he inquired, a troubled look on his weathered face as he surveyed the three of them.

Mrs., Fairchild and Cook exchanged concerned glances. “Why, not that we are aware of,” answered the housekeeper. “Why do you ask?”

Henry shook his head in dismay. “It’s the master. Just now, he came to order Hero saddled—he was in a rare mood, I might add. And then, he pushed little Jimmy outta the way in order to mount.”

He paused, still shaking his head. “Lud, I’ve never known His Lordship to be unkind to a servant, not ever! And the look on his face—it was enough to make your blood run cold.” He looked around. “Something must have upset him something terrible.”

Jane turned and left the room without a word. Mrs. Fairchild regarded her retreating form with a concerned look.

“Oh dear,” breathed the older lady, twisting a handkerchief in her thin fingers. “Oh, dear.”

Jane sat on her bed staring at the trunk filled with her meager possessions which now awaited a footman to carry it down when the carriage arrived.

A curt note had accompanied her supper tray informing her that it would do so at eight in the morning.

As she glanced out the window she saw that William Coachman was indeed pulling to a stop in front of the main entrance.

She heaved a heavy sigh and collected her reticule as a knock sounded on the door.

She would never see Highwood and its people again, and that stabbing thought nearly brought on the flood of tears that wouldn’t come last night.

Last night had been beyond tears. She knew that she had to tell Peter herself. After she heard Mrs. Fairchild bring him upstairs to bed, she went to his room. Enfolding him in a hug, she haltingly explained that she must be leaving. She gave no reasons of course, just simply said that she must go.

Instead of crying or begging her to stay, as she expected, he had reacted as inscrutably as his father. He merely stared at her with the same sea-green eyes and held her hand very tightly. It had been infinitely worse than any words.

This morning the deep smudges under her eyes revealed that she had found but little sleep during the rest of the night. She paused to look in the small mirror one last time.

Goodbye. Goodbye to Jane Langley.

Downstairs, Mrs. Fairchild dabbed at her eyes, then took Jane’s hands in her own. “We shall all miss you very much, my dear,” she said. “Promise that you will write to assure us you are well-settled. I wish that you might reconsider …” She trailed off with a questioning look