Page 6 of The Governess’s Absolutely Impossible Wish (The Notorious Briarwoods #8)

“I t worked,” his mother exclaimed as she swept into the library, Zephyr’s favorite room. She was all but skipping in her watered silk gown. Her eyes danced with joy.

“It did?” he asked with a sigh of relief. He had come up with the plan after Hector and Ajax had made it clear that he simply needed to find a way to actually spend time with her, time that she would not see as a seduction.

And he wasn’t going to seduce her. He wasn’t going to do anything nefarious. He was going to show her bit by bit, moment by moment, that he was trustworthy.

With the play, he could spend time with her in a safe way that she could enjoy. Maybe then he could convince her that she could give in to him without fear.

“It was genius, my darling,” his mother praised. “And moreover, it was mostly her idea.”

“What?” he choked.

His mother waggled her brows. “Now, don’t laugh, my darling. Your aunt and I were discussing potential plays, and she came up with the idea for doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream all on her own because she thought it would be wonderful for the children to be involved. Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Yes,” he managed, quite shocked at how easily his plan was being put into effect. It was surely a sign from the Fates that this was what was meant to be. “It is, but I’m not surprised. She’s extremely clever and there are depths there that would stun us all, I think.”

His mother nodded, but then her smile dimmed. “She did seem a little bit trepidatious about being in the play herself, but we were able to convince her it was important that she have something to do outside of being governess so that the children could see her as a person.”

He frowned. “Well, that’s how we all should see her,” he said. “She is a person. She is deserving of being seen.”

“Yes, Zephyr, my love,” his mother said, taking his hand in hers, clearly proud of him. “And if we can convince her that we see her that way, perhaps she can envision herself as…”

“Yes?” he said softly.

“My daughter-in-law,” his mother declared.

He laughed ruefully. “Mama, you are a treasure and so very blunt.”

His mother patted his hand affectionately. “Oh, my dear. I knew that you were falling in love with her over Christmas. It was clear to me. And the moment it was clear to me, I knew that we would be using the chapel! Shall we get the bishop again who did Gordon and Perdita’s wedding?”

He let out another laugh, a deeper one, which was a relief, considering he often found it hard to laugh past the strange melancholy he experienced at this time of year. “An encore? Just like you, Mama. Send him a note! Tell him to be ready! For as soon as she agrees, we can get on with it, don’t you think?”

She smiled at him. “Don’t say that, my dear. It’s a wedding. We don’t want to get on with anything. She must be celebrated!”

“She doesn’t even know it’s going to happen.” He swallowed, a wave of fear abruptly sweeping through from nowhere. “What if it doesn’t?” he asked softly.

His mother took his hand in both of hers and looked most intently into his eyes. “No, no. You must only envision the two of you standing before the bishop. If you envision anything else, it’ll get in the way of what you want.”

He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight. “You are a true treasure, Mama.”

“I know,” she said, her slender arms holding him tight as she tilted her head back. “Everyone is so fortunate to have me about. The entire world really is lucky that I live,” she teased playfully.

But it was true. His mother had somehow learned many years ago to think very well of herself and love herself and give of herself to those who needed her, and he felt now that this was the most remarkable thing because with his mother’s help, he was going to win over Miss Abbot.

His family wouldn’t mind the difference in status between Miss Abbot and themselves at all. They did mad things all the time. They married whoever they wanted, and he was going to do the same.

He had not even kissed her. It didn’t matter. They had shared an understanding, an exchange, and it was clear to him that it was just a matter of time now if she could but see it.

His mother pulled back and squeezed his arm. “Now, let the marriage games begin,” she said.

She arched a brow. “I shall direct, of course.”

“Of course you shall, Mama,” he teased. “Who else could do such a thing?”

“No one in this household,” she said with a smile.

“Your Grace?” Miss Abbot called from the doorway, her red hair glinting in the light.

His heart slammed against his ribs. She was here. And he felt himself lifting ever so slightly again out of the melancholy of January at the sight of her.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” his mother said, bustling towards Miss Abbot. “Thank you for arriving so promptly. I think that you and my son should discuss the parts of the play Hermia and Lysander are in and why you two are so intensely in love with each other.”

And with that, his mother sailed out of the room, leaving them with that sally. It was rather on the nose, and he cringed inwardly. And yet Miss Abbot did not seem to realize that his mother was not teasing, that his mother was not referring to the characters in the play. That she actually meant it—that they were to love each other. But it would help immensely that the characters in A Midsummer Night’s Dream that they had been cast as were indeed in love.

“She’s always like that,” he said to Miss Abbot’s confused expression.

