What can a scandalous seducer of women teach a governess about life and love?
The
dark-eyed, raven-haired governess haunts Mr. Isaac Pierce’s waking and
sleeping dreams. And she’s right next door. But the prim and proper
young woman rebuffed his attempts to make her his mistress. He has tried
to forget her. Yet he can’t. He aches to possess her.
One
glance at the tall, gorgeous merchant prince and Miss Abigail Francis
finds herself irresistibly attracted to him. The ironclad control over
her emotions and expectations had seen her through years filled with
deprivation, disappointments and loss, begins to slip away.
A
domestic crisis brings them into close, daily contact and she begins to
see the man behind the handsome face, gorgeous body and scandalous
reputation. When he shares the truth of his greatest loss and grief with
her, for the first time, her heart is touched by a man. Now she knows
what it is to crave a man as much as she craves air to breathe. But
she’d best be careful. Her livelihood and that of those she loves depend
on her stern discipline and spotless reputation.
After
a life directed by prudence, responsibility and duty, Abigail finds
herself questioning her life choices. She is tempted to be indiscreet.
Just once. And no one would ever know or be hurt.
But
Abigail doesn’t realize that the repercussions of her newfound freedoms
might just prove dangerous in a way she least suspects. Who protects
the protector?
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Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2020
Cover Art Copyright The Killion Corporation 2019
Chapter One
New York, New York
Autumn 1811
“Mr. Sexton says he will make me a supercargo in training for one of
his most premiere ships. I hope that I can manage to live up to
everyone’s expectations, especially yours, Abigail.”
Pausing in the act of eating the pear he had brought her, Miss
Abigail Francis smiled up at her sibling.
“Of course, you will. I have
every faith in your ability.”
Looking down at her from where he stood beside the stone bench in the
back garden of her employer’s house, Andrew did not return her smile
but nodded slowly. “This is such an extraordinary opportunity for
someone like me. I am going to travel the world and I will be able to
learn so much. Can you believe it?”
Her smile broadened. “Yes, I can. I have always known that you were meant for greatness. You will be a gentleman of importance.”
“Maybe I will become the gentleman you think I can be.” His brows
drew together. “First, I have to learn all that I can and prove myself
all over again. This is a different world than I’ve known. These ship
captains are dynamic men; they can be so forceful, so bold in the way
they face the most harrowing of dangers. They have accepted me, for now,
but I know a continuance of that acceptance is contingent on me proving
myself worthy of such regard. I cannot, ever, disappoint them.”
Abigail’s heart panged for his anxiety. She knew what it was like to
want to excel, to please others and yet to feel afraid of failing. She
thought hard about how best to buoy him. “Our mistakes can be our
greatest teachers. You will find your way and make your own place in
that world. I know it seems foreign to you now but, someday, it is will
be as natural to you as your academic life has been. You’re brave and
you have a good heart and you’re honest. Those things will make other
men respect you.”
His expression eased and he nodded. “You can always put things into their proper perspective for me, dearest sister.”
With his blue eyes and blond hair touched by a hint of red, he looked
so much like their loving but ever restless mother, except that he was
tall and exceedingly slender, whereas Mama had been petite and plump.
Though he bore the same surname as Abigail, he was not her papa’s child
but rather the result of a short-lived, illicit passion that Mama had
indulged in on the wagon trip back from Ohio after Papa had died.
Abigail had come to understand that Mama’s actions had been driven by
her acute grief. Yet, Mama’s mistake, coming so closely to Papa’s death
and leaving their Ohio homestead and everyone they knew there, had put
into motion a devastating path to poverty for them all. That reckless,
dreadful misstep had cost all of them so greatly.
The course of Abigail’s life had changed. Forever.
Yet, basking in the September morning’s sunlight whilst chewing the
sweet, slightly tart pear and gazing up at her brother, she knew a sense
of relief—the sense that a long nightmare is coming to an end.
“Abigail, I cannot even put into words the gratitude I feel towards
Mr. Sexton for giving me this chance.”
His voice was tremulous, and his
expression had grown serious again.
In that moment, he was so much a boy, despite his impressive height
and straight, broad shoulders. She wanted to protect him against all
hurts and dangers, yet she knew to show this would hurt his pride. She
forced her smile to become bigger, brighter. “Yes, Mr. Sexton has been
very generous to us.”
