The two simple words only increased the fire in his chest, and Timothy’s fingers itched to dismount and move towards her. But he could not be so foolish.

  “Good day, Anne,” he said and without waiting for a reply, nudged Admiral towards the stables.

  It took ten minutes of hard riding, which, thankfully, took his mind off the delectable governess he had just left behind him, until Timothy reached the stables. After dismounting and handing the reins over to a stable hand, he entered the side door of the castle. Mrs. Seton would surely skin him alive if he came through the Great Hall in his muddy riding boots.

  It was therefore when he was coming down the main staircase after changing that he almost ran into Anne.

  “Anne, where are you––where is Frances?”

  His mind moved to her immediately, the surge of panic rising in his chest threatening to overwhelm his tongue. Anne had only been a part of his household four weeks, and yet he was accustomed to seeing the pair of them together.

  “She is asleep,” said Anne quietly. “She had a large breakfast and was so tired, I did not think it important to make her eat lunch before she rested.”

  Timothy felt the hackles on his neck flatten. “Of course. Her nap.”

  “Though if you ask me, Frances is almost of the age to outgrow naps and start in the schoolroom,” said Anne. “At some point we should discuss––”

  “Anne, what are you doing at this moment?” Timothy had not intended to interrupt but the thought had occurred so quickly, the words poured out.

  The governess blinked. “Why, standing halfway up a staircase and conversing with you, Clarcton.”

  Timothy almost swore out of frustration but then saw the twinkle in her eye. “You are jesting with me.”

  She laughed. “I am. Apologies, my lord, ’tis my nature. What did you need from me?”

  More than you would ever be willing to give, thought Timothy wryly. This was not the time to ostracize the woman vital in his plan to herd off expectant Mamas. He craved time with her, each hour of separation only heightening his desire for her.

  For her company, that was.

  “If you have time, I would be grateful of your company,” he said, attempting that suave turn of phrase he had heard Rochdale use a thousand times before.

  Apparently, he had not used it as cleverly.

  “Time?” said Anne hesitantly. “Now?”

  It would have been easy to be offended, but thankfully Timothy’s brain caught up with his senses. As governess to a young child, Anne could not have much time to herself. It appeared she would rather spend it alone.

  “I quite understand,” he said, inclining his head and continuing down the stairs.

  “You…you would not order me to come with you?”

  Timothy turned to see her rather bemused expression. “You are a governess of discretion indeed, Anne. You had no wish to sit and hear me talk on, and yet you said nothing.”

  There was a lilting playfulness in his tone, and his stomach lurched as she smiled.

  “And because of that, I would gladly spend some time with you, my lor––Clarcton.”

  The drawing room at the front of the house received the most sunlight during the day, and it was there he went with the governess by his side.

  “I must say,” he said, opening the door, “I am impressed with your care of Frances.”

  “Knowing you, that is a compliment,” said Anne with a smile, sitting by the window.

  Timothy sat opposite her. Was he truly such a hard taskmaster than any praise from him was considered unusual?

  There was such a mischievous look on her face that Timothy was overcome with the desire to lean forward and do something that would truly surprise her. Like kiss her. Like pull her into his arms and show her just what, as her husband, he would do if––

  “I am sure there are many things still to discuss before the ball.”

  “Wh-What?” Timothy leaned back hastily.

  “Before the ball. We have discussed the guests, but I am sure there is more you would wish to review before you consider me ready to…to be your wife.”

  It was the way she said it, suddenly self-conscious. It made Timothy feel…well. Not what one should feel about one’s staff.

  “Yes,” he said, determined to bring the conversation back onto an even footing. “Yes, I have a list of things we need to complete before the ball.”

  “Well, we only have a few weeks,” said Anne, tucking one foot behind the other in a most distracting manner. “What did you have in mind?”

  Many of the things currently on Timothy’s mind did not bear speaking of. “Just three things, I think. Dining, music, and dancing.”

  She laughed and Timothy’s brow furrowed. He had not intended to be amusing.

  “My dear Clarcton––”

  “Timothy.” He did not know what made him say it. All he knew was that to be on first name terms with this woman would be an honor indeed––an honor he coveted.

  The air seemed to electrify, a sudden tension within the atmosphere. Anne was looking at him carefully, as though attempting to understand a foreign language.

  “Timothy?” she said softly.

  He nodded. “Yes. It is my name, after all.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, then obviously thought better of it. “Timothy…I believe you are overzealous. I am not some village fool who needs to be taught what a fork is.”

  Hearing his name on her lips…it was better than cigars, better than the fieriest whisky. “Ah, but when you dine at the ball, you'll need six forks. Do you know what they all do?”

  Ah, the confidence was gone now. “But it’s a ball, cannot we just focus on dancing? I have my duties with Frances to consider, I cannot just––”

  “A few hours a day,” Timothy found himself saying. “That is all I need to bring you up to the standard of a countess. You’ll have at least one hour when the girl naps.”

  An hour a day with Miss Anne Gilbert. What was he getting himself into?

  “You did promise to help me, Anne.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I can always take that back, if I choose.”