A laugh burst past her pink lips. “Oh, I know. I’m just still growing accustomed to it.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her simple gray skirts, as if she needed to steady herself. “I enjoy it actually, but I had not planned on acting. It’s a little bit out of my scope.”

“Is it?” he asked gently, eager to know more about her. “Is it close to your scope in any way?”

She frowned at that, then huffed out a surprising sigh as she glanced to the tall windows. “Do you all know?”

“Know what?” he asked, confused.

And then she swung her gaze back to his, her eyes wide and her skin pale. “Oh, it is nothing,” she protested.

He tilted his head to the side. “You can’t say that and then not tell me.”

“Oh, but I can,” she returned.

He shook his head. “No, you can’t because now you will leave me to think that you tripped gaily upon the London stage or in some European theater. Were you a famous Parisian opera dancer?” he teased, hoping to make her smile.

Her cheeks flamed with color. “Certainly not.”

“Miss Abbot, forgive me,” he rumbled, taking a step towards her, wishing he could take her hands in his. “I did not mean to embarrass you. Truly, it was not my intent to cause you any sort of shame. My family adores the theater. All kinds of theater. You know my mother was an actress. My sister is an actress. My aunt is an actress. It was not…”

“Please cease,” she said, her brow furrowing as she snapped up a slender hand. “I know you did not mean to embarrass me or imply anything shameful. In all events, I should be the one who is apologizing to you. The theater is a noble occupation, and clearly, in your family, an important one. I think it’s rather unfortunate that people shame artists.”

There was such a bitter note to her words that it felt personal.

“You are an artist?” he asked carefully.

“No,” she said quickly. “I am a governess.”

“But someone you loved was an artist,” he ventured softly.

She gave a tight nod of her head.

“Who?”

A strange look danced across her face as if she was fighting an internal battle. She wound her fingers together, glanced down at them, then snapped her gaze back up to his and said, with her chin tilting upward almost defiantly, “My mother was a composer.”

“A composer?” he echoed.

She nodded as she eyed him carefully, clearly waiting to see how he would react.

“Would I know any of her work?”

She blew out a soft breath, seemingly stunned by his question. “It’s possible, but I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

He raised his hands. “Of course, you don’t need to tell me anything that you don’t want to. I should not have teased you. Forgive me.”

“You must cease apologizing!” She swung her gaze away and looked to the windows again. “You are impossible,” she said ruefully.

“Am I?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to be difficult.”

She closed her eyes, her profile almost pained. “You are not difficult at all,” she said. “And that’s it. You’re so impossibly pleasant.”

He laughed, unable to stop himself at that. “And that’s terrible?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed, snapping her eyes open and turning back towards him.

“Why?” he queried, his heart doing the strangest things as it danced with hope that she was thawing.

“This bloody play.” She wiped a hand over her brow. “It means I’m going to have to spend a great deal of time with you.”

“And you don’t like that,” he clarified as his spirits sank. Was he pushing far too hard? Making her uncomfortable? Since his brother was her employer, would she feel forced to do things? He shoved the thought away. He would never cross that line. “I am unpleasant to be with,” he stated. “I’m sorry. I will tell my mother.”

“No, that’s not it at all. And you apologized again. Which is another reason why you are impossible! You are so determined to make me feel safe and comfortable. You’ve made me do something terrible.”

His eyes flared, but then he ventured another step towards her. “I have?”

She bit her lower lip and nodded.

“Dare I ask what?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

“You’ve made me like you,” she said softly. “You’ve made want to be with you. And that is a problem, Lord Zephyr.”

He swallowed. The admission was more than he ever could have hoped for. “Unforgivable,” he teased.

“Do not jest!” she protested.

“Right then,” he returned, closing the distance between them. “I shall tell you true. I’m glad,” he said firmly.

“Yes, I can see that you are,” she said, the line of her long throat tightening as she swallowed. “But you should not be.”

“Why?” he asked, gazing down upon her, longing to take her in his arms and drive out all her hidden fears, all her hidden cares, to wrap her in all that he could give her.

For it was there, deep her gaze, all that she had once suffered and done her best to hide.

Her eyes crackled with a mixture of woe and determination. “Because I am a woman who keeps her promises.”

That gave him pause and a moment’s chill stole down his spine. For vows and promises could be very dangerous things, ruining happiness. “And what promise have you made?”

She shook her head. “You don’t need to know.”

“Apparently, I do,” he replied, almost daring to lift his hand to cup her cheek but not willing to risk it quite yet. “It seems to have something to do with me.”

Her eyes flashed with dismay. “I promised Miss Abelard that I would not.”

