Pleasing the Colonel (11 page)

“Colonel,” she squeaked, composing her face. “Are you hungry?”

“No. I came looking for you.” He studied her tight expression, walking toward her slowly, his mind running over what he could remember. She set down her tea cup and stood up.

He took her gently by the shoulders and peered into her face. “I think I just had a dream. Except I'm not sure if it was a dream.”

She flushed and blinked rapidly.

“It wasn't, was it?”

She swallowed. “Sir?” She was going to pretend that she didn't know what he was talking about.

“I'm sorry—I was confused.”

“Yes,” she said. “You called me Gracie. The opium confused you, that's all,” she said reassuringly.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I thought you were Gracie, although how I made such a mistake… I wouldn't have to wrestle Gracie in our own bed…” He shook his head to clear it.
What had he done to her?

“It was the laudanum. It's all right.”

“What did I do…?” he moistened his lips that were cracked from the fever. “What did I do, exactly?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, Colonel. You were just confused,” she said a little too firmly.

That was a lie, he could tell. “I think I did something horrible to you.”

She looked distinctly uncomfortable. “It wasn't
that
horrible,” she mumbled.

“What was it?”

“Nothing. I told you—nothing.”

He brushed a wisp of hair away from her face. The poor girl. He'd put her in such an awkward position. Of course she wouldn't want to talk to him about it. “You promised not to lie to me again,” he said softly, tenderly.

Tears glittered in her eyes. She looked away from him. “I do not wish to lie. It's just that I couldn't possibly say it.”

He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief, but found it empty, so he used his thumb instead to brush away a tear.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Please let me go, sir,” she said, taking a step back and looking around as if someone else might come in.

“Come,” he said, putting a hand behind her back and propelling her out of the room. He led her to his study. She balked a little at the doorway. “Shh, you're safe with me,” he murmured coaxingly.

He closed the door behind them and led her to the massive desk. When they reached it, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her up to sit on its surface. “I believe I put my fingers between your legs. Is that true?” he said.

She bit her lip and looked away, her neck and ears turning pink.

“I am so terribly sorry, Miss Downy. I have embarrassed myself, and humiliated you, and you do not deserve any of this. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, as if trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible so she could escape.

“Is that all I did?”

When she didn't answer, he said, “Let me ask it this way… are you still a maid?”

“Colonel,
please
,” she begged.

He lifted her chin. “Yes or no?”

She pulled herself away from him. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” He couldn't tell if she was lying, because she looked so uncomfortable. “I mean…did I put anything else between your legs? Other than fingers?” He peered intently at her, hoping to read some answer on her face.

“Colonel!”

“Forgive me, it's just that… it's hard for me to tell whether you're lying or just embarrassed.”

“Let me go, Colonel,” she said forcefully and slid her bottom off the desk, brushing past him toward the door.

His heart was beating in an irregular rhythm. Had he bedded his governess? He would marry her if he had—it was the only decent thing to do. But he needed to find out for certain what had happened. And if he hadn't—he had still violated her. He must find some way to make it up to her.

* * *

They avoided each other for the next two days, until the household had recovered from the illness and things returned to normal. By then, he'd thought of a way he might atone for his incredible gaffe.

“Miss Downy,” he said at breakfast that day. “You did an admirable job nursing the entire household through its sickness. I think you deserve a holiday.”

She stared at him with surprise.

“Would you like to visit your mother?”

“Well, yes! I would love to… but can you spare me?”

“Well of course the children will miss you, but I think we can manage,” he said, forcing a smile. “It will be fully paid, of course, and you'll travel in my carriage.” He still had not ascertained whether something more had happened between them, but his guilt over what he had done was overwhelming. A visit to her mother was the best thing he could dream up to offer her.

The look of happiness on her face was a gift. “Thank you, Colonel!”

“You're welcome, you deserve it. Go and pack your things—you can leave as soon as you're ready.”

