“More, my lady?”

  Timothy glared at the footman who colored.

  “No, thank you, Holt.”

  The footman did not move over to Timothy to serve him. “Well, if you change your mind, I will only be––”

  “Thank you, Holt,” said Anne firmly.

  Timothy tried not to smile. It was clear that while the footman’s affections were engaged, hers certainly were not. Why did that fill him with such pleasure?”

  “But it was hard, I admit,” Anne continued. “My mother’s sister lived in the town, but as a widow and with children of her own, she could do little to help. It became necessitous I go out into the world and earn my keep.”

  Timothy nodded, though much of what she had said was alien to him. Working for money; it was a bizarre concept he had never given much thought to. He had land, investments, tenants. Money went in, money went out. How much there was did not really matter.

  All that mattered was that Clarcton continued.

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “I, too, work hard to ensure––”

  But he did not continue. His words, if they had been spoken, would not have been audible over Anne’s laughter.

  “What is so funny?” Timothy said defensively.

  Anne shook her head. “I do not mean to insult you, Timothy,” and he saw the footman’s eyes widen, “but…here. Give me your hands.”

  Unsure why she wished for them, and conscious he was about to do what he had been desperately attempting not to do since they had sat down, Timothy offered her his hands.

  Anne examined them closely, then turned them over and did the same thing. Timothy swallowed. It was such an intimate act, her fingers brushing over his palms. Only when she had looked closely at both sides of them did she nod decisively.

  “’Tis as I thought,” she said with a smile. “You have never done a hard day’s work in your life. Now, see here.”

  Releasing his hands, Anne showed him her own. Timothy saw callouses, pinprick scars, and what appeared to be a burn scar on the inside of one wrist.

  “How on earth did you get those?” he asked. “Governessing is a dangerous business, from the look of it!”

  They laughed together as Anne placed her hands back in her lap.

  “Not quite,” she said, eyes twinkling. “But I was not a governess at first. You can see the pinpricks from embroidery, and that’s where I burnt myself on a tray of cakes when I was helping our local baker.” She must have seen the surprise on his face. “Few families would take on a twelve-year-old governess, Timothy. No, I had to take what work I could get.”

  Pity rushed through him. It was only in moments like these that he realized how privileged he really was. He could not imagine working like that, let alone at such a tender age.

  “But…but then you joined the Governess Bureau,” he managed to say.

  Anne nodded. Their food lay before them, entirely forgotten. “Yes, which was a stroke of luck. The Bureau is very highly regarded, one must be outstanding to join.”

  “A place such as that must have many rules.”

  Timothy had not intended his words to be inflammatory, but Anne’s cheeks colored.

  “Yes,” she said, her gaze dropping to her lap. “And of course I follow them all.”

  There was something so intriguing about her countenance that he could not help but ask. “All of them?”

  Was it his imagination, or did she hesitate? “Yes. Well, there are only three which guide us entirely.”

  Timothy waited. “And they are?”

  “Firstly, you must have an impeccable record.”

  He nodded. “Well, that makes sense. If one is to have the charge of the next generation of nobility, one can hardly be followed by scandal.”

  Anne smiled. “Not if one hopes to retain one’s position for long. Second, you must bring a special skill to the table.”

  Timothy raised an eyebrow at that. “My word.”

  Was it the mere insinuation that made her color? “A talent. Languages, music, botany, that sort of thing. And thirdly, you…you must never fall in love.”

  Now his cheeks were coloring too. Anne had lifted her gaze and was now looking half fearful, half…

  Timothy could not tell. Was she attempting to convey to him that her feelings, too, were deepening in a way she knew was against these rules?

  How could he halt the feelings soaring through him, unfettered by rules, restrictions, and restraint?

  “We…” he swallowed. “We should continue through the courses. Your countess classes are not over yet.”

  “Why, do you not trust me with the fish knife?” Anne teased.

  It was a meal, Timothy realized in hindsight, that could have lasted three hours and he would not have found himself bored at any moment. Anne Gilbert, governess extraordinaire, laughed, jested, and talked with him as though they were…

  As though they were equals. As though they dined together every evening, which was something Timothy was starting to consider.

  Because that was what he wanted. To dine with her every evening before he took her to his bed.

  Just how far could this charade go?

  Chapter Eleven

  26 November 1812

  “B-B-But I don’t––I don’t want to!”

  Frances’s sobs were heart-wrenching. If Anne had not heard the same old story before, from at least two other children, she would not have been able to remain firm.

  As it was…

  “You will enjoy it,” she said calmly, buttoning the gown Frances was just as vigorously attempting to unbutton. “I promise you, Frances, you––”

  Frances’s voice trembled, tears flowing. “I don’t want to, please don’t make me!”

  Anne’s heart fluttered. It was never pleasant to see a child in tears, particularly one this young. Frances’s cheeks were flushed, her nose red, and tears had poured from her red-rimmed eyes for at least twenty minutes.

  Then the child dropped to the floor. “I won’t go! I won’t go!”

