Anne looked around the luscious drawing room––the third she was aware of. “No,” she said with a sense of irony she did not think he understood. “I suppose not.”

  “It is assumed by many that I have divorced my wife, and that I am therefore free to marry,” continued the earl, as if she had not spoken. “I am tired of being chased by matchmakers, tired of avoiding young misses who wish to catch me. If everyone knew my wife was––I mean, she has been away for such a long time, it is natural what everyone assumes.”

  Anne swallowed. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask whether the earl did indeed divorce his wife before he sent her away––for that was the only reasonable answer to this riddle, was it not?

  His suggestion was a wild idea, a foolish one––and yet her sense of adventure was rising within her.

  To be a countess. To pretend to be a countess, she corrected silently. What a scheme! Being a governess was all very well, but it gave little occasion for merriment.

  To attend a ball, properly attend, nay, to host it with the earl at her side…

  “You have thought about this carefully, haven’t you?” she asked quietly.

  The earl nodded. “I would not ask if I did not think it would work. You have…a passing likeness, shall we say. Few here met her, and that was a long time ago.”

  Anne hesitated. There was a secret here. The patter of childish play continued to her left, and she glanced at Frances.

  Poor, motherless child. Did she not deserve to know what happened to her mother?

  Perhaps, if she stayed, if she took on this ridiculous role the earl proposed…perhaps then, she would discover the truth. Maybe even find the countess. Bring her back.

  “I…I will do it.” To her surprise, Anne found her voice was hoarse.

  “You will?”

  Anne laughed dryly. “You sound surprised, my lord. Are you accustomed to refusals of your requests?”

  “You do not wish for a reward, some sort of additional payment?”

  She shook her head. “I am a governess of discretion and that means if that is what you need, I will help you.”

  At her words, the earl smiled broadly––and that was when Anne’s heart lurched painfully. Painfully, and yet with a sweetness that she had never felt before.

  His smile did something to her, something she knew instinctively would lead to trouble. It was going to be interesting, pretending to be Timothy Lexington’s wife.

  Chapter Six

  20 November 1812

  “And she will arrive…?”

  “Within the hour, my lord,” said Dewey smoothly.

  Timothy nodded. Within the hour. Fewer than sixty minutes to get his damn nerves under control, make sure he could speak like an adult let alone a gentleman, and tell Miss Gilbert what was expected.

  No easy task when his heart was racing as though he had just finished a hunt.

  “And you have told her?”

  The butler turned to face his master, seated at the breakfast table. “I have informed Madame Griffon that the countess requires a new gown for the Christmas ball. That is all. She was most…intrigued, is I think the word I would use.”

  Yes, I bet she was, thought Timothy wryly. “Thank you, Dewey.”

  The butler bowed and turned to the sideboard. Every item had to be straightened, inspected, ensured it had been polished adequately. Woe betide any footman who found himself on the receiving end of Mr. Dewey’s wrath.

  Timothy leaned back and looked at his breakfast. The remnants of his toast, the eggs gone, leaving nothing but a yellow stain across his plate.

  His eyes were unseeing, however, his mind occupied on what would be accomplished in the next hour.

  The first visit to the castle of a person outside the household who would meet…the countess.

  It was up to her, the governess, the woman who had been chosen for her discretion and yet presented quite an opportunity with that resemblance to his wife, to impress the dressmaker and all his guests with her wit and charm.

  She was the one who should be nervous. She should be the one waking up in the night in a cold sweat, wondering whether she had made a terrible mistake in accepting this role.

  Yet he was the one who had it all to lose.

  “More eggs, my lord?”

  Timothy jumped. “What?”

  Dewey was standing to his right with the platter of fried eggs in one hand and a serving tong in the other. “Eggs?”

  “No,” said Timothy shortly. “No, thank you.”

  The butler inclined his head and returned the platter to the sideboard.

  It was foolish to be this jumpy, the earl told himself. As he attempted to force down emotions rocketing through his mind, the faster they soared up, reminding him of the dangers he undertook by even considering this rash charade.

  If it was rash. If he succeeded, if he could stop, once and for all, all these petty flirtations because society believed he was available for matrimony…

  Timothy breathed out slowly as the butler moved quietly around the room. All he had to do was hold his nerve. Easier said than done. As the butler moved another platter with a slight noise, Timothy found his temper unable to be denied.

  “For God’s sake, Dewey, can you not leave them?” he snapped.

  Dewey looked at his master with some surprise. “Of course, my lord. I will see to this later. Good morning.”

  With a deep bow, the butler left the earl in silence. Timothy took great pleasure in swearing loudly with language he would never permit Frances to even hear.

  Well, he may as well get it out of his system before he saw Miss Gilbert again. Christ alive, he was taking a risk. Asking the dressmaker to come so far in advance of the ball?

  But she had to be tested at some point. Miss Gilbert would need practice, and an old dressmaker who had never met Louise was a good enough test to see how much training she really needed.

  Timothy picked up a teaspoon idly and twirled it. The metal caught the candlelight, spinning its beam of light around the room.

  Was he getting himself into the most awful trouble? Was he setting himself up for failure––worse, for scandal, by offering his governess the chance to play at being a countess for a night?