  It was a heart-stopping moment. The invitations had gone; Mrs. Seton had rallied the staff. The world expected a Countess of Clarcton, and that is precisely what they would get.

  But Anne was right. He could not force her.

  “You have that right I suppose, I will not oblige you,” he said. “I know you to be a governess of discretion. I know you would not tell anyone of our…of my plan.”

  “Of course not!” Her words echoed around the room, and seemed to recall to the governess to her senses. Her voice dropped. “I would never do that.”

  Timothy did not think. Leaning forward, he took her hand in his. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

  The contact between them was unlike anything he had experienced. It connected them deeper than mere touch; something from the very roots of who they were bonded in a tantalizing way that made Timothy’s very skin tingle.

  “Why is it I find I cannot refuse you?” Anne whispered.

  Timothy swallowed. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he wished that was true, but this was dangerous ground. Much as it would hurt him, he needed to break the connection.

  Releasing her hand and leaning back, he cleared his throat. “We are agreed then.”

  “I suppose we are,” she said softly. “Where do we start?”

  Timothy attempted to think. “I cannot ask Cook to create the complexity of dishes required tonight. Let us do dinner in a few days, dancing tomorrow, and the piano now. Conversation we can practice continually.”

  He glanced at the pianoforte. It had been her pride and joy, Louise. She had loved it. Far more than she had loved him.

  “Ah, well, that should be easy,” said Anne with a smile, rising and walking over to sit at the instrument. “I was taught the pianoforte and practiced at my aunt’s house after my father’s passing. I just hope I am not too rusty.”

  She spread out her fingers over the keys, took a deep breath, and started to play.

  Every muscle in Timothy’s body froze. It was the same, the very piece Louise would always play when looking to impress.

  It was too much of a coincidence. Was this a trick? Did she know Louise somehow? If it wasn’t for the different hair color, he would assume they were the same person. Now this?

  A stumble, a jarring discord, and Anne placed her hands back in her lap and laughed.

  “I never was very good,” she said lightly, “but as my mother says, just keep going.”

  Timothy gripped the arms of his chair. Just keep going. Were those not the very words that Louise would always say to him?

  “Just keep going, that’s what I always say,” she had said with a bitter laugh. “Even if I am trapped with you here, Timothy. Just keep going.”

  “Let me try again,” said Anne, and she began the piece a few bars before her mistake.

  Though his heart was pounding painfully, Timothy started unclenching his fingers.

  No. Despite the similarities, despite coincidences that twisted his stomach, that woman was not Louise nor like her. Not after making a mistake and continuing without concern.

  Louise had flown into a temper every time it was revealed she was not perfect.

  “You know, you are not listening,” said Anne, finishing the piece with a flourish. “I can tell, even if I cannot see you.”

  Timothy smiled weakly. “I do apologize, I was thinking of…here, there is sheet music you can practice from.”

  He stepped across the room quickly and was careful to ensure his fingers did not brush against hers as he handed over the music. She was not Louise, and for that he was glad, but he could not consider her a replacement, either.

  Anne Gilbert would be his wife in the eyes of the world, but he needed to keep his distance. Before he did something he would regret.

  Chapter Nine

  24 November 1812

  When Anne saw the resplendent bed hangings above her, a smile drifted across her sleepy face.

  It was starting to become a regular occurrence. She had not been unhappy exactly with the Earl of Allun. She had felt almost welcome at times, a part of the family. She was treated with respect and kindness, more than most servants could boast, and she had the distinction of three pupils who actually wished to learn.

  But she had not been happy. Happiness had been discovered here, in Clarcton Castle.

  Contentedness was not a guarantee in the governess trade, she thought ruefully, as she stretched her legs in the warm linen bedsheets. One could end up in any house, with any sort of master and mistress––and the children!

  Some of the horror stories she had heard from other governesses in the Bureau…she had been fortunate indeed with her charges.

  Frances was a dear, and her father…

  Anne pulled the bedclothes tight around her. Timothy Lexington, Earl of Clarcton. He was having more of an impact than she should permit. It was most scandalous to think of him—it was rather wicked for a lady to think of any man that way––yet she could not help it.

  “I must say, I am impressed with your care of Frances.”

  There was no higher compliment than of a pupil to their governess.

  It had felt good to have keys of a pianoforte under her fingertips once again, but that sensation had been incomparable to having him close to her, watching her play…

  It was a wonder she only made small mistakes. With his gaze on her, her body tingling with the anticipation of him coming closer to turn the page––it had almost been too much.

  “You are fooling yourself, Anne Gilbert,” she whispered. “Making yourself a fool.”

  And yet it had been he who had suggested the wild scheme that was now overtaking many of her waking thoughts and almost all her sleeping ones.

  For a day, for one evening only, she would be a countess. His countess.

  This was madness. Miss Clarke must certainly never hear of it, or she would be dismissed not just from this position but from the Bureau––and rightly so.

  It was wrong. She could feel it in her bones, knew waltzing around pretending to be a countess was wrong. There was no law against it, but there did not have to be.

  She knew it as deeply as she knew murder was a crime.