How strange that Abigail’s own most foolish mistake, eleven years
before, would have, in the end, resulted in such a blessing from Sexton,
her kindly benefactor.
He frowned. “I hope that I have adequately expressed my gratitude and
yet not made a bore of myself in doing so, either. The world of
gentlemen is so complex. I have not quite mastered the nuance of it all
yet.”
“Yes, but sincere brevity can be the best thing sometimes. Gentlemen
like Mr. Sexton do not hire young men out of pure charity.” She touched
the dark blue sleeve of his coat. “Never forget that you have worked
hard for this. You are intelligent and talented. You are meant for great
things.”
He flushed and looked down then bent to brush some dust off his
highly polished Hessian boots. Those boots were a luxury she had
scrimped and saved to buy for his twentieth birthday just a month past.
She enjoyed seeing him wear them. He had worked so hard in his studies.
He deserved fine things.
“You always believe in me, even when I don’t believe in myself,” he
said, then after a pause, he added. “Have you heard from Benjamin?”
Benjamin Martin. The child of their mother’s second, ill-considered
marriage. Another in a long series of rash, terrible choices made just
in the nick of time to give the boy a name by a woman who was never able
to hold back her exuberant enjoyment of life. Mrs. Euphemia Francis
Martin had been quite a woman. Beautiful, vivacious, charming and
musically talented. In another life, one with more personal discipline
built into her, she might have graced the stage. Life always seemed
brighter, bolder and more interesting when she was in an expansive mood.
Unfortunately, after any party, someone always had to clean the plates and put the house in order.
Abigail was determined to live her own life more thoughtfully. She
would not make the kinds of mistakes that her loved ones would spend
years paying for. She would make the kinds of choices that paid
dividends to those she loved. Her two brothers were all she had in the
world to love. Duty and respectable, responsible choices, what better
way was there to show love?
“Benjamin is doing fine, thriving now at his school. He has made many
fine friends. I think he finds making friends and being charming to
everyone easier than you or I have. He is happy now, I think.”
“Yes, but have his marks come up.”
“His marks are passing.”
“Passing? Is that good enough?”
“He is not the scholar you were but as long as he has passing marks, then I am satisfied.”
“You are coddling him because you still see him as our baby brother.”
“I am loving him as he is.” She cocked her head. “I am more concerned
that he learns personal discipline and how to work towards a goal. Not
everyone can be first in class.”
“Should I go and see him? Should I try to advise him on the importance of his studies?”
“No, please, his teachers report that he works very hard and he
becomes more self-disciplined every day. But book learning comes more
slowly to him. We mustn’t shame him for it. We must be pleased with his
progress and love and accept him as he is. So long as he tries his best
and lives a moral life, we must be proud of the man he grows into.”
“But he is my brother. I don’t wish to see him squander his chances and end up like his father, tied to a life of menial labor.”
She knew what lay unspoken. He did not wish Benjamin to end up a useless, shiftless sot like their stepfather.
He twisted his mouth. “But you, I know that you still think he is destined for something wonderful.”
“Of course, he is.”
“Ever the optimist, eh?”
“He has our mama’s natural charm. It will serve him well. He will
make valuable friendships at school. He says he wishes to be an officer
in the dragoons,” she said.
“He’s young, he may change his mind,” Andrew said, grimly.
She held her tongue. Andrew had been poised to join the cavalry when
her benefactor, Mr. Grey Sexton, had taken an interest in his
exceptional academic record and had given him a
conditional
internship as a clerk. Conditional because the Francis family had no one
and nothing to vouch for them.
They were an untested commodity.
Untested, however, might be a good position to be in. They would
prove themselves. They could only excel and rise from here. The future
looked most promising indeed.
“It was wonderful to see you today, Andrew,” she said.
“When Mr. Sexton heard it was your birthday, he insisted that I
accompany him here. But he says I will have to stay two hours later
today to make up for the lost time at my work.” Andrew gestured to the
basket of pears sitting at her feet. “My present isn’t anywhere near as
grand as yours to me on my birthday.”
“The pears are an unexpected treat. I will enjoy it mightily, believe me.”
“When I have more income, I promise to make things up to you,” he said, looking a bit sad.
“There’s nothing to make up for. I will get my reward by watching your progress.” She smiled up at him.
