“So you can ape her at this coming ball?” snapped the housekeeper. [it’s never explained why Mrs. Seton is so fond and protective of her, especially as we learn she suspects Frances isn’t Clarcton’s child]

  Anne hesitated. “No, actually. I am genuinely interested. She is Frances’s mother, after all, and Timothy’s––and his lordship’s wife.” Blast, she would have to keep a more careful eye on her tongue. “And of course you knew her, and so I wondered––”

  “It’s not to be talked about,” said Mrs. Seton stiffly.

  If she had thought this would lessen Anne’s interest, she was much mistaken. Not to be talked about? What wasn’t? What had happened here?

  “I understand you are loyal,” Anne said carefully, watching the older woman. “I have no wish to pry, I simply wondered––”

  “No, you cannot convince me to speak of her,” said the housekeeper. “Master could not stop me if I wanted to, o’course, but I don’t want to. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

  Anne saw to her surprise that the woman looked genuine distressed, and immediately dismissed any thought of asking again. Something had happened, something awful. Something to do with the countess who had been––what? Hurt? Abducted? Forced out of the earl’s home?

  The Countess of Clarcton was an absolute mystery; she had no idea what she looked like, what her character was, her likes and dislikes. Whenever she was spoken of, it was in hushed tones, restrained pain, or a tone of such dismissal it was as though she had never existed.

  But she must have done, Anne reasoned. Where else had Frances come from?

  “I do apologize, Mrs. Seton,” she said awkwardly. “I…I had no wish to distress you. I will not ask you anymore, and thank you for bringing up my breakfast.”

  Mrs. Seton sniffed. “As I said, I only did it because I was ordered to. When you’re ready, master says bring Lady Frances down to the ballroom, quick as you like.”

  The door had slammed behind the housekeeper before Anne could say another word, which was probably for the best. Not only was the woman evidently unwilling to spend any time longer than necessary with her, but her tea was getting cold.

  It took five minutes to eat the hot buttered toast and gulp down her tea. The sooner she was ready, the sooner she could descend to the ballroom, another unexplored room, and…

  And dance with Timothy.

  A shiver ran down her spine at the thought. Dancing was something she indulged in on rare occasions, but it was not that which made her heart flutter. It was dancing with him. Timothy. Their hands would touch, and his arm would be around her side, and––

  Anne caught herself just in time. This was not the time to lose her head and forget that she was doing this because she had a bargain with the man.

  One night to be a countess and then she would return to her normal life—a life of hard work and taking care of other people’s children.

  It was the jolt to reality she needed. Pulling off her nightclothes and getting dressed hurriedly in the cold, Anne took a quick glance in her looking glass as she pinned up her hair.

  All she had to do was remember her place. She was a servant. A governess, yes, which meant she had far more education than most servants––but she was a servant, nonetheless. It would not do to forget that.

  When she entered the nursery, a room quickly being outgrown by its occupant, Anne smiled at the child playing with her dolls in one corner.

  She was such a pretty child, blonde hair, blue eyes. She was good natured, everything one would want in a child. Why did Timothy find it impossible to spend time with her?

  “Good morning, Frances,” she said aloud.

  Frances dropped the doll in her hand unceremoniously and beamed. “Good morning.”

  “I know you are playing with Mary-Anne,” said Anne, self-conscious at the name Frances had given her latest toy. “But your father has asked for us, and we should not delay.”

  Frances stood obediently, eyes shining. “Papa wants to see me?”

  Anne’s heart twisted. Why was it a four year old child should be so surprised to hear her own father wished to see her?

  This child had been left alone far too long, she thought. It was time that changed. She would have to make her father see just how delightful she was.

  “Yes, he would like to see you,” Anne said decisively. “He wants to see both of us in the ballroom!”

  “B-But I'm not allowed in there,” stammered Frances as they walked out of the nursery and into the corridor hand in hand. “Miss Anne, I'm not allowed.”

  “You are if you have been invited,” said Anne kindly, nodding at a maid who paused in the corridor and curtseyed as the daughter of the house passed. “And your father has invited us, so it is all right––but yes, if you are told not to go somewhere, you must always obey that.”

  Frances nodded solemnly, and Anne hid a smile. Everything was so much more simple when four years old. Sometimes she wished to return to that stage of innocence again.

  Like in situations like this. Anne tried not to look too irritated as Holt appeared before her, beaming as though they had made this assignation purposefully.

  “Ah, Miss Anne,” he said cheerfully, stepping to the side of the corridor. “How lovely to see you again––I was going to ask you, when you next have a day––”

  “Apologies, Holt, the master has asked for us,” said Anne breezily, not pausing.

  She did not look back either, though she could feel his gaze on the back of her neck. Dear Lord, she would have to be firm with the man; this simply could not continue. She dreaded going to the servants’ hall now, for he seemed always to be there, waiting.

  Did the man have no work to do?

  “I think that man likes you,” said Frances solemnly. “He wants to be your friend.”

  Anne hid a smile. “He was very polite, wasn’t he? It is always good to be polite, Frances. Especially to servants, and those who are of a lower rank than you.”

