An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2 (6 page)

Of course, she might catch a glimpse of Sir Nicholas in the water. Shocking, yes, but hadn’t she already seen him in a flagrant state of undress on more than one occasion? A gentleman wearing only his shirtsleeves was definitely guilty of breaching the dictates of sartorial etiquette and Sir Nicholas hadn’t seemed to give a fig about that.

Besides, what did it matter if she did see him
dishabille
? He’d already seen her in a vulnerable state of undress. Had blatantly ogled her naked legs and Lord knew what other parts of her person.

Abigail raised her chin and squared her shoulders. It served Sir Nicholas right if she did catch him out. Indeed, she’d only found out by pure accident that the man possessed such a singular habit. Who on earth swam
sans
garments during the day when others might be about? Only a fool or a reprobate of the first order.

Yes, Sir Nicholas only had himself to blame if she came upon him without clothes on. And surely she could claim ignorance as a defense if she absolutely had to...

If she was quick enough and used the rhododendron bushes as a shield, he wouldn’t even notice her if he did happen to be swimming nearby.

Ignoring the prick of her conscience, Abigail stepped off the gravel path and tiptoed along the grass, following the line of the hedge. The dense green foliage obscured her view of the lake but aside from the quiet lap of water against the nearby bank and the fleeting buzz of a dragonfly by her ear, she could hear nothing else. At the end of the hedge, she stopped. Clutching her bonnet and book against her chest, she took a few more moments to listen for any sound that might indicate the presence of another person, but all was still and silent.

Barely daring to breath, her stomach aswarm with butterflies, Abigail inched around the edge of the clipped bushes. More of the lake came into her line of sight; she could see clear across the glassy surface to the eastern side but there was still no sign of Sir Nicholas. Aside from another dragonfly skimming across the water, nothing stirred, not even a breath of air.

Her heart in her mouth, she leaned forward a little more to peer around the corner to the section of the lake hidden from view...

And there was Sir Nicholas Barsby is all his naked glory.

Oh, dear God.
Abigail dropped her bonnet and book as her hands flew to her mouth to smother a gasp—whether it was with shock or pleasure or both she had no idea.

Only a few yards away, thigh deep in the water, Sir Nicholas stood with his back to Abigail. Even though she knew what she did was wrong, her gaze greedily drank in everything about him—his sleek black hair, the droplets of water gleaming on his smooth bare skin, his wide shoulders and well-muscled back tapering to lean hips, the taut cheeks of his buttocks. The tops of his powerful thighs...

At first glance he appeared quite motionless; his head was tipped back, his face raised to the sun while one hand rested low on his hip. And that’s when Abigail noticed his right arm was moving; the corded muscles were flexed and even though his hand was hidden from view it appeared to be at groin level, sliding back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the movement a rapid, rhythmic pulse. It reminded Abigail of the time her former lover, Harry, had shown her how to—

The realization hit her like a bolt from above. Sir Nicholas was pleasuring himself.

Outside. In broad daylight.

Dear Lord, the man was wicked to his very bones. Brazen. Depraved.

And absolutely mesmerizing.

She wondered who he was thinking about. Was it her? And of all the things they could do together...

Leave, Abigail. Go.

But she didn’t. Couldn’t. It seemed she was stricken with some strange fever that rendered her incapable of movement. Arousal shimmered over her skin like a heat haze and her nipples tightened, the sensitive nubs chafing against her cotton shift and suddenly too-tight stays. Liquid heat pooled low in her belly and her folds grew slick. Heavy.

She wanted, she wanted, she wanted...

God, how she wanted.

Without thinking, Abigail slid a hand to the juncture of her thighs and cupped her throbbing mound through the fabric of her skirts. The pace of Sir Nicholas’s pumping grew faster, more frantic, his hips rocked, the muscles of his backside bunched. He was almost there, she could feel it in her own blood as she pressed a finger against her most sensitive spot and rubbed herself through the muslin.

Yes, yes, yes.
Sweet fire licked its way along her nerves. Dark desire swept over her, through her, spinning her higher and higher. A moan rose in her throat and before she could think to bite her lip to contain it, it spilled forth into the silence. Breathy and low, yet oh, so loud.

And that’s when Sir Nicholas turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Straight at her.

Oh, good Lord, no...

Reality crashed into Abigail with sickening ferocity. In her extremity, she’d taken a step away from her hiding place, exposing herself and her own depravity. She’d never be able to feign an accidental encounter, not when it was blatantly clear she’d been taking pleasure in watching him.

