Page 9 of The Earl's Forbidden Governess
Just as Emily opened her mouth to respond, the schoolroom door swung open with a bang. The women both turned at the sound, where Mr. Harper stood in the doorway, his usually impassive face twisted with barely contained fury.
“Miss Winslow,” he said, his voice low and icy, “A word, if you please.”
Catherine rose to her feet shakily, frowning when she caught a glimpse of Emily’s wide-eyed, fearful gaze. “Of course, Mr. Harper,” she muttered, then turned to Emily, contorting her face into a comforting mask.
“Emily, once you are finished with your tea, you can continue those French exercises,” she said kindly. “I’ll return shortly.”
Emily nodded and set her tea aside as Catherine followed Mr. Harper into the hallway, her stomach churning with nerves. As soon as the door closed behind them, he rounded on her, his face reminding her of an angry wild animal.
“What do you think you are doing?” he hissed, keeping his voice low though his tone seeped with anger. “Prying intohis lordship’s personal affairs? Gossiping with Lady Emily about matters that do not concern you?”
Catherine lifted her chin despite her nerves. “I was merely trying to understand the household I am working in, Mr. Harper,” she insisted softly. “Surely there is no harm in that.”
Mr. Harper’s nostrils flared as he looked at her. “No harm? Do you have any idea what your thoughtless curiosity could cause? His lordship’s private life is exactly that: private! It is not your place to question anything in this household, least of all, his past!”
Catherine frowned. “Mr. Harper,” she tried. “I merely…”
“No,” he cut her off, his hand raised. “I warned you when you arrived, Miss Winslow, that His Lordship and Lady Emily prefer to keep to themselves. That was not an invitation for you to go digging into this family.” He took a deep breath, visibly attempting to calm himself. “You would do well to remember your position here. You are Lady Emily’s governess, not her friend. Keep your nose out of places where it does not belong.”
Catherine bit her lip. Though she had truly meant no harm, she knew that the man was right—she had grossly overstepped. “I apologize, Mr. Harper,” she said after a long silence. “It will not happen again.”
Mr. Harper studied her for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Finally, he nodded, though his stern expression did not ease up. “I expect you to see to it that it doesn’t happen again,” he said at last. “And Miss Winslow…” he stepped forward slightly, his eyes dark. “Remember this. Some men… are slaves to their emotions. It would be wise not to stir up what is best left buried.”
With that, he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Catherine alone in the dim hallway. Rather than quell her curiosity, Mr. Harper’s words only fanned its flames. What on earth had happened five years ago, to turn what Emily explained as a vivacious, sociable Edward Montague into the reclusive, brooding man she’d met earlier that morning?
She took a deep breath in a futile attempt to compose herself before re-entering the schoolroom. Emily looked up when she entered, her face a mask of guilt.
“Is everything alright, Miss Winslow?” she asked, her voice small. “I am sorry if I got you into trouble, if I said anything I shouldn’t have…”
Catherine forced a smile and shook her head quickly. “Do not fret, Lady Emily,” she said gently. “Everything is fine. Mr. Harper simply wanted to discuss some household matters.”
She returned to her own desk, her hands trembling lightly as she picked up a book of poetry. “Now, shall we move on to literature?”
Emily merely nodded demurely, and Catherine raised the books, her voice ringing out clearly as she read. “The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action: and till action, lust is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust. Enjoyed no sooner, but despised straight.
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had past reason hated as a swallowed bait on purpose laid to make the taker mad; made in pursuit and in possession so, had, having, and in quest to have, extreme; a bliss in proof and proved, a very woe: before, a joy proposed; behind a dream…”
Despite herself, Catherine found her mind drifting toward Edward Montague as the words of the sonnet left her lips. There was no denying that the man was every bit as handsome and virile as the rumors suggested… but, and she shook her hand at this, it truly was a waste of shame to even think that much.
“Wait,” Emily interrupted innocently. “I don’t understand. What is this poem about?”
“Well,” Catherine said, blushing, “What Sir Shakespeare is saying here… is that… well… you know, having certain… desires… tends to make people mad.”
A mischievous glint settled in Emily’s eyes, and she lifted a brow. “Certain desires?” she questioned, her voice innocent, reminding Catherine quite a bit of Charlotte Ashdown. “Whatever do you mean?”
Catherine laughed and shook her head. “Let us talk about the use of literary devices in the poem,” she admonished lightly, “before worrying too much about what it is Sir Shakespeare claims all humans tend to chase.”
Yet, even as she explained the use of metaphor and iambic pentameter in the poem, she could not help but wonder if Edward Montague too did not know well to shun the heaven that led men to this hell.
Chapter 5
Edward had to admit that when his sister had pleaded with him to appoint a governess, he had not expected Catherine Winslow. The girl was… different from anyone he’d ever met, and he smiled despite himself when he thought of their first meeting.
It was difficult for him to agree to Emily’s pleas, and he had only given in because she was incessant about it. Still, as pretty as this governess was, he was wary of allowing someone else into his house. Especially someone like her.
These thoughts rumbled wildly in his head as he turned the corner, nearly losing his balance when a dark figure stumbled into him.
Automatically, Edward raised his hands—soft curves molding into his palms as feminine curves pressed against him. The smell of wildflowers tickled his nose, and he lowered his hands slowly, sweeping over what he now realized was Catherine Winslow’s waist, and settling on her hips.