When she returned with her packed bag, he handed her up into the carriage himself. “Thank you, Colonel,” she said.

He caught her gloved hand and looked at her intently. He was half afraid she would never return. “I'll send the carriage for you in one week's time.”

“I will be ready for it,” she said.

He nodded and waved as the carriage left. He hoped that was true.

But a new anxiety came four days later when he received a letter from a lawyer in London. He opened it and read, his skin turning to ice as he skimmed over the words. It was a reference check for Miss Amanda Downy, his governess—it seemed she had applied for another position. He balled up the letter and threw it across the room, feeling a rush of possessive anger. She wanted to leave. She was leaving.

Was it because of what he had done to her? Had he ruined her and she hadn't confessed? Was she too humiliated to face him again? He stood up and paced his study, his hands curling into angry fists. How could he have violated her like that? He was so terribly ashamed of himself. He would have to offer for her—that was the only solution. He knew she had no interest in marrying a man like him, but if he had compromised her innocence, he must take responsibility.

He considered getting in his carriage that instant to visit her at her relatives’, but he didn't want to cause her more embarrassment. No, he would wait. If she refused to return when he sent the carriage for her on Saturday, he would go for her then.

* * *

“Miss Downy!” The Colonel came out to meet the carriage when it arrived back at the manor, which surprised her. “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” She took the hand he offered to climb down and flashed him a grateful smile. While she was away, she had resolved to pretend as though nothing had happened between them, steeling herself against all the embarrassment she might otherwise show. Unless she missed her guess, the Colonel had not done the same. He seemed somewhat agitated, though his familiar wooden mask was still in place.

“You missed all the fun, Miss Downy!” Miss Watson exclaimed when she entered the manor. “We have new neighbors in the area—the Livingstons. Miss Livingston and her sister Miss Jane Livingston have been by to call and they invited us over to dine with them while you were away. Mr. Livingston is their brother, and his friend Mr. Bates is quite charming,” she said with a sly smile.

Mandy remembered that smile from their days in London—it meant Miss Watson had a love interest. Unlike when they were in London, this time Mandy felt interested—she was growing to really like Miss Watson and wanted her to be happy.

“Charles promised we could have a dance here when you returned, didn't you, Charles?”

The Colonel was hovering in the doorway. He nodded briefly. Her heart gave a little skip to hear that he had wanted to wait for her return. “So when will it be?”

“How about tomorrow night? Charles?” she asked, turning to her brother.

“Yes, that should be all right,” the Colonel said distractedly before he turned and left them to their feminine discourse on who to invite and how to best arrange the furniture for the ball. Mandy was just as excited as Miss Watson for the dance. They spent hours discussing the menu and refreshments and asking the servants to rearrange the furniture in different configurations.

When the following night arrived, she wore her best dress—a green silk and taffeta affair with a plunging neckline. She wished she had some beautiful necklace to show off, but her silver locket would have to do. She pinned most of her hair back, allowing only a small portion in the back to tumble free.

The Livingston party had been invited to dine with them before the dance and when they arrived, Mandy was introduced to Mr. Livingston, the two Miss Livingstons, and Mr. Bates, their family friend.

“I hope you don't mind, my private secretary has just arrived from London, and I've brought him along as well,” Mr. Livingston said, and Mandy caught her breath in dismay. Mr. Bartlby.

Bartlby looked smugly delighted—he must have known he would see her here tonight. “Yes, we are previously acquainted,” he said, shaking the Colonel's hand.

“Indeed,” was all the Colonel said.

Bartlby was introduced to Miss Watson and then he turned to Mandy with an excessive bow. “Miss Downy,” he said theatrically. “How lovely to see you again.”

The feeling was not mutual. She curtsied, murmured her pleasantries, and retrieved her hand as quickly as she could, darting a glance at the Colonel, who was watching with his most wooden look. She knew it really wasn't Bartlby's fault that she never wanted to see him again. The problem was that he reminded her of her own bad behavior the night of the accident.

