Miranda Jarrett - The Duke's Governess Bride

‘Was that all you gleaned from those letters, your Grace?’ she asked, appalled. She had given him the letters so that he’d learn of the love his girls had found with their new husbands, and the happiness as well, but now it seemed he’d read them and learned nothing. ‘An itinerary?’

‘Two weeks, two short weeks,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘Surely you can tolerate my company for that time, until they arrive, and then—then you may go as you wish.’

‘Why does my presence matter so much to you?’ she demanded. ‘Surely you can tell me that, your Grace. Why should you care at all?’

‘Why?’ He turned slightly, just enough so that he caught the reflections from the water, ripples of light across his face that robbed it of all his certainty, his confidence.

‘Why?’ He repeated the single word again as if mystified by how exactly to reply. His smile turned crooked, too, or maybe it was only another trick of the shifting light. ‘Why? Because my girls, my finest little joys, have grown and left me. Because you, Miss Wood, are my last link here on the other side of the world to them, and to the past that I’d always judged to be happy enough.’

‘Oh, your Grace,’ she said softly, bewildered by such an unexpected confession. She took a step towards him, her hand outstretched on impulse to offer comfort. ‘Oh, I am sorry, I did not intend to—’

‘Damnation, because I do not wish to be entirely abandoned here alone,’ he said gruffly, the truth clearly so painful to him that he could scarce speak it aloud. ‘Is that reason enough for you, Miss Wood? Is it?’

Now when she looked at him, she saw neither the overbearing master she’d always known, nor the lusty male she’d encountered last night. What remained was sorrow, loss and resignation, all the proof she needed that what he’d said was true: that he did not want to be left alone.

And neither, truly, did she.

‘I’ll stay, your Grace,’ she said softly, daring to rest her hand on his arm. ‘Until your daughters arrive, I’ll stay.’

The following morning, Richard woke slowly, letting himself drift into wakefulness from the pleasing depth of unconsciousness. He’d slept much more soundly the second night in the Ca’ Battista, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. The bed was every bit as uncomfortable the second night as the first, the sheets still smelled of the damp, the fireplace still smoked with every stray gust of wind, and the peculiar little plaster cupids that surrounded the painting in the ceiling still seemed to be watching him with their sightless plaster eyes.

He smiled drowsily up at them, rolled over and buried his face once again in the musty pillow-bier. Cupids, hah. Miss Wood surely would have something to tell him about small, fat, naked boys with wings who hovered, laughing, over a gentleman’s bedstead when he—

Miss Wood. That, or rather she, must be the reason he’d slept so much better. Having an Englishwoman like Miss Wood here in Venice with him made all the difference, and knowing she’d stay would put any man’s mind at ease. She’d help him learn all the little things he’d somehow missed about his daughters, and explain to him what he didn’t know about their lives, just as she’d once kept him abreast of their progress in the schoolroom. It had all made perfect sense, and he’d never been in any real doubt that she’d agree to remain. Now he’d have to thank her for a good night’s sleep, too.

Or perhaps not. She was prickly about such things, and she might take such a compliment the wrong way, and say it was too scandalous. He grinned, and rubbed his palm over his unshaven jaw. He could show her real scandal, if she were agreeable—he was a man, after all, still in his prime. Not that he’d test any woman with so little respect, of course. Ever since his wife had died, he’d prided himself on being in control of his passions for the sake of her memory, limiting himself only to the occasional visit to a discreet house in London.

Yet there was something about this new side of Miss Wood that he found peculiarly tempting, a spark behind her prim control that hinted at more. How he’d like to kiss that severity from her mouth, and muss those tidy petticoats of hers a bit!

He chuckled, imagining how she’d react, how indignant she’d be, how shocked. Lord, what possessed him to think such thoughts of a governess? Chuckling still, he pushed himself up against the pillows. High time he rose, anyway. His manservant Wilson would be here soon with his breakfast.

Exactly on cue, Richard heard the chamber door open and shut and saw the flash of sunlight behind the bed curtains that announced Wilson’s arrival. The curtains of the bed opened, the rings scraping on the metal rod overhead, and there was Wilson’s gloomy face to greet Richard’s day, the same as it had been for years.

But on this morning, there seemed to be a change in the never-changing routine. Wilson glared, as usual, but his gnarled hands were empty, without Richard’s customary cup of steaming coffee.

‘What’s this, Wilson?’ Richard asked. ‘Where’s my brew?’

‘There’s none, your Grace,’ Wilson said, his expression sour, ‘not that I’ll be bringing you, anyways. If it were my deciding, I would, but it’s not, so’s I won’t, and there’s no help for the change from where I can see it.’

‘No riddles, Wilson. It’s far too early for that.’ Exasperated, Richard swung his legs over the side of the bed. This made no sense. He was always most particular about beginning his day with the same breakfast. Wilson knew his ways better than anyone, and had personally made certain that Richard had had his customary breakfast even on the long voyage from Portsmouth, when his shirred eggs had required the presence and supervision of three miserable laying-hens. ‘Where the devil is my coffee, you lazy sot? And where’s the tray with the rest of my breakfast?’

Wilson groaned, and held up Richard’s dressing gown. ‘I told you, your Grace, it’s not for me to decide,’ he said almost primly. ‘It’s that Miss Wood who’s doing all the deciding this morning.’

‘Miss Wood?’ Richard thrust his arms into the waiting sleeves. ‘What does Miss Wood have to do with this?’

‘Everything, your Grace.’ Wilson’s wounded pride finally gave way in a torrent of outrage. ‘On account of her telling me it was wrongful for you to eat an English breakfast in your chambers while you was in Venice, she told me you had to come down to her and eat what they eat here, foreign-like, no matter that you never do and never would. That was what I told her, your Grace, that you liked what you liked for your breakfast, but she’d hear none of it, and told me you’d already agreed to do as she said. As she said, your Grace, and you a duke and a peer and she a governess and daughter of a two-penny preacher from Northumberland!’

‘Her antecedents matter little to me, Wilson.’ Richard whipped the sash twice around his waist, tying it snugly with the determination of a warrior readying his sword belt for battle. ‘But as for interfering in my breakfast— that is another thing entirely.’

He threw open the door and marched down the stairs to the floor with the more public rooms. Halfway down he wished he’d stopped long enough to find his slippers—the polished treads of the carved marble staircase were infernally cold beneath his feet—but he wasn’t about to retreat until he’d settled this with Miss Wood.

Following his nose and the pleasant scent of cooked food, he found her in a small parlour to the back of the house. The room was taller than it was wide, with narrow arched windows and a domed, gilded ceiling that made Richard feel like he stood at the bottom of some eastern gypsy’s jewel box. Two squat chairs covered in red were set before the little round table, likewise covered with a red cloth, only added to the sensation that he’d blundered into someone else’s exotic nightmare.