Two souls.

  Timothy waited for Anne to tell him more about Frances’s exploits in the schoolroom, but nothing was forthcoming. She simply looked at him, those piercing blue eyes looking far deeper than mere skin.

  Perhaps she had come to ask something of him. It was a heady thought, and he had to remind himself if that indeed was the case, it was surely something pedestrian, not personal.

  New chalk for the board. Books, perhaps.

  Nothing to do with the growing burgeoning passion.

  “And…” he said finally. “And was there anything in particular you wished to tell me?”

  Why was it now he could not catch her eye? Anne’s gaze slipped from his.

  “This room is beautiful,” she said. “Ancient and beautiful. And lonely.”

  Her blue eyes met his, and Timothy found he could not look away.

  “I thought you might wish for some company,” Anne said softly. “Even if Mrs. Seton says you are never to be disturbed here.”

  Timothy spoke without guile, without the censorship he had self-imposed for so long. “Anne, I have been without good company for years. Until you arrived.”

  It felt strange, saying the words out loud. They seemed to echo in the room, surrounding him with their sadness, the loneliness they betrayed.

  The weakness.

  But Anne did not look at him as though he was weak. There was kindness in her expression, kindness which had been lacking when looking at Louise, ever shared his pain, ever expressed what he was feeling. [I don’t understand this. Has something been lost in editing?]

  Timothy smiled awkwardly. He could not remember the last time he had ever been in this study with another person. Once or twice, perhaps, when he had inadvertently stumbled across someone cleaning in here, and that had been an uncomfortable interaction indeed.

  This study was his sanctuary. No matter what had happened in the world, Timothy could always retreat here.

  “This place will be yours one day,” his father had once said to him when he had been but a boy. “The whole castle, but most will not belong to you.”

  And Timothy had looked at his father, unsure precisely what he meant.

  His father had smiled. “Servants, boy. Servants and acquaintances and visitors and neighbors. All will descend, and they will all have the run of the place, except here. This study is for you, for the Earl of Clarcton. It will be the only bit of the place that is truly yours.”

  Timothy had not understood his father at the time. He did now. Now, his only refuge were these four walls, safely cocooning him from the worst the world could throw at him.

  Allowing anyone inside…it had never been a consideration. Louise had certainly not been welcome here, something she had railed against in the early days of their marriage.

  But Anne…somehow the study felt complete with her presence. As if she belonged here. As if the place would be lacking once she stepped outside it.

  Timothy shook his head, as though trying to rid water from his ears. It must be the whiskey, why he was thinking this way.

  “And how are you settling in?” he said bracingly.

  It was the first question he could think of, but he regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

  Settling in? The woman was about to be paraded about as your wife, and you cannot stop thinking of taking her to your bed!

  Anne, however, did not look surprised by his question. “To tell the truth, I…it’s a bit overwhelming. I am comfortable with Frances, and her studies will pick up apace once we have ironed out the tantrums, but…”

  Her voice trailed away, her gaze still unwilling to meet his own.

  “But what?”

  Anne took a deep breath and met his eye. “I admit myself overwhelmed. Pretending to be your wife…’tis a strange occurrence, I am sure you would agree.”

  Timothy nodded. “I feel it, too, and yet…Anne, I could have asked a thousand women and none of them would have risen to the occasion as you have. You belong here at…at Clarcton Castle. I would not have you anywhere else.”

  It felt strange to bare his soul like this, strange to speak the truths of his heart. The last time he had done this, Louise had just laughed. Laughed in his face.

  “You truly think she is yours?”

  Timothy swallowed, pushing the memory aside. He had to concentrate on the woman before him.

  “The Christmas ball is but one evening,” he said bracingly. “You do not have anything to fear, not for one evening.”

  Her gaze met his. “That is precisely what I am afraid of.”

  He waited for her to continue, the silence elongating between them, but somehow there was no awkwardness to it. The fire crackled in the grate, and the warmth that was overwhelming him was not just from the fire, but from somewhere deep within him.

  “One evening,” Anne continued quietly, “might not be enough.”

  Timothy swallowed. They were getting into dangerous territory here. Whatever this was, beyond the façade itself, had to be halted. This was a path they could not go down.

  Should not go down.

  “The thing is,” Timothy said, breaking the silence because the words simply wouldn’t remain in his heart, “I like you, Anne. Christ, I…and I don’t know where this is going. Where it could go.”

  Did she understand? There was no simple way for this to unfold, he knew that, but could she tell what she was doing to him? Could she see how he trembled just to be close to her?

  “It cannot go anywhere, Timothy––I should not even be calling you that, really. My lord.”

  The two words were like daggers to his heart. My lord? “I thought we were beyond titles.”

  “Perhaps we should not be,” Anne countered. She slipped off her shoes and brought her feet underneath her, curled like a cat on the armchair. “I am a servant here, in your household. I am nothing, should be nothing but the governess to your daughter.” [these actions and these words are diametrically opposed. It doesn’t read as unconscious on her part.]