  The child nodded thoughtfully, though Anne thought she had gone a little overboard. The child was young; she may not entirely understand the difference of rank which she would inhabit for all her life.

  Still, no better time than the present to start learning. She would have servants tending to her every need for most of her life, if Timothy had his way with her marriage. She needed to begin lessons. If she could notice Holt’s interest in her, it was time for formal education.

  “I do not have a mother, you know.”

  Anne stopped. The corridor was empty save for themselves, and Frances looked up in wide-eyed innocence.

  “Yes you do,” said Anne, out of her depth. “It is just that she is not here.”

  “Why?” asked Frances.

  Anne was at a total loss. No one had thought to inform her about the real reason the countess was not at her husband’s side, and this made things rather complicated.

  She would not lie. The last thing a child like Frances needed was to believe a falsehood about such an important thing.

  “I…” said Anne helplessly. “You will have to ask your father that question.”

  Well, he clearly knew, she thought wryly. Perhaps an innocent question from his daughter would be the push he needed to actually tell someone.

  Frances seemed to be thinking carefully, then said, “So…can I call you Mama?”

  Anne swallowed. It was such a lovely thing to say, such an innocent thought––and in a small way, she wished it was possible. It would give Frances some sort of grounding, a woman in her life that she could turn to, no matter what.

  “Only if you are very good.”

  Anne whirled around. There stood Timothy, teasing smile on his lips and arms crossed.

  “And I thought I told you to bring my daughter to the ballroom,” he said mildly. “Though I suppose we could attempt to dance in the corridor, ’tis certainly not unheard of.”

  Anne understood every word, but she was unable to respond. Not now her heart had leapt, her stomach twisted, and her very soul realized that the man before her was…

  The man she loved.

  It was a disaster. Pulse pounding in her ears, Anne knew it was impossible. She should not consider her master like that, even though her body shivered when but feet from him.

  How had this happened?

  Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps from the moment he had asked her to be his countess for a day, she had started to see herself by his side, loyal, trusted…beloved.

  She wanted to be his. He was married. Though the countess was not before her, that did not prevent her existence.

  “Papa!” Frances had not noticed her governess had frozen in shock at the emotions which had flooded through her, and rushed towards her father.

  “Frances Lexington, I do declare you are almost too grown up to be picked up like this!” he said cheerfully, pulling her into his arms. “You will be able to pick me up, soon!”

  Frances chortled at her father’s foolishness. “No I'm not! You will always be able to pick me up, Papa, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” he said genially, turning walking down the corridor to the ballroom.

  Anne followed and her heart jolted as he turned to smile briefly at her.

  Oh, goodness. The sooner this ball came and went, the better. This intrigue was too much, now she knew Timothy––the earl, she should at least try to remember how far above her he was––had entirely stolen her heart.

  As they walked to the ballroom, Anne found her gaze drawn to the portraits on the walls. She so rarely came here; could it be possible that the countess’s portrait was––

  “Here we are,” said Timothy impressively, opening the double doors.

  Anne gasped. It was like walking into a palace. She had no idea there was such a room in the castle, although by now she shouldn’t be so surprised.

  Glass and gold were everywhere. All along the walls were looking glasses, reflecting back an infinite number of musicians. Candelabras and chandeliers festooned the place––it would surely be a haze of light when they were all lit. The floor was polished brightly, and the place echoed as they stepped across it.

  “Right chit, I'm putting you down.”

  Frances sighed heavily at losing the connection with her father, but her interest was immediately caught by the gaggle of people within the ballroom. “Who are they?”

  “They,” said Timothy catching Anne’s eye, “are the musicians. I thought I would bring them over for practice.”

  Anne nodded. It was clear what he intended then: music, dancing. She could endure that without falling even more in love with him, she was sure. Almost certain.

  “Look, Frances, let us go and see the different instruments,” said Anne, determined to make this at least partially educational. “Look, two violins, can you see the strings?”

  But they had only stepped a few feet from the earl before his voice rang out.

  “I didn’t actually do this for a lesson for Frances.”

  Anne smiled, despite herself. “Useful though, don’t you think?”

  Why was it her heart skipped a beat every time she made him smile?

  “Frances, sit by the musicians and be quiet,” he said. “Anne, come here.”

  It took all Anne’s self-restraint not to walk into his arms as she approached. Instead, she managed to stop a few feet away.

  “You can dance, I take it?”

  Anne hesitated. This, like the pianoforte, was a proficiency one could not lie about. “Yes, but mostly country dancing, which is what I enjoyed when I was young. Some of the more formal dances are beyond me, though I have seen them, of course.”

  There was no point pretending she had greater skill; he would soon find out.

  Timothy nodded. “Well, they aren’t that difficult. Play…play La Boulangere.”

  One of the musicians nodded, and turned to his fellows. Within seconds, music was echoing around the ballroom, and Anne found her nerves had returned.

  “Now, watch me,” said Timothy, as though she could do anything else.