  Her cries grew in volume, and it was all Anne could do to stay calm. She should have expected this. This was not a small change for Frances. This nursery, these habits, they had been her way of life for her entire life.

  Frances was sobbing, a pathetic figure who would touch even the hardest of hearts.

  Anne sat on the floor beside her charge. “Frances, come now. Come here.”

  The child went willingly into her arms, only too eager to be held and comforted. Anne’s heart twisted. The poor child. She never had much in the way of love.

  It was a lesson taught far too early for children in the nobility, and one they were probably not conscious of being taught. Don’t get too attached to anyone.

  Servants came and went. Even friends of the family could change over time, new alliances, new dalliances, changes in fortune changing the balance of power.

  One learned not to get too attached. One could not miss something never valued.

  Frances was but four years old, and already she had learned this. Anne sighed heavily. She had to get this girl into the schoolroom.

  “You will enjoy it when you are there,” she said softly, arms still around the snuffling child. “Everyone does. This is exciting, it shows you are growing older.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Tears appeared once more in Frances’s eyes.

  “But I do not want to do lessons and difficult things,” she snuffled. “I want to stay here and play.”

  Anne allowed the child to pull herself free. There was no point in attempting to keep her there if she did not want to be.

  Frances stood as tall as her little legs could carry her, and looked at her governess defiantly. “I will n-not go.”

  Anne considered her. She was not about to enter into a battle of wills with a four-year-old. Not when one of them was the daughter of an earl. There was no knowing where the balance of power was in that scenario, and she did not want to be the first to admit it.

  Besides, this was to be expected. Of course it was difficult for Frances to comprehend what her life would be like once she stepped, irrevocably, out of the nursery.

  She had been treated as a baby for so long. Nothing had changed, it seemed, since her mother had left. The nurserymaid considered her an infant, unable to think or make choices.

  Of course, the irony was that the first choice Frances seemed to be making was a refusal to grow up. What would Frances’s mother do in this situation?

  Anne pushed away the thought. She could not allow herself to think that way; she had done more than enough stepping into the countess’s shoes since she had arrived here at Clarcton Castle. Frances was not her daughter, and she should not consider her in that way.

  Not that it is stopping you treating her husband like your own, a cruel little voice whispered in her head.

  Anne swallowed. Nothing about her encounters with the earl had felt wrong, not while they were happening. Oh, such joy as she had never known before, such intensity of feeling.

  But now, in this moment, she had to think of Frances––a Frances lying in a ball on the floor, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  There were few things governesses were not taught at the Bureau. Though there was rigorous training, discipline and comfort were two items not on the curriculum.

  When she had asked why, she had received a rather stern look from Miss Clarke, who had considered if the question was worth responding to.

  “Because,” the proprietress had said eventually, “every child is so different, Miss Gilbert. How do you expect me to instruct you on the potential future charges you will care for? Am I a fortune teller, Miss Gilbert?”

  The entire room had tittered, and Anne had vowed not to ask a single question again in Miss Clarke’s training. A part of her regretted that cavalier attitude, now she had a very real problem before her.

  Miss Clarke had been right, of course. Every child was different. Still, any pointers on how to make a crying child stop sobbing would have been valuable.

  Anne took a deep breath. All she had to do was stay calm. Frances was not crying because of the schoolroom; she was upset because of change. She was looking for reassurance, and that was something she, Anne, could give her.

  She could stay calm. Even if Frances could not.

  Kneeling onto the floor to get closer to the sobbing girl, Anne said quietly, “Frances. What is it that so upsets you?”

  Whether it was the calm voice, hearing her name, or being asked rather than commanded, Anne was not sure. Whatever it was, Frances sniffed.

  “I-I am Papa’s baby,” she said, eyes wide as she looked at her governess. “When I go to the schoolroom, I won’t be a baby anymore.”

  Her voice was so pitiful, her demeanor so devastated, Anne had to work hard to prevent a smile from creeping over her lips.

  It was as simple as that. When had any adult last asked Frances what she wanted, or how she was feeling? It was evidently a rare occurrence, with Frances grasping at it so. It was easy to see why the little girl had worked herself into such a state.

  The thought of losing the affection of the one parent which remained to her…

  Yes, Frances had a right to cry if that had really been the case.

  Anne smiled gently. “Well, Frances, I understand. I want you to know that you will always be your father’s baby.”

  Frances’s lip trembled. “Really?”

  “Really,” Anne said softly. “Why, I am still my father’s baby, and I am all grown up!”

  The child looked up with curious eyes. “Are you?”

  Anne nodded. It was not the time to mention her father had died when her youngest brother was not much older than Frances was now. That was a conversation for a different day, years in the future.

  “Now, I have an idea,” she said conspiratorially. “I know you don’t want to do lessons, so I think we should go to the schoolroom,” Frances’s mouth opened, “and play games.”

  Frances’s mouth closed. She examined her governess for a moment, then burst into tears. “That’s just lessons! I am not stupid, I don’t want to do lessons!”