  Your daughter. Timothy could not bear to disillusion her, not in this moment. He had to keep some secrets, after all.

  “I may find myself so accustomed to having you by my side, I have no wish to continue without you,” he said unguardedly. “I mean––I am not saying,” he added hastily. “I did not mean––look, perhaps you should not listen to me right now. I have had three glasses of the strong stuff.”

  He smiled weakly, trying to show her he was still in control of most of his faculties, but perhaps his tongue was not to be trusted.

  Perhaps he was not. What had he been thinking?

  Anne smiled. “I always thought drink would make one more honest, not less.”

  Timothy opened his mouth, but then closed it again. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps passing thoughts he had forced down were flowing from his lips thanks to the drink.

  Truth had been guarded after Louise… The worst arguments were when they were most honest with each other, sharing their mutual hatred and frustrations, and then finding themselves in bed together, angrily taking whatever pleasure they could from each other…

  “I think you have excellent intentions,” said Anne quietly, stirring Timothy from his reverie. “I…like you, you know that. I just do not think I wish to have my heart broken because of an impossibility.”

  It was difficult not to feel guilty. He had lied to her, coerced her to pretend to be his wife, wished to take her into his bed––and he was still lying to her. Anne did not have the full truth of the matter with Louise, and she must feel it, the hidden truth below the surface.

  Anne did not respond to his sentence, at least not in words [what sentence?]. Instead, she rose and stepped forward, seating herself beside him on the sofa.

  Timothy swallowed. It was bad enough having her just out of reach…but now she was very much within reach.

  “Everyone has secrets,” Anne said softly. “Everyone has a past. The question is, what is the future?”

  He did not think. Thinking was beyond him at this point anyway; the double intoxication of whiskey and woman was too much.

  The distance he had to close between her lips and his was very slight, and he made it in a moment. God’s teeth, she was so sweet, so warm, so willing. Anne’s hands moved to his neck, pulling him closer, and Timothy lost himself in a kiss that was both passionate and tender until his body quivered with desire.

  And then it was over.

  “I…I do not think we should get into the habit of that,” said Anne, her eyes filled with the same desire Timothy felt. “However much we might want to.”

  Timothy nodded, unable to speak. God, his entire mind was befuddled. He wanted to breathe her in, touch her, explore the pleasure he knew he could give her.

  “That was the best kiss…” his voice trailed off.

  She smiled. “You make my top three.”

  “I––I what?” Timothy stared, utterly lost. Top three? Who on earth had she––

  But Anne was laughing. “I am just teasing you, Timothy. Has no one ever teased you before?”

  He swallowed. “No, I don’t think so. No lady has, anyway.”

  Anne took his hand. “No, I can see they have not. You will have to get accustomed to it, I'm afraid. The longer I am here, the more it will occur.”

  Timothy nodded, unable to speak, all of his consciousness concentrating on the warm fingers making his own hand burn.

  Christ, Anne slotted into his life so well. How would he ever find someone like her? How could he bring another woman into this household with Anne in it? Siring an heir was nothing to this kind of happiness.

  “Well, it comes of being an only child, I suppose,” he said bracingly.

  “No siblings at all?”

  “Oh, I think my parents desperately wanted another child,” Timothy said. Had he ever told the story of his family to anyone before? “Yet none came. I have the impression that I was rather a miracle, my parents being married almost a decade before I arrived.”

  He was smiling. His parents had been good people. Far better than he was.

  Anne squeezed his hand. “Tell me about them.”

  Timothy hardly knew where to begin. “Well, they were wonderful parents, but very strict. I think, being the only child and a son too, they were worried I would grow sick and fade away. I was kept safe, protected––over-protected, in truth.”

  She did not say anything, but nodded silently. Timothy found it a rather strange sensation. The art of true listening. Had anyone ever truly listened to him in his entire life?

  Not like this. Not how Anne made him feel so safe.

  “Suffocated was, I think, the term I used in the last row I had with them,” he said bitterly. “As soon as I reached my majority, I was out of here and into…well, less than reputable company.”

  There was a wry smile on Anne’s face. “I can imagine.”

  It was a mercy she could not, Timothy thought privately, and a good thing to. He did not wish to demean himself in her eyes, however much he probably deserved it.

  God, he had never told anyone this before. He had never been this open before.

  “It sounds as though they loved you very much,” she said softly.

  Timothy swallowed. “They did. I hurt them very badly, and it is something I have never quite forgiven myself for.”

  “Forgiven yourself?”

  If only he hadn’t drunk so much damned whiskey. Why else were these secrets spilling from his lips?

  “My father received news I had…” Timothy hesitated. “Well, it does not matter. It was an entirely false report, of course, but the letter from a well-meaning acquaintance––the Merriweathers, you will meet them at the ball––informed him of my death.”

  Anne raised an eyebrow. “Reports of your death were evidently exaggerated.”

  He had to laugh at that. “Indeed. But it did not prevent my father from falling into a sickness from which he did not recover. My mother swiftly followed, before I could reach them, present myself to them as literal living proof. Broken heart.”

