“You are extraordinarily loyal, you know.”

  Timothy’s head jerked up. Miss Merriweather had a wry smile, something more akin to what he was accustomed to––yet there was something sad playing about the mouth.

  “Loyal?” repeated Timothy.

  “I had heard rumors…well, not even rumors. Whispers,” said Miss Merriweather, her face pink. “I admit I gave them credence, as she was away so long. Whispers she had been disloyal to you, my lord.”

  It was all he could do to keep his face straight. So, only whispers had left the castle about Louise’s treachery, then? That was remarkably good fortune. If Miss Merriweather knew the truth…

  “I am always loyal to those who are loyal to me,” he said aloud, and then despite himself he added, “and the countess is a woman of discretion.”

  Well, it was true. Even if it was their private joke that Miss Merriweather could not understand.

  Yet she seemed to understand something he had not intended to communicate.

  “You love her,” she said simply, a wistful expression on her face. “I will not come between you. May I one day be blessed with such a marriage. Good day, my lord.”

  Without another word, she had nudged her mare onwards.

  Timothy expected his ego to be flattered by such a statement, for while Miss Merriweather was irritating, she was a pretty thing. Yet his heart was entirely untouched. When he looked within, when he attempted to decipher the feelings storming in his soul, all he found was…

  Anne.

  It was a cold, sudden thought, and it rocked him to the core. Anne. What was he supposed to do with the realization that his governess––governess!––had claimed his heart?

  A desire to be with her overwhelmed him, unbidden but unarguable.

  “Come on, Admiral,” he said quietly, nudging his stallion forward.

  It took half an hour to return to the castle. Gordon was waiting.

  “You are back sooner than I had thought, my lord,” he said cheerfully.

  Timothy nodded. “Yes,” he said with no explanation.

  His riding boots stamped and echoed in the side hallway as he entered his home. For the first time, he felt like a stranger. Where was she? Would she accept his intrusion if she was still in the bedchamber––or was it more likely that she had retreated to her own rooms?

  A giggle echoed down the corridor. “But if we are monkeys, then what will we eat?”

  “Banananas!” [I’m thinking this is spelled this way on purpose, as the joke, but just in case, want to point it out] came Frances’s, as laughter rang out at their own joke.

  A soft smile spread across Timothy’s face. His feet took him down the corridor, leaving a trail of mud no doubt for Mrs. Seton to discover, towards the source of all the noise.

  There they were. The door was ajar and he watched as Anne, dressed once again in her simple, plain governess gown, was leaping about the room, waving her arms around like a monkey making the most ridiculous faces.

  Timothy smiled, but it was nothing to Frances’s response. She giggled wildly as she attempted to follow her governess’s movements around the room.

  “I'm a monkey!” she cried happily, her eyes bright and affixed on Anne.

  Timothy watched them, the two women in his life who had captured his heart in entirely different ways.

  This could be your life, a small voice whispered. Frances happy, Anne with you.

  If you want it, you have to take it.

  “And here’s Papa Monkey!” he found himself crying, stepping into the room.

  Frances squealed with joy and rushed over. “I'm a monkey, Papa!”

  “I can see that,” said Timothy with a laugh, pulling her into his arms. By God, she was getting big. The day would soon come when he would not be able to lift her. She was growing so fast.

  “And Anne is a monkey too!”

  Timothy looked at Anne, cheeks were seared with color. “Is she indeed?”

  Anne swallowed. “Good afternoon, my lord. I must thank you for a lovely day yesterday.”

  “And the evening?” enquired Timothy with a raised eyebrow.

  Why did it do his soul good to see her blush?

  “Yes, the ball was wonderful,” she said a little defiantly.

  Timothy allowed Frances to slip to the floor, and she continued racing around the room being a monkey.

  “And did you enjoy,” Timothy asked in a low voice, taking a step closer to the woman setting his body on fire, “the finale?”

  Anne’s cheeks flushed even darker. Her eyes darted to Frances before responding quietly, “You know I did.”

  Pleasure rushed through Timothy’s heart. God, he could not remember the last time Louise had ever expressed joy in their lovemaking. Now he thought about it, he could not remember her expressing joy in anything.

  He had never been so lonely as when Louise had been here.

  But the moment Anne had stepped across his threshold…

  “It must not happen again, of course.”

  Timothy snapped back to the woman before him. Her gaze was now truly defiant, her cheeks cooled, and her stance strong.

  “Not happen again?” he repeated. “Why not?”

  There was an iron clad certainly in her gaze which Timothy had not seen before.

  “You are asking me to be your…your M-I-S-T-R-E-S-S,” she spelled out, glancing at Frances. “Aren’t you?”

  If only the answer would naturally come to his mouth. Timothy stared, unsure how to respond. What was he asking? There was no chance of offering matrimony.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “’Tis complicated.”

  “I find it difficult, never knowing when I am to be your countess again.”

  “I don’t know what this is,” Timothy confessed. God, he felt so vulnerable saying this to her. How did she have this ability to draw the very best from him?

  Anne shook her head. “Neither do I.”