  Yet that wrongness had not yet made its way to her heart. When she was preparing for such a ruse, no hint of concern touched her conscience. It felt right, being with him, talking with him…

  When he had pulled a chair to the pianoforte, sitting beside her to turn the pages, leaning forward so his breath warmed her skin…

  Anne swallowed. She was playing a dangerous game here, and it had nothing––or at least, very little––to do with the façade they were creating.

  No, it was him. Timothy. When he was close every part of her tingled, and she wanted to––well. She was no fool. She knew the ways of love, but as she considered matrimony to be unlikely in her future, she had not given it much thought.

  Soon the world would look at her and see a married woman. Married to the earl.

  “If this plan is nothing to do with your wife and entirely focused around…around seducing me, then you are entirely mistaken about my character.”

  Anne bit her lip. In a strange way, her thoughts and feelings were altering since she had spoken those words. A small but growing part of her wondered whether making the bargain so complete would be the end of the world.

  Her cheeks streaked scarlet, even alone, with the thoughts unspoken.

  It was a brazen thing to think! To lose her innocence, to give herself up to a man who was not only her master, but was married?

  No, it could not be done. It would not be done.

  She was here, Anne told herself sternly, to care for his daughter and provide a…a favor for one evening. She would pretend to be his wife to keep away potential mamas who were desperate to marry off their daughters, and that would be the end of it.

  Anne sat up, pulling one of the spare pillows behind her, so she was propped up in bed. The morning was still early, the sun not quite yet risen, and the room was dark. Nonetheless, she could still make out the beautiful furniture and a glimpse of the painted ceiling.

  Such luxury as this was almost worthy of a countess, and yet she was the one enjoying it. Where was the real Countess of Clarcton?

  Anne had not noticed any portrait in the castle which could be Timothy’s wife, but surely if the mistress of this place returned––worse, if she appeared on the night of the ball––and found an imposter in her place, what on earth would she think?

  Why did she stay away? A disagreement between herself and her husband Anne could understand, at least in theory, but to abandon her child for this long? Two years?

  Someone knew the truth, Anne thought darkly. Someone in this house knew where the countess was, and why she did not return––or why she could not.

  It was a highly suspicious affair and if it had been anyone else, she would immediately suspect the husband. That was what happened, wasn’t it? Strange affairs between a married couple, the wife disappearing…it could only be the husband.

  Yet there was no sense of danger here. Anne considered carefully, and found that in her entire time at Clarcton Castle, she had felt in no peril.

  All of the servants had been welcoming, to greater or lesser degrees. Dewey was polite, the maids were respectful, and Holt was perhaps a little too eager to ingratiate himself. Mrs. Seton was the only one who had kept her distance, but she was hardly threatening.

  Of course, that left…

  Anne sighed. “Timothy.”

  She could no sooner imagine Timothy harming his wife than him taking flight to the moon, but there was no one else. It was his idea to dress her up and parade her around as his countess, he who seemed to know where his wife was and why she was not here.

  Perhaps he just did not like her. It was perfectly possible, Anne supposed, they had merely agreed to live apart. If the countess wished for divorce, would the earl give it to her?

  Her scattered thoughts were interrupted by a clanging sound and her bedchamber door flying open.

  “Wh-What––Mrs. Seton!” Anne had pulled the bedcovers up protectively, as though they would shield her from an intruder, but she had not expected to see the housekeeper with a tray in her hands and a glare on her face.

  “Miss Gilbert,” said Mrs. Seton bad-temperedly as she shut the door with her foot.

  Anne gaped, utterly astonished. “May I ask what…is that a breakfast tray?”

  The housekeeper frowned. “What does it look like?”

  It certainly did look like a breakfast tray––or at least, the trays which Anne had seen taken up from the kitchens to the Countess of Allun. A teapot in the same pattern as the teacup and saucer beside it, milk jug, sugar cubes, slices of toast, a pad of butter, some sort of jam…

  “Well,” said Anne uncomfortably, conscious she was in her night things. “Yes, it does look like a breakfast tray. What an honor, I…thank you, Mrs. Seton.”

  It was such a strange thing for the housekeeper to do, Anne could not help but stare.

  “Hmmph,” said Mrs. Seton, striding over and dropping the tray none too carefully beside the governess. “I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been ordered to, you can be sure of that.”

  That could not be more apparent. “Why do you dislike me, Mrs. Seton?”

  The housekeeper blinked. Her eyes narrowed as she beheld the governess. “’Tis not about like or dislike,” she said eventually.

  Anne sat up, careful not to knock over the teapot. “It isn’t?”

  Mrs. Seton cleared her throat. “No, ’tis…’tis more about you taking her place.”

  “Her––oh, you mean the mistress? The countess?” Anne could not help her curiosity. It appeared Mrs. Seton was a loyalist to the woman who had not been seen for over two years.

  What was it about this woman which had such a hold on a curmudgeonly servant like Mrs. Seton? Anne would have assumed it would take a lot to earn the housekeeper’s loyalty, and yet the gardener she had spoken to was dismissive when speaking about his mistress.

  “What is she like, Mrs. Seton?” asked Anne curiously. “I have not heard anyone speak of her, and I would like to know more about––”