  His jaw tightened. He was, and worse, he was almost certain that attending that ball would be the gentleman for whom Louise had betrayed him.

  He was certainly local. She had seen him frequently, he was sure, and the knowledge he had been cuckolded by someone he knew tormented him for God knew how long.

  Since the moment she had laughed in his face.

  “You really think you have been the only one?”

  The teaspoon dropped to the table with a clatter. There would be one person at the Christmas ball who would know Miss Gilbert was not the Countess of Clarcton.

  “I…I will do it.”

  A dry smile crept over his face. No matter the consequences, it appeared the governess was game. Brave, really. She had no idea what she was getting herself into, and she wouldn’t for some time, if at all.

  It was the resemblance to Louise that had done it. He had not been auditioning for false wives when he had journeyed to London; it was a governess he had sought, and he had gone to the best place to find them.

  What a shock he had received when she had turned around, that piercing blue stare affixed on him as he was so accustomed to.

  Louise. Anne. Coincidence, surely?

  Timothy rose, feet unable to stay still any longer, moving around the room like a caged animal, unable to rest.

  How would he react to her, convince everyone she was, indeed, his wife? How could he be that close to her for so long? How would they convince the world, for they would need to, that they were in love?

  He laughed in the silent room. What was he thinking? His mind had grown wild and tangled the longer he had remained here. Worrying whether acquaintances would be convinced of his affections for his wife?

  What nonsense. He could not think of a single gentleman who had any real feelings for his spouse.

  No, it was marriage they were feigning, not sentiment. They were rarely the same.

  The heavy, jangling noise of the front doorbell echoed through the room. Timothy winced. It had been his father who had insisted the entire place rattle with that noise.

  Still, it gave him sufficient forewarning, and never before had that time been more prescient. That must be the dressmaker. He would have to hurry. Miss Gilbert would need to be briefed before she encountered the dressmaker. It was imperative she understand––the plan depended on it.

  If they were to succeed, the dressmaker had to be convinced she was in the presence not of a mere woman plucked out of obscurity, but a countess, born and bred to nobility.

  It was too much to hope she could be left to her own devices.

  Striding out of the breakfast room, waiting for the first catastrophe, Timothy took a left, rather than a right towards the Great Hall to avoid meeting the dressmaker.

  Instead, he took the largely forgotten backstairs, slipped through the Japanese room that had been closed up when his mother had died, and opened a door into the main corridor.

  He did not hesitate. He did not knock. He wondered why when Timothy opened the door unceremoniously to the governess’ bedchamber and found her half-dressed.

  “Get out of––my lord!”

  “I-I-I did not mean…” spluttered Timothy, absolutely unable to take his eyes from the vision of beauty before him, knowing with every frantic heartbeat that what he was doing was wrong.

  Yet so right.

  “Please, go away!” said Miss Gilbert, cheeks scarlet as she stood in her petticoat and corset but not much else, gown now held over her breasts. “My lord!”

  “Right. Right!” said the earl hastily, backing out of the room and closing the door.

  He had not wanted to. Everything in him had cried out to stay and take in more of the delectable sight he had only glimpsed.

  Christ and all the saints above, but she was beautiful. More, she was tantalizing. Who could have guessed underneath all that starch and linen there was such a goddess beneath?

  He leaned against the wall, wiping sweat off his forehead.

  It would do no good to lose his head now. Yes, there was an attraction there. He would be a fool to deny it. Any man would find himself stirring at that sight of a woman.

  Timothy remembered the sharp look Miss Gilbert had just given him, and smiled. Well, they always said there was something about governesses, didn’t they? Something formidable, something about a woman giving orders.

  This was daft, he told himself. It was his monk-like existence which was giving him this strong reaction. He had not permitted himself to go near a woman for over two years.

  After all the palaver Louise had brought to his door, after all the pain she had caused, the nightmare she had left him with…

  No woman had seemed worth it, after that, and who could blame him?

  But now…

  “Don’t you knock?” came the irate voice of Miss Gilbert through the door.

  Timothy stifled a laugh. Well, it was funny, and he rarely had any occasion to smile as it was. “I have never needed to. This is my home, Miss Gilbert.”

  “Well, you need to now,” was the response through the door, along with the sound of linens being tied [can linens being tied be heard?], “or there will be hell to pay, bargain or no bargain!”

  He did not attempt to stifle his laugh now. Oh, it did his heart good to have some sort of merriment in his life. Why had he crept away from joy, allowed it to leave his life?

  “I need to talk to you,” he said quietly. “Now.”

  “And you will do so when I am properly dressed!”

  There was no point arguing. He could open that door and tell her he had no interest in seeing her because he had come to prepare her for the first stage of the agreed façade.

  And yet declaration would be a lie, wouldn’t it?

  Timothy swallowed. By God, he did want to see more. More of Miss Gilbert promised to be quite a sight indeed.

  The door opened to reveal a governess with scarlet cheeks and a fierce expression.

  “You will have to get used to that,” he said mildly, hoping she could not see how flustered the encounter had made him in turn. “We are husband and wife, after all.”