When the dinner was announced, Miss Watson was the perfect hostess, calling the women by rank to precede her into the dining room. She adopted the new mode of seating arrangements, seating gentlemen and ladies alternately around the dining table so that the Miss Livingstons were seated to either side of the Colonel at the head of the table, and Miss Watson sat at the opposite end with Mr. Livingston and Mr. Bates to either side of her. Being of the lowest rank, Mandy was seated in the middle, between Mr. Bates and Miss Jane Livingston and across from Bartlby.

“So, how long will you be in the country, Mr. Bartlby?” she asked politely.

“Only a fortnight, I imagine. Then I shall return to take care of Mr. Livingston's business in London,” he said self-importantly.

She murmured the appropriate sounds to that information.

“We hear you are teaching the children perfect French,” Miss Jane Livingston ventured.

She smiled at the lady. “My mother was French, so it's not because I've studied well—I learned it from the cradle,” she said humbly.

“Indeed, your mother was an aristo, was she not?” Bartlby asked, looking pleased with himself for knowing.

Mandy flushed. She wished he did not know so much about her and that he would keep his mouth shut about the information he had.

“Oh really?” Miss Jane Livingston said with interest, and the remainder of the meal she answered questions from the lady about her mother's escape from France during the revolution.

After the meal they retired to the drawing room, which had been arranged for dancing. Miss Watson had invited all the neighboring society to fill out the crowd, though the Livingston party and their party were really the only young people of marrying age. It was too small of a ball to use dance cards, so the gentlemen simply approached the ladies and asked them to dance.

“Miss Downy, would you do me the honor of the first dance?” Bartlby inquired, as she'd known he would.

She smiled wanly. “Of course,” she said. He led her to the floor and they began to dance. She managed to make inane conversation with him as she watched the other couples dancing by. The Colonel was dancing with the elder Miss Livingston and Miss Watson was gazing with rapture at Mr. Bates, her dance partner.

The Colonel asked Mandy to dance next. He had chosen a waltz, which was a favorite of hers, but required them to be quite a bit closer to each other than other dances. He was an excellent lead, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, his steps sure and clear. Despite the residual awkwardness between them, she enjoyed the feeling of him holding her close and controlling her so easily.

She prayed he would not mention Bartlby or the incident again, but he looked as though he had something distinctly on his mind. “Miss Downy?”

“Yes, sir?”

He said nothing for a moment, as if he was thinking of how to phrase his words. “Have you applied for another position?”

Oh.
She tripped, missing her dance step, and he had to catch and guide her back into the dance. She bit her lip and looked at him guiltily. How had he discovered? They must have contacted him for a reference. Was he angry? “Sir, I just—” she took a breath and exhaled. “I just wanted to have a back-up plan in place in case I did not pass my probationary period.”

His expression slowly cleared, and she felt him relax a bit. “I see. Yes, of course, the probation. That was prudent of you.”

She was relieved that he wasn't angry. “I'm sorry—perhaps I should have informed you that I was doing so?”

He shook his head and then shrugged. “Perhaps, but it's all right. Have you received any offers?”

She shook her head warily. “No, sir.”

“So you do not plan on leaving?”

She shook her head.

“You may consider your probationary period over, Miss Downy,” he said firmly, as if he were giving her bad news rather than good.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, venturing a look at him. For once his eyes were not boring through her. Instead, they skipped around the room, as if he were purposely avoiding her eye. In fact they did not settle on her face much at all for the remainder of the dance.

* * *

He certainly had not wished to marry Miss Downy.

And yet he felt a peculiar disappointment knowing that he now did not have to offer for her. She had returned, she had not sought a new position because she could not face him, and she was pretending as if nothing had happened, all of which should have pleased him. Except that he felt strangely empty now. As if the idea of her merely being his governess was no longer enough. But that was ridiculous. Wasn't it?