The Hidden Heart (8 page)

Of course, Richard thought, he would not hold a father’s misdeed against his child, though many would have. No doubt her life had been very hard after the scandal. He knew the poisonous tongues of society matrons, and he had little doubt that she had been ostracized. To have had her fiancé jilt her would have been an added blow. It was no wonder that she had become hardened and embittered. It was a difficult life for a woman with no means of support. She would have had to depend on the generosity of her relatives, and that could be a cruel existence. The only way a woman could respectably make her living was by becoming a governess, but it would have been a bitter come-down for one who had once moved in high circles. Nor, he imagined, had it been easy for one who looked as she did to get or keep a job. Not many women were willing to introduce a flame-haired beauty into their house.

But even as he felt pity for her stirring in him, he recalled the look of contempt she had visited on him this evening, the scornful way in which she had accused him of rejecting Gabriela. She had as much as said he was a coward! Pity quickly vanished before another spurt of anger.

And so it had gone, his thoughts circling round and round, until, finally, he had fallen into a restless sleep.

Then he dreamed of her.

In the dream, he was walking down a long hallway. He did not recognize the place, but in his dream he knew that it was part of the Castle. A woman stood in front of a tall window at the end of the hallway, light streaming in through the glass. She was tall, silhouetted against the window, and her white dress, with the sun pouring through it, plainly revealed the soft curves of her body. His pace quickened.

She turned as he approached, and as he drew nearer, he saw that it was the girl’s governess. Her red hair tumbled down past her shoulders in a fiery fall. Her blue eyes were lambent, and her face was soft and beckoning in an expression that he had not seen on it before. She smiled, slowly, and he felt it in his gut.

Then, somehow, they were no longer in the hall, but on a bed, and she was beneath him, naked and yielding. Her breast filled his hand, supremely soft, her nipple in hard contrast pushing against his palm. She moved beneath him, her voice a low moan. He knew that she wanted him, and that knowledge spurred his own desire. He was hot and hard, aching for her.

She spread her legs, and he moved between them, groaning as he thrust himself home inside her.

The sound of his own groan awakened him. His eyes flew open and for an instant he stared in confusion at the tester above his bed. His body was damp with sweat, his lungs laboring, and he was stiff with desire and painfully unsatisfied.

Sweet Jesus! What a rude jest—could he actually desire that redheaded witch?

Richard sat up, plunging his fingers back through his hair.
The governess!
He could scarcely believe he had actually dreamed about her—and such a hot, lascivious dream, at that. His veins were pulsing, his loins aching—and all for a woman the very sight of whom raised his ire.

She was irritating, infuriating. He scarcely knew her—he did not even know her given name—but what he did know he disliked. She was overbearing, opinionated, unwomanly. Richard paused. He had to change that thought: she was unwomanly
in manner.
In appearance she was deliciously curved, even in the plain, dark sort of dresses she wore. In appearance she was…
beautiful.

He sighed, flopping back on the bed and staring sightlessly above him. For a moment he gave himself up to thinking of the way she looked—the springing flame-colored curls, the vivid blue eyes, the pale skin as lustrous as satin. He thought of her as she had appeared in the dream, the warmth in her eyes that he had never seen, the softening of her mouth in desire. He remembered the feel of her beneath him, the trembling excitement of touching her….

Cursing, he sat back up.
What the devil was he doing? How could he think of her? Dream of her?

It had been years since he had had that sort of dream about any woman but his wife. From the moment he met Caroline, he had been faithful to her. It had not taken a tremendous effort; quite frankly, he had not wanted any woman but Caroline. And after her death, he had no longer cared about anything or anyone. No woman had stirred him, and the few times he had felt desire, it had been merely an animal instinct, directionless lust, or, sometimes, like now, a dream. But in those dreams, it had been Caroline to whom he made love, and he had awakened, not only sweating, but crying, too.

Guilt twisted through him. He loved only Caroline, desired only Caroline. Even putting aside the bizarre fact that it was the governess who was the subject of his imagination, it shocked him that he had dreamed about another woman. But he knew that if he were honest, he would have to admit that he had had lustful thoughts about Miss Maitland even when he was awake and rational. He knew that others would tell him his wife had been dead for four years, that it was only natural for him to find another woman attractive, even to think of the pleasure of bedding her. Less than a year ago, he remembered, his brother-in-law Devin had pointed out to him that it had been Caroline who had died, not Richard, and that no one expected him to never look at another woman.

But, as he had told Dev at the time, he felt as if he had died, too, that night four years ago. Without his wife and daughter, his life was ashes, and every day held the same empty, lifeless round of activities, worth nothing except to say that he had made it through another day.

How, then, could he now feel desire for another woman? Caroline was the only woman he had loved, could ever love.

The dream had been an aberration, he told himself. It was bizarre and unreal and clearly the opposite of what he really felt. After all, he disliked the woman intensely. The desire, he thought, must have been spawned in some strange way by the intense anger he felt for Miss Maitland. He did not understand it, but that had to be the reason. It was the same sort of thing as the way one laughed sometimes when what one really wanted to do was cry or scream. It had to be. Anything else was impossible.

With a sigh, he lay back down, turning onto his side, and set his mind to thinking of something, anything, besides Miss Maitland. Sleep, he found, was a long time coming.

Richard sat in lonely splendor at the dining table the next evening. He looked down the length of the gleaming mahogany table and thought, not for the first time, how foolish it was to sit here by himself to eat at a table and in a room meant to accommodate a small army of people. A huge silver epergne graced the center of the table, filled with fruit, and silver candelabras, each as ornate as the epergne, were spaced down the length of the table, candles ablaze. Two footmen stood at the ready, should Richard require something not on the table.