She dropped her hand away from her quim. Her stomach had already dropped to the grass at her feet.

She’d expected Sir Nicholas’s face to register shock, or blistering anger. But with the cock of one black eyebrow, all she saw was sardonic amusement. At her expense.

She’d lost her position. How could she not? Someone like her was not fit to teach children.

She was such a reckless fool. And wicked. No better than a common whore.

Her face burning with shame and her vision blurred by a flood of stinging tears, Abigail picked up her skirts and fled.

A
bigail managed
to reach her bedchamber without encountering a single soul. A panting, sweating mess, she collapsed on her bed and gave into the overwhelming urge to sob her heart out. A toxic combination of bitter self-recrimination, marrow-deep humiliation and heart crushing despair churned around inside her. If the ground beneath her split wide open and swallowed her whole, she would welcome it.

How could she ever face Sir Nicholas again?

Oh, she couldn’t bear it.

But she must. At least until she left Hartfield Hall.

When her weeping at last subsided, she rose from the bed and installed herself in the window seat. A faint breeze wafted through the open window and dried the tears on her cheeks. A bank of black and angry storm clouds had gathered on the horizon and thunder grumbled in the distance. Would Sir Nicholas be just as thunderous when she faced him? Or would he flay her with cold derision?

Her breath shuddered out of her chest.

At some stage she imagined Sir Nicholas would summon her to account for her sinful behavior. So she had best prepare for the painful interview. And naturally, her imminent dismissal.

Her movements as wooden and jerky as a marionette’s, she somehow managed to wash her sticky, tear-stained face and repair her disheveled chignon. The looking glass above the washstand also revealed how puffy and red her eyes were, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. Despite the heat, she couldn’t stand wearing her white muslin gown any more; she felt like a fraud wearing something so pure and virginal looking. With only a limited number of gowns to choose from, she settled for a nondescript calico dress in an unremarkable shade of green.

Abigail was half-way through packing her traveling trunk when there came a knock at the door. Even though she’d anticipated it, to her it sounded like a death knell. When she called, “come in,” she was relieved to see it was the housemaid, Bessie, rather than Mrs. Graham.

The girl frowned when her gaze fell upon the trunk. Nevertheless, she didn’t remark upon it and delivered the message Abigail had been expecting. “Sir Nicholas would like to see you in the drawing room, miss. As soon as you are able.”

Abigail nodded. “Thank you. I shall be down directly.”

“And, Sir Nicholas asked that these be returned to you.” Bessie, who had been standing in the doorway with her hands behind her back, extended her arm, offering Abigail her new bonnet and her copy of
Sense and Sensibility
.

Abigail bit her quivering bottom lip as she took the items and placed them on the bed. There was no way she could deny that she’d been at the lake now.

“Miss Adams, it’s probably not my place to ask, but are you... Is there anything wrong?”

“No, nothing at all,” said Abigail with a false smile but she wasn’t able to hide the wobble in her voice.

Concern flickered across Bessie’s face, however, she simply curtsied and took her leave.

By the time Abigail reached the drawing room, she was a mass of quivering nerves. Her hand trembled as she placed it on the smooth oak panel of the door; it was ajar but she hesitated to push it open.

Courage, Abigail Adams. You will go and live with Aunt Meredith and Aunt Euphemia for a while. You will find another situation. This is not the end of the world.

So why did it feel like it?

Lifting her chin and drawing in a steadying breath, Abigail entered the room. Sir Nicholas stood by one of the enormous mullion-paned casement windows that afforded a view of the lake; his hands behind his back, he appeared to be contemplating the scene below. His charcoal grey tailcoat emphasized rather than disguised the taut line of his wide shoulders. His face, in profile, was tight with tension. A muscle ticked in his lean jaw.

He looked aloof. Forbidding. Not at all like the rampantly beautiful man who’d been lost to passion only a short time ago.

Despite her agitated state, Abigail blushed at the memory. Of him. And of what she had done.

Her gaze flitted to the arrangement of lavishly upholstered chairs before the fireplace. A tea service, silver coffee pot, and several plates of food—small pastries, sandwiches and cakes—had been set up on a low, intricately carved oak table in the center. She frowned.
How odd...

“Ah, Miss Adams. There you are.”

Abigail started then dropped into a sedate curtsy, her head bowed. Unable to meet Sir Nicholas’s gaze, she focused on a knot in the wooden floorboard at her feet. Her mouth as dry as the Sahara, she had to swallow and clear her throat before she could speak. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

“Yes... After you’ve shut the door, I want you to take a seat. There are certain matters we need to discuss. Private matters.”