  Anne’s shoulders drooped. She had been so close, too. She had at least made some progress. The next step would be to––

  “Anne Gilbert, what are you doing to that child!”

  Anne whirled around to see Mrs. Seton, arms crossed, scowling in the doorway.

  “I am not doing anything,” Anne began defensively, as Frances’s cries grew.

  “You should have a greater handle on your charge,” said the housekeeper sternly. “I heard the child all the way from the servants’ hall, so you can be sure the master heard it too!”

  Anne strove to keep a straight face. “And yet I have received no complaint from him, so I will continue with––”

  “Continue? Continue! You shall do no such thing, I have no wish for this ruckus to continue,” snapped Mrs. Seton, glaring at the bedraggled child. “If you were any sort of governess, Miss Anne, you would not permit such behavior. You can swan about playing the countess all you like, but I advise you to pay a little more attention to your actual duties!”

  Anne’s mouth fell open. That such words were to be spoken to her, and within earshot of Frances, too!

  The poor child may have the advantages a titled father could bring, but she had received nothing but inattention and negligence in her entire life. Frances did not need to be described as a bother to everyone else, not when she was the daughter of their master!

  She could not respond immediately, however. Not if she was going to get her temper under control. Red hair or not, she would be mistress of herself. She would not give Mrs. Seton the tongue lashing she so desperately deserved.

  “Frances and I are discussing her lessons,” she said, voice stilted but gaze affixed firmly on the housekeeper. “I am sorry if our conversation disturbs you. I am sure a few closed doors will remedy the situation.”

  Frances had ceased her sobs and was looking nervously between the two adults.

  “I am sorry,” she mumbled.

  The housekeeper was not, however, pacified. “Discussing with the child? Lord above, Miss Anne, but you are a strange sort of governess. Give the child a choice? It’s not up to the child to decide!”

  Anne was very close to counting silently to ten, which she had not been pushed to since the Earl of Allun had refused to pay her for several months. The earl, at the very least, had the excuse of ignorance in these matters.

  “When I have any questions on how to care for a child, Mrs. Seton,” said Anne stiffly, “I will come to you. In the meantime, I suggest you return to your tasks and leave me to mine.”

  It was a measure of how much respect Anne had evidently had from the rest of the household that Mrs. Seton hesitated. The governess, it seemed, was not someone she wished to make a true enemy of.

  “When I was young,” she snapped, “young ladies were seen and not heard!”

  “And so it was when I was young, Mrs. Seton,” said Anne stiffly. “But every child is different. We are getting there. Slowly.”

  The last word was spoken with a glance to Frances, brushing wetness from her face.

  The housekeeper shook her head, arms still tightly crossed. “I don’t know. Sometimes I look at that child and wonder whether she’ll have the worst of her father and the worst of her moth––”

  Anne’s ears pricked up. This was no time to permit herself to be distracted, of course, but it was so rare that anyone in the Clarcton household mentioned the countess.

  Stepping away from Frances and lowering her voice, she said, “Her mother. Tell me about her, Mrs. Seton. You never know, it may help me in my management of the child.”

  It was not a wheedling tone precisely, but there was more softness in her voice than Anne typically employed when speaking to the irate housekeeper.

  To absolutely no surprise, the housekeeper did not relent. “Mind your own business and do your job. That’s what you’re here for, not to swan about in fancy silks, asking questions, poking your nose in where it’s not––”

  “And if I am to do the best job I can, the more I know of the mother, the better,” said Anne doggedly, dropping her voice even further. The last thing Frances needed was to hear this. “The child needs all the support I can give her, Mrs. Seton. You would not begrudge the little information I require to perform my duties?”

  Mrs. Seton’s steely eyes met hers. Anne could almost see cogs whirring in her mind.

  She spoke the truth. The temperament, the nature of the mother was often a great indicator of the character of her child. With no information, how was Anne meant to guide the child?

  “For example,” Anne gently prodded, “the painting of the countess. Where is it? And why is there no sign of her anywhere in this house, no suggestion of a feminine touch, no items of hers in my lord’s bedcham…in his rooms.”

  “It’s…’tis not my place to say,” the older woman muttered, gaze dropping to her arms.

  Anne pushed home the small advantage she possessed. “Yet you do know, don’t you, Mrs. Seton? You could point me in the right direction, help me to understand how––”

  “No. You just keep that child quiet,” said the housekeeper firmly, slamming the door.

  Anne sighed, her head drooping. This day was not going her way, and if she was any judge of the matter, it would not be getting much better.

  But she was a governess of the Bureau. She could not just give up, for that would be easy. No, she had to persevere. That was what Miss Clarke would do.

  Anne said matter-of-factly, “Frances, I think you are right.”

  The girl scrambled to her feet. “I…I am?”

  Anne nodded. “I think you may not be old enough for lessons. Lessons are for big girls, and if you are not ready, we should get you back into baby clothes, and you can stay here.”

  A war of emotions fought across the child’s face, and Anne was careful to keep her own expression neutral. If there was one thing she remembered about being four years old, that she saw time and time again, it was that a contrary nature was at its peak.