  Timothy wanted to reach out and take her hand, but he knew it would be a mistake to do that. Once he touched her again…

  “I must be honest with you,” he said instead. Anything to distract him from the growing desire. “Usually, with people of my rank…well, you’d become…that…until I tired of you, and then I’d get rid of you. Pension you off somewhere.”

  He thought for a moment that she had taken offense at his words, but then she nodded.

  “Miss Tilbury.”

  “Now, come on,” protested Timothy, slightly hurt at the comparison. “I would never treat you like old Marnmouth did! The blaggard didn’t––this would be different!”

  “So you are asking me?” Anne stepped closer, rising his blood pressure, and glanced at Frances before she continued. “You are asking me to be your mistress?”

  Timothy knew he had gone too far; he felt it in his bones, but in case he hadn’t, it was clear on Anne’s face. Her cheeks flushed, the color spreading to her décolletage, and she bit her lip.

  “Look,” Timothy said hastily. He had to say something, ensure she knew he had not meant… “Anne, there are no expectations from me. Just…just hopes.”

  Why did he so desperately hope she would smile, that she would agree to whatever he wanted? God, he craved her, but not under any circumstances. If she wanted a ring on her finger, then she was going to be disappointed.

  “I will have to think,” she said quietly. “Do you need––I mean, how much time do I have to think?”

  “I would never…” Timothy took a deep breath. How could he explain this? “Your position in this household, it is separate to any hopes I have.”

  Anne’s piercing gaze affixed him once more, and he found he could not speak. Damn and blast it, he was an earl! He should not be so swiftly overwhelmed by this woman, any woman!

  “I know,” she said softly into the silence. “I trust you, and I know you would not do anything against my will, nor hold my position here as governess over me to exact what you wish for.”

  Timothy nodded. He did not play those sorts of games. Not after he had been such an unwilling participant.

  “You have proven you are a-a good man,” Anne said, stumbling over her words.

  “I know that,” he said instead, “but…well, uneven matches have been made.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Timothy knew he had gone too far. Anne gasped, her hand raised to her mouth, and Timothy felt a flush sear his own cheeks––a rare occurrence.

  A trip down the aisle for himself and Miss Gilbert, his governess?

  No, society would never accept it. He would never accept it; he could do no such thing.

  No matter how much he wanted to.

  “I did not mean,” he began hastily.

  Anne’s smile flickered then disappeared. “Well, I think you need to decide that before you ask me anything else. You were the one who asked for the favor, my lord. I have performed that favor. The ball is very much in your court.”

  Timothy smiled. “You are right. I am usually quite decisive, you will be pleased to hear. It will not take me long to…I mean, it was mere weeks after I met Louise that I married her.”

  It was only then he realized he had never spoken her name to Anne before. Damn and blast, he had been so careful––but that was her beauty, loosening his lips.

  She was smiling.

  “What?” he said, defensively.

  “Oh, nothing,” Anne said quietly. “’Tis just strange. My cousin was Louise. It’s not a very common name, is it? I mean, I had several sisters and cousins, but the one closest to me in age was Louise.”

  Timothy nodded vaguely. “Yes, what a strange coincidence.”

  Frances chattered behind him, playing with some sort of nonsense toy, but he had eyes only for the woman before him

  Anne laughed, shaking her head. “Goodness, I have not thought of Louise in months—years, perhaps. That blonde hair, that petulant air. She always had to have her own way, did Louise, and the tantrums she used to throw if she didn’t! She put Frances to shame, for sure.”

  No.

  No, it was not possible. Timothy knew he was too sensitive, too conscious of the name Louise. It was simply not possible that––

  “And then she disappeared!” Anne said with a wry smile. “Or at least, that was what she wanted us all to think. Louise was always one for the dramatic, and though her mother––my aunt, of course––looked for her, Louise evidently did not wish to be found. Ah well. Just keep going, as we used to say.”

  An icy chill crept over his heart and could not be staved off by the passion he felt for the woman before him––not when she was confirming his most terrifying fears.

  His wife––his late wife––and Anne’s cousin were one and the same person.

  It was too much of a coincidence. Now he knew why there was such a resemblance between his bride and his governess. Cousins?

  The blonde hair, the petulance, the tantrums, all of that could be mere coincidence, that was true. But Louise had disappeared from her family’s life just as she appeared in his own, with no family in tow and no desire to make them known to him.

  Timothy could feel his breath catching in his throat, and though Anne chattered on, he could not take in a single word.

  “––sisters and cousins can be so close, but then we did live but five miles from each other…”

  Louise and Anne were cousins. She was part of Louise’s plan, of course she was. It was too much of a coincidence…was Anne here on Louise’s orders? Did she leave instructions with her family, if she was gone for too long, that this was where they could find her?

  Anne was her cousin.

  Bloody hell, he had been so easily fooled, so simply duped! He had allowed her into his home, his heart, his bed––and there was no possibility he could trust her now.

  Timothy cleared his throat. He had to get away.

  “Timothy?” Anne’s face was pained with concern––far too pained, Timothy realized. It was all a trick.