“Yes, sir.” Private was an understatement. Even though she was confused by her employer’s conciliatory manner—she’d hardly expected an invitation to sit—Abigail fulfilled his first request and closed the door.

When she approached the chairs, Sir Nicholas further surprised her by asking if she would like some tea or coffee, or something to eat. “I suspect you missed the servants’ dining hour,” he said. Whilst his statement was matter-of-fact, his voice was also laced with something else softer, gentler. Perhaps he had noticed that she had been crying. But she dare not think he felt the slightest bit of concern for her.

His query—whilst unexpected—also reminded Abigail of why she’d missed her last meal and her face flamed with mortification yet again. “I d-did,” she stammered, “but I... I don’t really want... Thank you, but no.” Her knees felt as insubstantial as water and she sank onto the nearest shepherdess chair. She couldn’t stomach anything right at this moment but she didn’t want to sound ungracious so she added, “I would be happy to serve you, sir.”

Sir Nicholas took a leather wingback chair opposite her. “If you’d be so kind. I prefer coffee. Black, no sugar.”

“Of course.” With shaking hands, Abigail reached for the coffee pot. This situation was truly bizarre and not at all what she’d anticipated. When she chanced a glance at Sir Nicholas from beneath her eyelashes, he didn’t seem as perturbed or angry as she’d initially thought. He sat easily enough in his chair. Indeed he almost lounged in it. One long finger stroked his temple as he watched her, his expression pensive.

Abigail gulped. What on earth was he thinking? Waiting for the proverbial axe to fall was pure torture.

Somehow she poured Sir Nicholas’s coffee without spilling any. He received it with a murmured thanks, took one sip, then another before placing the cup and saucer on the elegant occasional table beside his chair with a decided click. And then he pinned her with a long, penetrating stare.

It was an assessing look. A dangerous, hungry look. A look that made her toes curl inside her slippers and her heart crash against her ribs.

Oh, dear Lord.
How she had underestimated Sir Nicholas. The very air vibrated with tension and she was torn between the overwhelming urge to flee and the strong desire to stay and drown in those deep, midnight blue eyes.

When Sir Nicholas at last spoke, she nearly whimpered with relief. “I’m sure you know why I needed to see you, Miss Adams.” His tone was deceptively mild given the intensity of his gaze.

“Yes,” she whispered. She tried not to wring her hands by keeping them tightly clasped in her lap. “And I... I know it is probably foolish of me to even try, but I want to apologize for my improper behavior—”

Sir Nicholas waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I don’t want or need an apology from you.”

“Then what?” Something dark and hot flashed in Sir Nicholas’s eyes—it certainly wasn’t anger—and Abigail immediately knew what he wanted. How could she have been so naïve not to think of such a possibility until this very moment?

Hadn’t he wanted her from the very start?

Sir Nicholas leaned forward, his arms resting on his muscular thighs as he loosely linked his hands together. “I think you may have realized by now that I’m not much of a gentleman, Miss Adams. Indeed, I would not blame you in the least if you thought of me as...” his gaze raked over her body with a deliberation that made her breath catch before returning to her eyes, “wicked.”

“I... I don’t know what to say.” Which wasn’t quite true. Abigail drew a deep breath and lifted her chin as she added, “Although, perhaps it is not you, but me, who is deserving of such an epithet.” As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t deny the wicked lust she felt for Sir Nicholas too. Even now, despite her deep shame, a thrill of anticipation shivered down her spine at the thought of the dark proposition that was sure to come.

Sir Nicholas’s chiseled mouth widened into a wolfish grin. “Well, the good news for you, Miss Adams, is that I’m rather fond of women with a wicked streak.” He paused and thunder rumbled in the distance as if warning Abigail to take care. That a temptation, like no other, lurked very close. “I hope you can forgive me for speaking frankly, but considering what happened at the lake only an hour ago, I believe a frank conversation is in order.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

Abigail sat up straighter, determined to meet her fate head on. “Yes, sir.”

Sir Nicholas inclined his head in acknowledgement. When he spoke again, his rich voice surrounded her and it felt like she was being wrapped in soft, dark velvet. “The attraction between us, it is undeniable wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I am not in the habit of dallying with the staff, but you have aroused my interest, more than any woman has in quite some time, Miss Adams. And I think I can safely say—judging by your reaction to catching me
in flagrante delicto
—that I have aroused your interest as well.”