  The pain of that moment had never truly left him. It was a miracle he was able to speak of it at all.

  Anne placed a hand on his arm. Warm, comforting. “You did nothing wrong.”

  “If I had not left, no false rumors could have so injured them,” said Timothy resentfully. “I often think how much they would have doted on Frances. They would have liked you.”

  His eyes met hers. Damn, but he was meandering into dangerous territory.

  “I think,” he said quietly. “I should go to bed.”

  Anne glanced at her pocket watch. “I, too. Good evening, my lord.”

  She had slipped through his fingers and out of the room before Timothy could say another word, though what it would have been, he could not tell.

  He did not trust himself in her presence. He never would now. Not now he was starting to fall in love with her. Blast it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  28 November 1812

  “You’re absolutely sure?” Each syllable dripping with concern.

  Anne was not usually this anxious. She was not usually so attached to her charge. Her gaze moved from the bright-eyed child excited about the coming adventure, and her supremely confident father.

  “Oh, I was already doing it when I was her age,” he said calmly, the wintery wind tugging at his hair. “Do not worry.”

  Anne bit her lip. His words were comforting, yet did nothing to quell her concern. Surely this was too soon. Frances was but a child. Why was she so sure she could do this?

  “I said, do not worry,” added Timothy with a brief smile. “When I was her age, I could already ride. There will be nothing to it.”

  Anne nodded. It was impossible not to compare the size of the child to the size of the pony; power in every inch of its muscles, shaking its head fretfully.

  A pony like that may be nothing compared to her––Anne was not even sure whether her feet would be lifted off the ground if she mounted it––but Frances?

  The child did not even come up to its shoulder. What if the beast did not take to Frances? What if the pony should bolt––what if Frances fell to the ground?

  “Oooohh,” murmured Frances, raising an unquivering hand to pat the pony.

  Anne’s heart softened, despite her fear. There was no such emotion on the child’s face. She did not seem even aware the animal could hurt her.

  There was something about being a child. An innocence Anne had forgotten, no matter how clearly she thought she could remember her own childhood.

  It had not yet occurred to Frances that the pony was something to be feared. Was she, her governess, to teach her that particular lesson?

  “Look, Papa, I'm stroking it!” Frances squealed.

  The pony snorted and shook its neck, but that did nothing more than please the child, who clapped her hands.

  It was, Anne had to admit, a rather wonderful thing for a child with no playmates, who had relied entirely on her own imagination for animal and human playfellows, to find oneself standing before a real life animal.

  “Good girl,” said Timothy briefly, catching Anne’s eye and grinning.

  Anne smiled weakly. Yes, Frances was being remarkably good––although if she was any judge, it was more the excitement of spending more than five minutes with her father that was giving her the most amount of joy.

  Her gaze slipped back to the pony. It looked docile enough, but she was hardly an expert. She could ride, just about, but when her father had died, many horses had to be sold. Working beasts had remained. As she looked at the pony, it appeared to grow larger.

  Anne swallowed. Timothy seemed content, moving around it and putting on the bridle and saddle and all the accoutrements Frances would need.

  She should trust him. He knew what was best for his daughter. He was not likely to put the child in danger just to prove a point to her.

  She could not shake the worry. There was something about Frances; she had wormed her way into Anne’s heart, and she had not even noticed. While her heart beat nervously, it did not beat for herself alone.

  If she was honest, and she would never admit this to anyone else in the house…she was beginning to consider Frances as her own. Almost like her own daughter.

  It was because she was so young, Anne had decided. Or because she would be playing the part of countess. Or a strange reflection of her growing yet forbidden affection for the child’s father.

  Whatever it was, it was clouding her judgement, and Miss Clarke would never approve.

  “’Tis quite easy to find oneself attached,” Miss Clarke had said stiffly, as though she had never been attached to anything in her life. “Especially if there is but one child in the house, and even more so if that child is young.”

  At the time, Anne had just returned from her first ever assignment: six children, all under the age of ten. The idea of being attached to a child had seemed incomprehensible.

  “It is easy I say to get attached, and I do not blame the sentiment,” Miss Clarke had continued, her entire demeanor suggesting the contrary. “While you should care about the wellbeing of the child, one cannot consider the child your own. You are a servant. You will leave one day, and they will never remember your name.”

  Anne swallowed, watching as Frances was encouraged by her father to gently pet the creature on the nose.

  They will never remember your name.

  Well, while that might be true––though the thought seared her heart––she still had a duty. She could not permit this to go forward if it put the child in danger.

  She took a deep breath. It was vital she remained calm, and sounded neutral when she expressed her concerns. She would get nowhere if––

  “Whoops! Careful, girl,” Timothy said briskly, pulling the pony’s head up to, Anne was sure, prevent it from taking a bite out of the child. “Gentle strokes, like this.”

  To her horror, Anne saw that instead of immediately removing the child and returning the pony to the stables, he encouraged Frances to reach out once more to pet the nose of the pony.

  “Are you…” Anne swallowed. She must not permit her voice to waver. “Are you sure, Frances, that you would like to go riding?”