  She would never truly care for him. A governess, throwing herself at an earl?

  No, it was all a plot––this was Louise, somehow, he did not know how.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I-I…I am tired,” he lied. Any excuse to get away, he had to make it. “I have something to attend to––I need to…”

  He did not even finish his sentence, his voice trailing off as he walked away.

  “Think about what I said,” Anne called after him. “The ball is in your court, Timothy.”

  He closed the door behind him. He could not be in her presence a moment longer. Timothy reached the sanctuary of his bedchamber within minutes, and did something he had not done in a long time. He locked the door behind him.

  Falling onto the bed, Timothy looked at the ceiling and tried to slow his frantic breathing. His shoulders were tight, his heart racing, and his stomach churned as he tried to make sense of all he had just heard.

  Anne was Louise’s cousin. Was it possible that this was a true happenstance, or was Louise trying to control him even through the grave?

  Chapter Nineteen

  6 December 1812

  Anne drew back the curtains of her bedchamber and looked out over the heavy snow which had appeared overnight. There would be no parkland walk today, and any servants who wished to contradict their master’s approach to church would find it a difficult walk.

  She did not move from the window. Her gaze was unseeing, her mind too utterly distracted by thoughts she had been unable to ignore.

  It was only as the flush of desire had seeped away yesterday that Anne had realized what she had done.

  Betrayed herself. Lost her innocence to a man who had heard her declaration of love—her cheeks heated at the very memory––and yet said nothing in return.

  Of course he did not, Anne told herself as looked out at the frozen world which had appeared that morning. Why would an earl say anything of the kind to you?

  “You are so beautiful. So beautiful, Anne.”

  She could not dwell on that now. She would have plenty of time to run over and over that evening, as she had done every evening since.

  Timothy had his chance to offer her something, and other than that stilted conversation in the nursery, which had ended rather painfully unresolved, he had said naught of love, or devotion, or affection.

  “You are asking me to be your mistress?”

  Anne smiled sadly. She had been given a taste, just for one evening, of what it would be to be Timothy’s wife––and she had found it so delicious, it was painful to think she would never savor it again.

  Being his mistress…it was a proposition she would have found offensive mere months ago, and now here she was, actually considering it!

  Such men took mistresses, she knew, but they were harlots, women outside good society. Reputations lost, they had naught but the men they spread their legs for to support them.

  What would the servants think? What, and it was a terrifying thought, would Mrs. Seton think? Worse, what would Miss Clarke think?

  Her heart ached at such thoughts. It was painful to remember she had forbidden a recurrence of what had been the greatest connection she had ever known…

  “It must not happen again, of course.”

  She could not allow it to happen.

  While Timothy had been kind, and graciously not mentioned her foolish declaration of affections, which caused heat to rush through Anne’s chest once more, he had not returned her affections. He had shown her the ways of love, but he did not love her.

  A gaggle of figures appeared in the snow below her window. It appeared that some were venturing to church, then, though Anne had no desire for it. She could not bring herself to risk attending, however. It was too much to hope that no one would recognize her as the Countess of Clarcton.

  No, she would spend an hour or two exploring the castle. It would distract her from the last few days, and besides, there was so much of the place that she had never stepped into. Exploring would help her mind to slow, her heart to relax.

  Taking a step forward purposefully, Anne had descended the main staircase and walked through the Great Hall before she had any occasion to change her mind. She walked past the ballroom and resisted the temptation to go in there. She would be reminded of such happy and yet confusing memories of being in Timothy’s arms. Better she kept going.

  She had never been down this corridor any further than the ballroom, and when she had passed several doors, she opened one at random. Expecting to see a room, Anne saw to her surprise that it opened into a narrow staircase.

  Another servants’ staircase! She had believed she had found them all, and yet here was another.

  Anne looked around. Well, there was no reason she could not take it. Stepping forwards, she went up a floor and discovered a landing she had never seen before.

  Did this castle ever truly end? It was starting to feel as though the place was infinite. There was a window, and Anne looked out over the forest, to what was, from what she could make out a lake, glinting in the meager, frosty sunlight.

  There was only one door on this landing, and she stepped forward and opened it.

  Her mouth fell open. It was a dressing room, and what dresses! Gowns of silk, of satin, of muslin; lace and embroidery and gold thread filled her vision.

  The walls were lined with them, shelves open to the elements. Silks and gowns were folded carefully all along them, as though Anne had stepped into a modiste rather than a room in the castle.

  She reached out a hand and touched one of the gowns. Now she was closer, she could see a thick layer of dust overlaid the beautiful material.

  The place had not been entered in years. There were cobwebs in the corners, and the window was crusted with dirt. Every gown had the same gray sheen of dust.

  Something glittered. On a dressing table was a hairbrush and mirror set. Blonde hairs poked out of the brush.

  It was as though a woman, and Anne had a fairly good idea who, had stepped out of the room intending to return in a moment––and never had.

  Anne’s quick eyes saw a set of trunks just to the left of the dressing table, an incomplete set. The largest trunk, from what she could see, was gone.