  There was a gentle teasing in his tone which he had hoped would make her laugh, break the tension between them.

  It did nothing of the sort.

  “Pretending to be your wife does not give you access to my bedchamber,” said Miss Gilbert with a ferocious glare.

  Timothy almost took a physical step back. Of course, that was what she must have thought when he had stormed into her bedchamber with no regard for her privacy.

  God damnit, he was no cad! Heat seared his lungs at the very suggestion he would attempt to take advantage. Was that what she had thought when he had made the suggestion? Did she believe he was making such a demand?

  “You do not wish for a reward, some sort of additional payment?”

  It had not been further from his mind at the time, but now in hindsight he could see how she could take it in such a manner. But she had said yes. Did that mean she had opened herself to the possibility he could bed her as part of this façade? She was ripe for the plucking, and he could easily put off the dressmaker for twenty minutes while they…

  No. Timothy forced his mind away from such desire, counselling himself silently as the governess stood waiting for his reply.

  No. He was not that sort of man or master. Though she was beautiful and surely sweet to the touch, he would not take her due to her sense of obligation.

  No, if he kissed Miss Anne Gilbert, it would be because she wanted it.

  “Well?” she said, cutting through his thoughts. “I await your reason, my lord, as to why it was so necessary to barrage your way into my bedchamber this early in the morning?”

  Timothy swallowed. Control, that was what he needed. He had to take control.

  “It was for no such nefarious deeds, I can assure you,” he said as coldly as possible. “I have a dressmaker arriving for you, and even now I believe she is below.”

  Miss Gilbert’s fierce look disappeared immediately. “Below? Now?”

  Timothy nodded. “I have asked Dewey to keep her downstairs for at least thirty minutes from her arrival, but that was five minutes ago, and we have not a moment to lose.”

  There was fear on her face now, all the bravado gone. “But she is here, now? I had not believed I would be pretending to…to be your wife so suddenly.”

  “I thought it best not to worry you ahead of time,” lied Timothy. Well, he was hardly going to admit that he had forgotten to forewarn her, was he? “We can consider this a practice. I am sure you will be perfectly––”

  “What is my name?” Miss Gilbert said urgently––not an unfair question, Timothy had to admit. “What is my excuse for being out of sight of everyone for years?”

  A flash of memory resurfaced in Timothy’s mind, despite all his efforts. A face, blonde hair swept around it, tear strained or rain dampened, he could not tell. The screams…

  “You have been away from your health,” he said, more firmly than he felt. “Ill health. Ladies are famously delicate.”

  “I am not ready,” said Miss Gilbert, her voice strained, eyes wide. “We have made no preparations, I have not considered––”

  “Practice,” said Timothy firmly. “Come, I will show you our bedchamber.”

  Taking her arm in his hand, he started down the corridor.

  “Our bedchamber?”

  Timothy’s jaw tightened. “Yes, well…a matter of speech. Technically they are two interconnected rooms. We will need to get into the habit of speaking of our home, our daughter, that sort of thing, but…but that does not mean you will be sleeping here.”

  It was fortunate indeed Miss Gilbert’s attention was focused on the imminent arrival of the dressmaker, for the mere thought of her in his bed was making Timothy distracted.

  It would never do for her to see the effect she was having on him. On parts of him.

  “What is my name? What is your wife’s name?”

  Timothy hesitated as they turned a corner. He had, so far, managed to avoid naming his wife in the governess’s presence; a strange sense of foreboding always overcame him when he mentioned it. His gut told him keeping it from her a little while longer would do him good.

  The little she really knew about Louise, the better.

  “You will be known as the countess, and that is good enough,” he said aloud. “There will be no need for names. Fewer opportunities to make mistakes.”

  He expected Miss Gilbert to challenge this. Surely this would raise her suspicions beyond what she could reasonably expect to bear.

  Yet she nodded as they stopped outside a pair of double doors. “Do all the servants know––the household, are they aware of the…the subterfuge?”

  Timothy nodded. “I trust them all with my life––no, no more time for questions. Here we are.”

  Releasing her arm, he opened the pair of doors to reveal his bedchamber.

  It was gaudy, he knew, but something in him wished Miss Gilbert to be impressed. To find this most secret and private part of his life as wonderful as he found it.

  By the look on her face, his wish was granted.

  “My goodness,” Miss Gilbert breathed as she stepped inside.

  Timothy followed her, shutting the doors behind them. It was easy to forget sometimes, when one lived in the same environs day after day, that one lived in splendor.

  Because it was splendorous, his bedchamber. Designed by a renowned artist over fifty years ago, there was more velvet than was necessary, a painting ceiling cleverly picked out with gold, and furniture even a duke would be envious of.

  “My lord…” breathed the governess.

  “Yes, yes, it’s all very pretty,” said Timothy hastily. “Look, you need to familiarize yourself with the place, or Madame Griffon––”

  “Who?” asked Miss Gilbert as she picked up a hairbrush from the dressing table.

  “The dressmaker,” Timothy said. Why couldn’t the woman focus on what was important? “Look, it’s a hairbrush, not an enigma. Your gowns are here, jewels here…”