“I hope I live up to your image of me, Abigail.” With that, he leaned
down, his golden-red forelock falling over his boyish face, and he
kissed her cheek.
She pressed his cheek. “Take excellent care of yourself. Read
inspirational books. Think encouraging thoughts. Speak ill of no one.
Eat well and get plenty of sleep.” She let her hand fall. “You had best
find Mr. Sexton.”
She watched him walk to the house, climb the stone steps and enter
the backdoor. Poor Andrew, as Mr. Sexton’s guest now, he was unsure
which entrance to use, the ones for family and guests or the one he used
to use when visiting her, the servants’ door. Soon, he would leave on a
ship as supercargo and she might not see him for two or three years.
And from every indication, war was brewing with Britain. Ocean travel might well be dangerous.
She breathed, deep and slow, against the sudden weight on her chest.
She’d been responsible for his well-being and upbringing since she was
eighteen. Eleven long years. How would she bear letting him go? His
going to Latin school and then university had been hard enough. But she
had always known that she could visit him. This would be quite
different. She took another bite of pear then laid her head back against
the bench and closed her eyes, and focused on her thoughts, not on her
emotions.
Indulging in emotions never helped any situation. Ever.
On the frontier, she had run free and been an emotional, sentimental
girl. But as she had grown, she learned hard lessons from Mama’s
emotional indulgences, and she had schooled herself to rely on rational
thought and circumspect behavior. It had served her well. Now as a
confirmed spinster, she enjoyed the respectability that came from her
position as a proven governess. She worked for a fine family, lived in a
rather spacious and comfortably apportioned chamber in a grand house on
a fashionable street.
She was pleased with her lot in life.
What more could any woman hope for?
She opened her eyes and let the pear core fall from her hand. Her
coffee cup sat on the wrought iron table by the bench. She picked it up
and took a deep sip and let her mind go empty.
“You’re a paragon of a sister.”
The masculine voice was as smooth as the heavily creamed and
sweetened coffee that slid down her throat, and just as rich and bold.
Nevertheless, it also sent a jarring tension through her. She awoke
every morning, two hours early, precisely so that she might sit in the
garden and eat a light repast, alone, where she might collect her
thoughts. Andrew’s interruption of that quiet time had been most welcome
though.
This man’s cheekiness was not.
“Those wonderful, inspirational things you said to your brother.” She
could hear the humor in the man’s voice. “If just once my mother or any
other female of my family had spoken to me like that, I should have
definitely been a better man.”
Irritation bristled down her back. She counted on the ritual to begin
the day properly. It helped her to compose herself in a manner that
allowed her to face each day with serene composure, even through the
worst of days.
Now that kind of preparation would be impossible for today. And just
how long had he been standing there, eavesdropping, whilst she and
Andrew had been talking? Had he been hiding himself behind the fence? Of
course, it must be one of the never-ending parade of workmen and
tradesmen who traipsed in and out of the empty grand mansion next door.
She laid the cup back in the saucer and twisted around on the bench to
look over her shoulder and face whoever had just ruined her day.
Green. It had always been her favorite color. The man’s eyes were an
impossible shade of emerald. Vivid and clear. No one had eyes that
color. It must be a trick of the light. She squinted and tried to
refocus.
No, they were still just as richly green.
An elegantly angular jaw and square chin. A mouth that was
well-formed, firm yet slightly fuller than most men. What must a mouth
like that feel like, pressed to one’s own?
She sucked in her breath, as the meaning of her thoughts dawned on
her. She did not think of men in such terms. She did not long for or
imagine their kisses. Long ago, she had put all thoughts of courtship
and marriage from her mind and any other contact with a man was
unthinkable.
Her next awareness was a wave of anger. A good portion at herself for
such a wanton lapse in self-control. But also at him, for inspiring
such a breach of self-control.
She tore her gaze away from his face, turned away and leapt to her feet, intending to leave. Really, she ought to run.
“Don’t leave.”
Against her will, she found herself turning back to him and taking a
few steps towards the fence, trancelike, as though pulled by some force
outside herself.
She only now realized that to look over the high fence like that, he
must be standing upon a stone bench or something of the like. His hands
were curled on the top of the stone fence, on the rail in between two of
the wrought iron spikes that were implanted into the top ledge of
stones. Large bare hands tanned with long elegant fingers and strong
knuckles. With an inward shake, she looked up and noticed how well his
bottle green suit clung to his broad shoulders, yet the material
appeared a bit frayed.
