Page 19 of A Mind of Her Own
Charlotte’s face softened, but her tone did not. “Then do the proper thing and ask her forgiveness.”
William stared at her, incredulous.Apologize to the governess?The very notion was absurd. And to be left alone with her—God help him, nothing good would come of it. He was far more likely to do something that would demand a real apology than to manage one sincerely.
He folded the paper with deliberate care and laid it aside. “Let us not quarrel again, Charlotte,” he said evenly. “I have no wish to spend my first morning at Westford Castle in dispute.”
Her eyes mellowed, though her chin retained its stubborn tilt. “Nor I, brother. But you were harsh—harsh to me, and harsh to her.”
“She is just the governess,” he said, voice clipped.
“She is not only that,” Charlotte retorted swiftly. “Her grandfather was a viscount, and her uncle holds the title still. Her own line fell on hard times, but she is no peasant plucked from the fields. You speak as if I had dressed up a dairymaid. It was not so improper as you pretend.”
His mouth tightened, a grim curve. “You know very well that what you say is not true. Her bloodline matters little now. Whatever she once was, society sees her only as what she is—a dependent, in our employ. And that is what matters.”
Charlotte bristled, but he raised a hand, forestalling her. “Enough. I will not quarrel. But you must see this for what it is. You risked your reputation—and mine—by thrusting her forward. That must not happen again.”
For a moment the air between them held taut, like a string drawn to breaking. Then Charlotte inclined her head, the gesture slight but unmistakably yielding.
* * *
It had been several days since his arrival at Westford Castle, and—thank God—he had not laid eyes again on Miss Ansley. His temper and his blood had cooled. Perhaps he had exaggerated her allure. Perhaps she was no more distracting than any woman might be for a man denied indulgence as long as he had by war. Had he been wise, he would have delayed his journey east, lingered instead in London a few weeks longer at Miss Nadia’s infamous House of Delights. But had he stayed, his father wouldhave dragged him to every ballroom in Mayfair before he’d even had time to wash the blood from his uniform.
He gave a bitter smile. In his youth no maid on the estate was safe from him; he would lift their skirts while they tended the fires, drag them into shadows and take his pleasure. Dazzled by his handsome face, or cowed by his station—he never knew which. They were heedless tumbles, thoughtless as a boy’s hunger left unchecked by an indifferent father. Later, thanks to Ravensby, his tastes refined, giving way to more polished encounters. Everyone believed Ravensby had corrupted him, but in truth the man had merely shown him how libertines of their rank conducted their affairs.
He took a turn in the gardens. The day was warm, the skies washed clear by the early summer sun. Westford’s gardens—renowned throughout the county and beyond—were heavy with the perfume of roses, lilac, and peonies. Already there were visitors at the far end of the lawns, where the public were permitted to wander, sketching the great fountains or strolling beneath the avenues of lime trees.
As he walked, a sound carried to him—a girlish voice, rising and falling in careful cadences. Another voice followed, gentler, correcting, instructing. He slowed. Ahead, spread upon a plaid blanket beneath the dappled shade of a chestnut, sat Lady Margaret with her governess. A small table had been carried down for their books; Margaret read from it, her thin child’s tones serious and sweet, while Miss Ansley leaned beside her, listening intently, asking a question now and then.
He stilled, unseen for the moment, the sight hitting him hard.
Miss Ansley wore no daring silks today, only the severe dress of her station—dark calico, buttoned to her throat, her hair simply pinned. Not a wrist nor the collarbone showed. And yet the memory of what lay beneath those stern lines rose too vividly before him. The very concealment made him ache to tear thefabric aside. He clenched his jaw, damning himself for a lecher. He was a fool to think of her so.
Margaret recited carefully, each word slow and deliberate: “Charity begins at home; for he that loveth not his own family, how shall he love his neighbor as himself?”
She hesitated, frowning. “But why was I not invited to William’s party? I am his sister too, am I not?”
“Of course you are, darling,” Miss Ansley soothed, her voice low. “But you are still very young. I am certain his lordship would have been glad to see you there.”
“He did not look glad to see me at all,” Margaret said stubbornly. “He hardly spoke to me since he came back. He is just like Mama and Papa, and Charlotte too. No one cares to spend time with me.”
“Oh, hush now,” Miss Ansley said softly. She slipped an arm around the child and drew her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair. “They all love you more than you can imagine.”
William’s first instinct was to step forward and rebuke them both—the schoolroom was the proper place for lessons, not the grass. But Margaret’s wounded tone gave him pause. He made himself known instead, striding forward with a smile.
“Margaret,” he said warmly.
His sister whipped about, swiping at her eyes with quick, proud hands, unwilling to let him see she had been on the verge of crying. His heart clenched at the sight. He remembered Charlotte at the same age, looking very much alike, blinking back tears in precisely that way.
He bent and ruffled Margaret’s hair lightly. “You did not miss much, I promise you. The party was terribly dull. Mrs. Hughes’s daughters tortured us all with their singing. Had I marched the pair of them to the front at Salamanca, the French would have surrendered on the instant—only to make the music stop.”
Margaret gave a startled giggle, her face alight with mischief.
“There,” William said, satisfied. “Better, hm? And do not pout, little sister. We shall have a feast of our own—only family. You shall preside, and perhaps you may read us something. A poem, perhaps?” His gaze slid toward Miss Ansley, allowing himself the faintest smile. “Not Byron, though, if you please.”
“Of course not, my lord,” Miss Ansley said quickly, yet a betraying flush touched her cheeks.
William turned back to his sister. “But tell me—why are lessons conducted in the garden? When I was a boy, the schoolroom was thought good enough.”
“It is such a fine day,” Miss Ansley answered, her voice steady. “Better to be outside, than sit inside dreaming of being here and not listen at all. My father and I often walked as he taught me. I learned more in the air than ever I did at a desk.”
