Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner
Balfour. I am married to the Viscount’s son. He is—’
‘Wait.’ The woman raised a hand, stopping the words. Her gloves swallowed her thin arms. ‘You may call me Lady Howell. If you forget, just think of a dog and its bark and then its howl at the moon.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘That’s how I remember it.’
She looked at Isabel’s stomach. ‘And are you increasing?’
‘No. No.’ Isabel narrowed her eyes, whispering.
‘Well, you better get your mind to it,’ the older woman said, voice strident. ‘That’s your duty now. Heirs.’ She put a gnarled finger out. ‘I had six in the first six years of marriage. Not many can carry that feat off. The trick is that the first one was very early—very early.’ She leaned in and grinned. ‘The second—I wasted no time.’ She counted on her fingers. ‘Three and four, twins. Five, well, what can I say, I had too much wine in celebration of finding a wet nurse for the twins. By six I put my foot down and said, I’d done my duty. I told Lord Howell to keep his distance. He howled.’ She patted Isabel’s arm. ‘My favourite thing to tell people is how Howell howled. He never recovered fully.’
‘I do think it would be nice to have children.’
The woman’s lips tightened and her lower jaw jutted forward as she appraised Isabel. ‘I recommend you stop at three. By the fourth child, they tend to put a strain on your temper.’ She turned away.
Isabel heard her mumble as she left. ‘The little chit cannot carry on a conversation.’
Then Lady Howell walked up to another sea of jewellery. The music ended and words jumped out from within the room. ‘William Balfour’s wife doesn’t know her place in society.’ All the faces turned Isabel’s way.
The musicians even stared at her. How could they know who the woman spoke of? But apparently they did. They’d probably played at many soirées for the same people. This world was no bigger than a teacup and she was being examined as a speck in the bottom of the cup.
William stepped to her elbow and took her hand to pull it to his lips, then tuck it at his arm. ‘Yes, she does know her place, Lady Howell. It is at my side.’ He shot a look at the musicians and the next song began softly, easing the silence. ‘Now we must be leaving, Lady Howell. Duties await us.’
* * *
He stood by his bed, hand on the post. He hadn’t known the right words to say in the carriage and he suspected there weren’t any. At least not that he could think of.
Leaving her alone at the soirée had been a mistake, but he’d been trying to get those horses—which could have waited.
He wanted to make it up to her. Neither of them deserved what had happened. At least she didn’t. Society was not always easy for women who didn’t live in it from birth.
Isabel shouldn’t be belittled, except perhaps for keeping that ridiculously small bed.
Ridiculously small.
Somehow it had become a battlement. A territorial stake of some sort that he didn’t understand. Why, the whole house was hers to command. Everything but his personal effects. And the valet. And the butler. But he wasn’t certain she quite understood about the butler.
He pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. His boots were already put away. Reaching for his dressing gown, he placed it over the back of a chair and moved to the hallway.
‘Isabel...’ he opened the door and stuck his head in, inhaling the scent of roses and soaps ‘...it’s too early to sleep.’
‘No it’s not. Not for me. Go away.’ She rolled, putting her back to him. ‘I have a headache that starts at my feet and goes straight to my forehead. The slippers were too tight.’
He left the door open. Moving to a chair, he picked it up and placed it closer to the bed. He sat, clasped his fingers lightly and stretched his legs, one foot moving to her counterpane. His heel rested at a covered mound which hid her leg.
‘I know you’re here for your duty,’ she said.
‘If I must, I must.’
He moved his feet to the floor, scooted his chair closer and pulled the cover from her foot and took it in his hands. Warm and delicate. She slid her foot aside, but he caught it. Covering her foot with his grasp, he kneaded the bottom with both thumbs. Her foot tilted towards him.
He pressed against each muscle, easing away tension, rubbing over the skin, soothing it.
‘That is better than a warm bath,’ she said.
He reached out, caressing the other toes with the same care. ‘Is your headache any better?’
‘I had thought not to wear those slippers again, but I do like the colour and if you could do this afterwards, I might keep them. Would save you the cost of another pair.’
‘But is your headache any better?’
‘I am not sure.’
He continued, sweeping his hands to ankles, kneading and rubbing. ‘I suppose it will take me a while to get there, but I shall.’ He continued sweeping his hands just above her heels. ‘But not in that bed.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘You will not do your duty while I am in this bed.’
He nudged her foot. ‘Duty. That word is hideous.’ He stood. ‘Move over.’
‘I thought you said...’
‘Duty has nothing to do with it. Share the mattress.’
‘There is not room in this bed for two people. It only holds me.’
‘I noticed. Give me some room.’ One knee on the bed, he wedged himself in beside her, tossing the covers away and rolling her to face him. ‘See, it holds two people, except for my feet.’ He moved one leg up and draped it over her thigh and adjusted close. The same delicate scent he’d noticed when he’d walked into the room engulfed him. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the soirée. I didn’t either.’
‘I thought Lady Howell’s invitation sincere.’
‘It was—for her. If it makes you feel better, she has called me a tosspot and I believe she called my father a lovestruck chit.’
‘It doesn’t. Now I feel sad for you and your father. Well, for your father.’ She snuggled. ‘Are you a tosspot?’
‘Who knows?’ He shrugged.
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