It would make more sense, Richard knew, to put a table in one of the small rooms downstairs and eat there, but Baxter, of course, would be horrified at the idea of his not dining formally. There were, after all, certain standards to maintain when one worked for a duke.

Richard began to spoon up his soup. He wondered idly where Miss Maitland took her meals—in the nursery with her charge, he supposed. It must be difficult for her, he thought, living in that odd limbo occupied by governesses, where one was neither a servant nor a member of the family, especially for someone like her, who came from a good family and had even had her season in London. Surely she must miss the life she had once had—doubtless that was one reason she had turned so sour!

He grimaced, wondering why he had allowed her into his thoughts. Up until then, he had been in rather good spirits. When he awoke this morning, he had still felt disgruntled, and he had decided that a good, hard ride would be the only way to rid him of the pent-up anger he felt. So after breakfast, he went to the stables and rode out on his stallion, Poseidon.

He had ridden hard and fast at first, which was exactly as the horse wanted it. The rides he took in London were far too tame for Poseidon, and he often thought, guiltily, that he should sell the animal to someone who would give him longer rides, but he loved the horse and could not bear to give him up. It felt good now to be on him again, to tear down the road or to take a fence. After a few minutes, a certain peace began to settle on Richard, and he slowed the horse to a more sedate pace.

It had been the first time he had ridden over his lands in over four years, and he had begun to look around him with interest, noticing the changes in the farms, where new fences stood and walls had fallen, what houses were there that had not stood there before, where a stream had altered course. The weather was cold, but invigoratingly so, and even though the sky was winter gray with clouds, the land was beautiful and rolling beneath it. It was his home.

He had run into Jem Farwell, one of his tenants, who had insisted on his coming into the house to see his family, then stay with them for lunch. It would have been rude to refuse, so he wound up staying and eating with them, and then chatting with neighbors who had seen him go by. He was warmed by their obvious delight in his return to Castle Cleybourne, and it was nice to sit by the fire in the neat little house and hear about the things that had happened in the past four years—births and deaths and marriages.

By the time he was able to tear himself away, it was late afternoon, and he rode home in a pleasant mood, his former irritations vanished. He wished he had not thought of the governess, for it spoiled the mood. Worse, as if his thoughts had conjured her up, he thought he heard her voice somewhere down the hall.

With a sigh, he set down his spoon and gestured for the soup to be taken away. One footman sprang to take the bowl, and the other followed deftly with the next course, a platter of fish, poached and elegantly dressed by the cook. Just as he laid the platter down on the table in front of Richard, the sound of the front door knocker clanged, muted by distance and walls.

Richard frowned.
Who the devil would come calling at this time of night?
He remembered Miss Maitland’s late arrival the other night, and he sighed again, suspicion seizing him that this, too, was somehow her fault.

He dished up a piece of fish, determined to ignore whatever was going on at the front door, but the sound of voices was impossible to avoid, even though he could not understand what was being said.

Then, ringing out clearly, came the governess’s voice, saying in tones of shock, “Lord Vesey!”

“The devil!” Richard exclaimed, jumping up and throwing his napkin down on the table. He strode out of the room and down to the Great Hall.

Miss Maitland stood at the foot of the stairs, staring at the group gathered in front of the door. There, though Richard would scarcely have credited it, stood Lord and Lady Vesey, handing their cloaks to a hapless footman.

“Bloody hell!” Richard exclaimed, with something less than hospitality, and he shot Jessica a look as though she were responsible for the couple’s presence. “What the devil are you doing here, Vesey?”

Vesey, who was in the process of smoothing down his jacket, turned toward Richard with a thin smile. “Ah, there you are, Cleybourne. Thought this was your place. Got rather lost, you see. Knew you wouldn’t mind putting us up for the night.”

Richard stared, bereft of speech. Beside her husband, Leona smiled in a warm, intimate way. “Hello, Richard.”

Richard turned to look at Jessica, who was standing still and white on the stairs, looking at the Veseys as if she had seen a ghost. She turned to him, her eyes wide, and for once she had nothing to say.

“Oh, the devil,” Richard said ungraciously. “Well, come in, then. I was just sitting down to supper.”

“Ah, just the thing,” Vesey said with a smile, starting forward. “I’m famished.”

It occurred to Richard then that he was going to be stuck eating his meal with Lord and Lady Vesey, and, surprising even himself, he turned back to the stairs.

“Why don’t you join us, Miss Maitland?” he said smoothly, and his smile told Jessica that he knew how little she would like the prospect of doing that.

Jessica frowned. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

As she spoke, Lady Vesey said, “The governess? Really, Richard, how droll. You can’t be serious.”

Richard looked at Leona without expression. “I am.”

Leona’s words were enough to propel Jessica forward despite her previous disclaimer. “Thank you, Your Grace, I should love to join you.”

Leona shot her a look of active dislike, and her gaze swept down Jessica’s plain dark dress significantly. “You do not dress for dinner?”

“We are very informal here in the country,” Richard put in.

“Fortunate, isn’t it, Lady Vesey?” Jessica said in a bright voice. “For I am sure you must be rather travel stained.”

“Yes,” Leona said absently, then turned a brilliant smile upon Richard, sweeping forward, hand extended, forcing Richard to offer her his arm to escort her to the dining room. “Richard…it has been ages since I’ve seen you. You’re looking very well.”

Richard gave her a perfunctory smile. “And you, Lady Vesey, but, of course, that goes without saying.”

“Ah, but I like it so much better when you say it.” Leona smiled, giving Richard an arch look.

“I am surprised to see you away from London,” Richard commented as they walked into the dining room, where Baxter, ever efficient, had set the footmen to laying several more place settings. “It is hard to imagine you in the country.”