A craftsman.
A very impudent one.
Despite herself, she found her gaze sweeping over him once more.
Dear heavens, an exceptionally beautiful craftsman.
Heat washed over her. Which was nonsense. It wasn’t warm out. The
sun had just begun its rise on the horizon. The sun which made his dark
hair glow with brilliant red highlights. Everything about him was
dramatic, beautiful. Part of her wanted to keep looking at him. To never
stop.
His dark eyebrows rose, and he regarded her speculatively. “Miss Francis, I presume?”
Humor tinged his voice and she felt the blush rushing over her cheeks.
“You have the advantage of me.” Despite her attempts to sound cool,
her voice wavered. Inwardly, she cringed at her awkwardness. She was
accustomed to gentlemen treating her with the compassionate regard due
her situation as a confirmed spinster. This compassionate respect
provided a protection that made contact with males much less anxiety
provoking. And she’d come to depend on having such a buffer. But she
felt totally unprepared to deal with this man, who was obviously no
gentleman.
“Isaac Pierce at your service, Miss Francis.”
Mercy.
Her employer, Mr. de Grijs’ new neighbor. She had not been expecting
him for at least another fortnight.
A crushing sensation centered in her
chest, just off to the left a bit. Oh, she had thought he was a little
closer to her own station. A master carpenter or some other sort of
craftsman. But no, he was leagues above her station.
And her background wasn’t even equal to her position.
He was the man in the moon to her.
He continued to regard her with that humorous light in those vividly
emerald eyes. This man was laughing at her? Why? She knew her clothes,
generously provided to her by, Mrs. de Grijs, were perfectly respectable
and revealed little of her feminine form. Though her hat was small and
did not completely cover her hair, she knew her tresses were, as always,
neatly coiled and smoothed with pomade to keep the riotous curls under
control.
“I need to begin my day.” It was all she could think of to say. And it was utterly senseless.
He chuckled softly. Or maybe he hadn’t laughed aloud at all. Perhaps
it had just been an increase in the humorous light in his eyes.
Beautiful eyes.
If only she were making such an impact upon him then she wouldn’t feel so… lost.
“You must forgive me, Miss Francis. The spectacles…”
She touched the wire frames. She had been reading this morning,
before Andrew had arrived, and she had forgotten she’d even worn them.
But to remove them would be a gesture of vanity. It would make her look
vulnerable, at least far more vulnerable than she already did.
“Of course, I knew you were the governess. Any other young woman
would never allow herself to be seen outside of her private chambers
wearing them.”
Abigail’s shoulders seemed to draw inwards of their own volition.
Yes, she dressed her hair and her person severely, in a way designed to
minimize her feminine traits. Some men took affront to such a style and
some found it amusing. But what did she care what this gentleman thought
of her? She was the governess and had no wish to be or to look like
anything else.
But, impossibly, she found that she
did care, very much in
fact and her stomach sank with the dreadful sensation of being made
sport of by this gentleman of all people.
“The other night, you came out here and your hair was loose and flowing in the breeze.”
Oh God. He had seen her that night? Miss Cathy’s little pug had gone
missing. She and the girl had been searching, frantically. It had been
two in the morning and she had thought no one would be awake to see. How
thoughtless of her. She gaped at him. How could she possibly reply to
such blunt talk?
“You have such lovely hair. The moon was so bright, and your
nightdress glowed bright white against your flowing hair, as dark as a
raven’s wing.”
No man had ever spoken such nonsense to her. Not to mention the poor excuse for poetry.
“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Pierce, I must return to my books and
chalkboards,” she said, somehow interjecting just the right amount of
respect for his position, tempered by the proper amount of chilliness to
convey how much she did not care about his opinion.
“I meant no disrespect.” He spoke quickly, his tone apologetic. But
it was the sudden sincerity in his expression that made her pause. His
gaze warmed. “It is just that you are so beautiful.”
She forgot to breathe. Who could think of something unimportant as
breathing whilst being caressed by the warmth in those gloriously green
eyes?
Had she ever been told that she was beautiful by a man?