Abigail swallowed. There was no use denying it. “Yes... I find I have been quite overwhelmed by you. You see, you are unlike anyone... I have never...” Oh, good Lord. She was as tongue-tied as a giddy girl straight out of the schoolroom. Abigail drew a deep breath and began again. “What I mean to say is, I’ve never behaved this way before. When I saw you—”

Sir Nicholas leaned forward a little more, trapping her with a gaze so hot and heavy, she thought she might catch alight. “Yes?”

“When I saw you, and what you were doing, it made me feel and think and do things that a woman in my position should not.” There, she’d said it. Admitted how sinful she was.

But Sir Nicholas didn’t seem to mind. His mouth curved into a slow, seductive smile. “Then perhaps you are in the wrong position, Miss Adams.”

Sir Nicholas’s inevitable and irresistible invitation to ruin hovered so close, Abigail could feel it. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to whisper, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do. Become my mis—”

Resounding thunder crashed around them, making Abigail jump, and a gust of wind whipped the crimson damask curtains by the open window all about. The storm had at last descended. Feeling like a doe escaping a wolf, Abigail leapt to her feet and dashed to the window to close it; a squall of rain hit her as she struggled to close the casement. And then Sir Nicholas was beside her and within moments the window was shut tight.

Abigail was breathing raggedly, but whether it was from the physical effort she’d exerted to close the window, the shock of being doused with icy rain or the close proximity of Sir Nicholas, she couldn’t have said. She leaned back against the windowsill and looked up into his indecently handsome face.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark sweep of damp hair over his brow and the deep blue of his eyes as he stared down at her.

She trembled and licked dry lips and Sir Nicholas’s attention immediately dropped to her mouth. A sensible, virtuous woman would make her excuses and leave right now.

But it seemed Abigail was neither sensible nor virtuous. Instead, she found herself murmuring, “My apologies for interrupting you. You... you were about to ask me...” She inhaled deeply and to her relief, Sir Nicholas raised his gaze to hers again. With a wince, she asked, “I don’t suppose you were about to suggest I give up my position as governess to become your librarian on a more permanent basis?”

Sir Nicholas’s mouth twitched with a fleeting smile. “No, I was not.” He propped one wide shoulder against the window frame and crossed his arms; it was a deceptively casual stance considering the level gaze he fixed on her. “There’s no point in beating about the bush any longer, Miss Adams. I want you to be my mistress. The question is,” he cocked an eyebrow, “will you accept my offer?”

Even though she had known this was coming, Abigail’s face burned. She turned around and gripped the windowsill with both hands and stared out onto the wind and rain lashed grounds. Her thoughts and emotions were just as wild and storm-tossed. Her heart beat hard and fast and her stays felt far too tight. Could she do this? Could she willingly throw all of her scruples to the wind and become a courtesan? Live a life in the shadows, unfit for decent society? A life of decadence and excitement and pleasure. And sin.

Wonderful, delicious sin.

She thrust the wicked thought aside. In the grey, rain-veiled distance, beyond the woods, she could just make out the dark spire of Hedgecombe Priory. How ironic that only two days ago, Mr. Wentworth had offered for her hand in marriage.

And now Sir Nicholas wanted her to be his doxy. A Cyprian. A lightskirt.

A whore.

She should be insulted. She should be angry.

She would be mad to even consider such an offer.

Perhaps sensing her turmoil, Sir Nicholas continued in a low tone, “Of course, if you agree, I will provide you with a most generous contract. A London townhouse with servants, your own carriage and horses, a wardrobe of the finest clothes, jewels, an allowance... Even though I will make every effort to prevent conception, generous provisions will be made for any progeny that may result.”

“Yes.” The word tumbled out of Abigail in a breathless, nervous rush.
Oh, dear God.
She bit her lip. Did she really just agree? “I mean... I suppose I could... It’s just that...”

Sir Nicholas’s brow lowered into a deep frown. “You are not sure, Miss Adams. If you need more time to consider... Oh, hell.” He raked a hand through his hair and blew out a sigh. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve never done this before. Propositioned a member of my staff. And I should make it clear that you are not obliged to accept my offer. Despite everything that happened earlier today, your position here as governess is safe. Or if you would prefer it, I will assist you to find another situation. Given everything that has transpired between us, I can understand that you might feel uncomfortable remaining here at Hartfield Hall. The decision is yours.”