“Would not what?” he asked. “Run off with one of us?” he laughed.

Her cheeks flamed again.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he ground out. “You did promise her that you wouldn’t run off with one of us.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Is it so absurd? That one of you perfect lot might wish to choose me? Even if I can never have you.”

He gasped, and at that, he did dare to cup her face. He raised his hand and fitted his palm to her cheek, stroking his thumb softly along her skin. “Absurd? It has already transpired.”

At that, her mouth parted and she swayed slightly. “No, it is not true,” she whispered.

“Oh, I assure you it is,” he whispered, aching to lean his head down and take her perfect lips with his. “By the way,” he murmured, “you never could have run off with any of my brothers. They’re very loyal to their wives. I think they barely know you exist.” He paused. “Well, they know that you exist because you are the governess of their children and you are in the house, but not as a woman. Well, not as a woman to be desired,” he said, correcting himself again and again. “Hmm. This is more complicated than I—”

“Lord Zephyr,” she broke in, but she did not pull away. Not yet. “You are the strangest individual and so kind. You’re trying to assure me now, and I appreciate that. But that kindness, that assurance, makes it impossible for me to dislike you.”

“You want to dislike me?” he growled.

She nodded against his palm, her eyes fluttering for a moment as if his touch was bittersweet. “It would make it so much easier if I did.”

He tilted her head up gently. “I like you too.”

“I know,” she said simply. “And that is another problem.”

“So many problems,” he said, drinking in the contours of her beautiful visage, admiring her so much he ached. “Surely there’s a solution.”

“What is it?” she whispered. “I can’t see it. Aside from me staying as far away from you as possible, and now I can’t because I’m going to be in a play with you.”

“Give in to your liking. And I shall give in to mine.”

“No,” she replied firmly. “I am not about to dishonor Miss Abelard or myself.”

“You don’t have to,” he said, bringing his other hand up to her other cheek so that he could hold her face gently and help her to see his intent. “Because I would never allow you to dishonor yourself. My intentions towards you are quite pure.”

She let out a sigh then. And her eyes sparkled with an emotion he could not name. “That’s what they all say, you know, at first. They make women feel so cared for. So special.”

“Who?” he asked, his gaze searching over her face “Who is they ?”

“Men,” she said tightly, her hands still by her sides, as if she feared to touch him, even as she seemed to tilt her face into his touch.

She was like a soul caught between two desires, unable to surrender to either at present.

The muscle in his jaw clenched. “A man hurt you.”

“No,” she bit out.

“Someone you loved was hurt?” he guessed.

“More than one someone,” she admitted bitterly.

“I won’t hurt you, Miss Abbot,” he vowed.

“Yes, you will, if I allow it. That’s the problem. So I can’t. I’ve warned you,” she said. “I will not allow myself to be hurt. I will keep my vows.”

He sucked in a breath, astonished by the fierce power of her words. “How could you turn your back on love?” he asked. Then, ever so slightly and oh so slowly, he began to lower his head, longing to kiss her.

And then she pulled away.

She lifted her hands to his and pulled his palms away. “I can turn my back on it, my lord, because the sort of love you seem to fancy does not exist.”

“It does,” he countered, shocked to his very core by her declaration. All his life, he’d been surrounded by love and people falling in love. He’d never expected this.

“No. No, it doesn’t,” she affirmed.

“My brothers and sisters—”

She squared her shoulders as if entering battle. “Their marriages are all young yet,” she replied.

“You are very jaded for one so young,” he rasped, wishing he could go back in time and murder whoever had crushed her belief in love. Not for himself. But for her. For the girl who had been hurt.

She gave him a pitying look. “I have been jaded since I was a small girl. But if you kiss me now, it will not be love. It will be passion. And the two things are entirely different.”

He hesitated then, realizing that she had provided him with a new argument. “What if I could convince you differently?”

She blinked. “What?”

“That a loving kiss is different than a passionate one.”

Her lips parted. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me show you.”

Her eyes narrowed at that, but then they softened and her gaze traveled to his mouth.

“Let me make you see.”

And then he took her into his arms and kissed her slowly, tenderly, without a single demand. And though his body lit with fire and hunger for her, he kissed her slowly, wanting to show her that he loved her, loved her larger than any tangible or intangible thing on this earth. He kissed her with such love, the sort of love that promised that when they were old and all was done and passion had worn out its course and they were waiting for death to come for them, that he would still love her.

He kissed her for the dawn of time and the end of it. And when he stepped back, tears were filling her eyes… But instead of melting into his arms, she did the thing she always seemed to do. She fled.