Only once before. And it had been told to her in dry, practical
terms, like bitter medicine she must take to survive. And she had
survived. Until now. This moment.
“So unexpectedly beautiful,” he said.
She released her breath. But that was as much as her wits could manage at the moment.
“But you aren’t seeing me at my best.” He stepped back, then brushed
some dust off his coat front. “I wanted to come here and inspect the
beams whilst they have the wall boards off.”
Your dusty clothes made me think you were attainable. She
wanted to accuse him.
But the words remained burning on her tongue.
Attainable for what? At twenty-nine , she was past the age to expect
marriage. It didn’t matter. She had accepted her fate and built a life
for herself that did not depend on approval from a man. Even such a
handsome gentleman.
Mr. Pierce looked up at something over her shoulder, the skin over
his chiseled cheekbones drawing tight. Abigail turned and saw a tall,
rugged-faced gentleman on the terrace. She had not heard the doors open.
Oh, of all the people to catch her standing there, ogling a man!
Mr. Grey Sexton, Abigail’s benefactor. When she had possessed next to
nothing in this world but ambition and a sense of duty and had been in a
position of shame, Mr. Sexton rescued her. He had given her the loan
she so desperately needed to fund her two half-brothers’ education and
then he found her employment. And he had found her this current
high-paying job with his cousin, Mr. de Grijs, so that she could work
for her keep and to pay for the loans. She could never have attained a
position like this on her own. She took a deep breath.
She turned and hurried to meet him near the foot of the marble terrace steps.
“Good morning, Miss Francis.”
Despite that he regarded her with his characteristic calm yet stern expression, she still felt censured.
“Good morning, Mr. Sexton,” she replied.
An odd heaviness lay on the air. Neither man addressed the other.
“I was supposed to take some parcels with me to Boston for Mrs. de Grijs,” Mr. Sexton said.
“The European gowns for her sister?” she asked.
“Yes. I thought you might know where she’d left them.”
“She sent them out to have the hems let down.”
“I leave this morning.”
“She expected them to be back from the shop last evening, but they never arrived.”
“I see.” He inclined his head towards next door. “Getting acquainted with your new neighbor?”
“Yes. I-I…”
“He’s a scoundrel.” Mr. Sexton’s bluntness at times bordered on curt.
The words landed on her like a splash of ice water.
“Oh, dear,” was all she could manage. She sounded nothing like herself, her voice high-pitched and girlish.
His look became more penetrating and she jerked her gaze down to study the hem of her dress.
“Do you remember what I told you?” Mr. Sexton asked.
He had been the first person, aside from Mama, to tell her in
matter-of-fact terms that she was beautiful and that she should take
care around men. Especially gentlemen. Most gentlemen would promise the
moon and deliver little to a woman of her social standing. Heat suffused
her face and she couldn’t look at him. But she nodded.
“Well, he’s one to watch,” he said.
She couldn’t have raised her gaze to save her life. Shame burnt
through her that this man had witnessed this ultimate loss of control on
her part. She had long admired his cool, rational nature. His supreme
self-control. Aside from their first meeting, on that shameful night,
they normally spoke only of practical matters. Being so personal with
her benefactor made her so uneasy, she wished that she could disappear
into thin air. But she forced such feelings away and nodded, again, more
firmly. “Yes, I certainly will be on my watch.”
“Good.”
She watched him walk up the steps to the balcony, forcing herself not
to turn back to Mr. Pierce. Shortly, she heard the balcony door close.
“He told you I was a villain, didn’t he?”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She slapped a hand to her collarbone
then jerked her head towards where Mr. Pierce remained standing on his
side of the fence. “Scoundrel was the word he used.”
His eyes were still as green as emeralds.
He was still just as handsome. Had she expected a change now that Mr.
Sexton had declared him a scoundrel? Well, no of course not. But it was
hard to believe anyone could be that gorgeous. It wasn’t human.
It wasn’t fair.
She should return to the house. Yet she found herself walking back to
the fence. She lifted her chin, to show him her resolve. “If Mr. Sexton
says you are a scoundrel, he must have cause. He is the most honest,
honorable man that I know.”
Please tell me why I shouldn’t believe Mr. Sexton.
Her unspoken words resounded on each fierce beat of her heart as she
stood there, transfixed by the way his gaze warmly caressed her.
“Things are not always as they might seem, Miss Francis.”
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