Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner
was normal. Even his sisters rarely visited his town house and he’d invited no other woman inside, ever. The servants were mostly hidden in their duties. Sylvester sometimes visited, but was never invited. One allowed for Sylvester.
The room was no different. He was no different. And the woman in his home had no ties on him other than the fact that they had married. An arrangement that would suit them both for their futures. The vows were just words. But very loud ones, he admitted. Ones still ringing deep within.
William had escaped the need for courtship. He was as pleased with his wife as if he had chosen her from a fashion-plate magazine. The house was certainly big enough for the two of them, though he wasn’t certain how he would have felt if he’d walked into the bedchamber and she’d been inside.
Well, he smiled, shutting his eyes briefly. He wouldn’t have minded in one regard. His shoulders relaxed.
He examined the room. The bed. The walls. Everything was the same. Except the folded paper on the nightstand. He moved to it, picking up a note.
He stared at the words decorated with swirls and loops. She’d asked for his presence in her bedchamber.
Well, if one were to lose one’s privacy, then it could have a pleasant side.
A night of little sleep with all the events around him—well, two nights of little sleep had disconcerted him. He must not let his imagination take him down some path that only he saw.
If she asked him of his whereabouts in the night, he would tell her. He would reassure her that he would bring no disgrace on her.
He strode the hallway to her bedchamber just as a maid exited the door and his eyes flickered to the servant. She scurried away, but his hand went out, stopping the door before it closed.
Isabel hummed beyond the door, unaware of his presence. The sound flashed into him like a gunshot wrapped in velvet. He could not move. Her voice, even without words, controlled his heartbeats and whispered endearments.
His fingers tightened on the wood and he listened, his body swathed in the sense of song and Isabel.
Oh, he had not planned for this.
The humming stopped suddenly and he blinked, deserted.
He stepped inside. Isabel stood in front of the window. Light haloed her copper hair and emphasised the contours of her clothing.
One blink of the lashes over azure and his words fell to their knees. ‘Good morning.’ He could think of nothing else.
Her smile knotted around him and he had to shake himself internally to step back into his realm.
‘I have a plan.’ She moved as if a wind had lifted her an inch taller. ‘A plan you will like so much.’
Yes. He stopped the word from falling from his lips. He needed to hear her voice. He waited.
‘I will change my name.’ She clasped her hands to her chest. ‘You can tell everyone I am away visiting my family and then, after time has passed—’ She shivered with excitement. Her eyes shone. ‘You can tell everyone I am dead.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘You cannot marry again, but...’ she shrugged one shoulder ‘...you do not want a wife.’ Then her face brightened. ‘I will tell only my family and my dearest friends I am still alive.’
Dead. Dead? The word flamed inside him, dried his mouth, slapped him back into the world he’d left behind. He didn’t know if he’d spoken or not. And her face, it didn’t shudder in fear at the words passing through her fragile lips, nor did she gasp at the finality of what she said.
‘Yes. I will change my name, alter my hair, use face powder, perhaps spectacles and I will find a reputable place away—far away.’
She might have said more. He could not comprehend. His legs tightened. He turned himself into a wall of stone. ‘No.’
‘Why is that not a grand plan?’ Eyes clear and innocent fluttered at him.
He took everything he felt from his words and his body, and made himself an empty slate. ‘I need an heir.’
She put a hand on her hip and pointed out the window. ‘Tell your cousin to get married. It shouldn’t all fall on your shoulders.’
‘It doesn’t work that way and you know it.’
‘I was not born to be a governess. But I don’t think I was born to be a wife either.’ She indicated the inkstand. ‘I was just writing to my friend Joanna and I didn’t know what to tell her, so I told her almost nothing but that I was married and would write more later. That is when I realised how confused I was with the events raining about like a tempest. We don’t know each other and yet we are married.’
‘I know you well enough. You are a good wife—these past few hours. I see no reason for that to change.’
She cleared her throat, which if he was not mistaken was a feminine growl. The sound pulled him back into the light.
‘It’s not working out too well,’ she said.
‘I thought you might want to stay in London, if for no other reason than to sing again.’
She shuddered. ‘I do have a good voice, but singing doesn’t appeal any more. I cannot bear the thought of it.’
She stepped back into the light, rubbing under her chin. ‘Some moments I can still feel the knife. Mr Wren had watched me from the audience and I had not suspected it anything but enjoyment of the song. And he had such other plans. I walked about with pride, singing, and I was no different than a hare playing in a field being watched by a hawk.’
William’s mind raced ahead. His mouth dried. The thought of other men viewing Isabel tumbled around inside him. He would certainly make sure she had a strong servant with her when she ventured about and he’d tell the coachman personally to keep close to Isabel when she was outside the house. He didn’t want any harm to come her way. Instantly, he added plans to tell the butler to hire a sturdy servant who could always be spared when Isabel went out.
She waved a hand. ‘I will disguise myself if I leave London. You will not have to fear anything. And if by some chance I am recognised you can merely say some sort of truth. Perhaps that I disappeared and you lied to protect me. That you feared me mad.’ She smiled. ‘A dead, mad wife would surely cause you no censure, but sympathy. If I need to act like Lady Macbeth, I can. I am quite good with theatrics.’ She shivered and let her hands wrangle over each other.
‘You are quite good with the imagination.’ He’d seen the same smugness she wore on each of his sisters’ faces—when they were not listening to a word of reason and had no intention of unlocking their ears.
‘You’re needed here,’ he continued, his words almost a retreat because dealing with his sisters had taught him that was the best way of attack. ‘While you were born to sing, I was born to be a viscount, to produce children and take care of the properties that I inherit. And I rather hoped you would help with some of the parts of that which I cannot possibly manage alone.’
Her hands stilled, but remained clasped. She looked at the floor. ‘I am sorry that my leaving will prevent the heirs, but I do not know how I could leave children behind, so...perhaps I should go soon.’
‘It doesn’t work that way, either.’
She twirled and plopped down on the bed. ‘I have your interests at heart, of course. I know you do not want to be married.’ Her shoulders wobbled, but it wasn’t in weakness, more of a stance he’d seen on a bull as it locked hooves into the ground, ready to charge ahead.
Life with Sophia, Rosalind and Harriet had prepared him for this. ‘You are very correct.’ His sisters would have pulled a face, but Isabel had not heard him make that same remark a score of times.
He gave her a chance to absorb how correct she was, then added, ‘We do not have to think of ourselves as married. We are merely two friendly people under the same roof.’ With his sisters,