  Anne watched. He was right, the steps were simple, and repeated in a pattern. If only the person giving her the lesson was not so handsome. The earl was wearing a shirt and waistcoat only, and Anne found herself longing to take his hand and––

  “Understand?”

  Anne jolted from her reverie. “What? Oh, yes. Yes, I follow.”

  “I want a go!” Frances’s voice had just a little petulance thrown in.

  “Please, Frances, just sit there,” said Anne hurriedly. “I will come over and––”

  “Come on then, you rascal, come here,” Timothy laughed.

  Anne stared as the child rose to her feet and scampered over to her father.

  “Now, put your feet on mine––no, the other way around,” said Timothy. “Now, here we go!”

  Holding her hands carefully, Timothy repeated the steps of the dance he had been showing Anne but with Frances standing on his feet.

  “Faster, faster!” she giggled, her laughter becoming more high pitched as Timothy increased the pace while making wild faces.

  If only this was their everyday life, Anne thought. There was so much potential for joy here, so much potential wasted.

  “Now, we have to stop,” said Timothy eventually, breathing heavily. “No, no complaints chit, your Miss Anne and I have to practice.”

  Frances appeared too pleased with her dancing to argue, and as she retreated to her seat by the musicians, Timothy extended a hand to Anne.

  “Ready?”

  Anne had never felt less ready, but it would be churlish to say so. She stepped forward and curtseyed.

  They began to dance. Anne had studied well and managed to keep up, though none too elegantly. The first time they their hands met, heat seared through her fingertips.

  Did he feel it too? There was such a look of gravity on his face, Anne found she could not tell. Did his heart leap as hers did when she turned and found him there, ready and waiting? When his arm came around her and she felt his strength, the certainty of his body, did he feel her softness, her warmth?

  Or was this all in her own mind? Anne could barely tell, but thankfully thoughts became less hurried as the dance quickened and all she could do was feel the rhythm of the movement, feel the tug of his presence as they grew closer, and––

  Her foot stumbled and Timothy paused, which caused the musicians to stop.

  “I…I will never learn this,” she said, self-consciously.

  Timothy did not seem concerned. “You will have to practice. Besides, we only have dining left to cover in your education, other than formal conversation.”

  Anne tried to smile. “You are not worried I will be discovered?”

  His eyes searched hers before he replied, “No. No, I trust you, Anne.”

  Hearing her name on his lips made her all the more desperate to––to what, she was not sure. But she wanted more than this, whatever this was.

  “One more time,” he said bracingly. “From the top.”

  Anne really did try to concentrate, but her emotions swept her away far quicker than her mind could concentrate. Anne found her hands entwined with Timothy’s, and this time they both slowed until they stood there, unmoving, hands clasped together and eyes locked.

  There was some strange sort of magnetism occurring, something Anne did not understand. All she knew was that she was growing closer to Timothy, her gaze on his lips.

  A kiss. What harm could it do?

  “Timothy,” she breathed.

  It was a mistake. He dropped her hands as though they had burned him.

  “Yes, well, that’s probably enough dance practice for one day,” he said, speaking to the musicians. “Right, Frances, let’s away to your drawing room. Miss Anne needs to practice her guest list.”

  Anne swallowed. He must have seen it too, the desire in her eyes––and he had not wanted it.

  And that was quite right, of course. Earls did not go around kissing governesses.

  Chapter Ten

  25 November 1812

  “Hmmmm.” Timothy was careful to ensure his careful consideration was audible. That was the best way to ensure the next time he inspected something, the thing was perfect.

  But his servants knew him well. There was no single iota of concern on the footman’s face as the earl leaned closer to the table, looking to see if a single fork was out of line.

  “Interesting,” he said quietly, stepping around the table. “Very interesting.”

  There it was––a flicker of uncertainty.

  “If there was one thing about this table you would change, man,” he said abruptly, “what would it be?”

  The dining table was laid as though for a banquet, just as Timothy had asked. With the ball mere days away, it was imperative every single member of staff knew what was expected. Though the Earl of Clarcton did not entertain much, when he did, he expected the place to be absolutely spotless.

  The footman looked along the table with a nervous air. “Anything, my lord?”

  Timothy smiled. “One thing.”

  He was not a cruel man; at least, he did not consider himself one [almost verbatim on pg. 13]. But he did have exacting standards, high ones [redundant]. All his servants had to meet them, scullery maid to head gardener, though it was not the fear of dismissal that he held above them, like a wild despot.

  The idea a man could simply release a servant from their service…not, it was not the Clarcton way. But there was more than one way to reward someone.

  “I think I would place the flowers on the table,” said the footman hesitantly. “The cutlery, the crockery, the place settings…all are perfect. But there is no decoration. I assumed you would not wish to waste such decorations, but now…”

  Timothy decided to put the poor man out of his misery. “Exactly right. Can’t be having all those flowers about the place days before our guests are here, yet they are the one thing the table is without. Well done.”

  And there it was: that swell of pride.

  He was not a man who praised easily nor quickly. It took great care by a person to reach a standard that the Earl of Clarcton would praise.