The Impossible Governess
By
Margaret Bennett
Author’s Disclaimer: The contents of this novel are a work of fiction. Any personal name or
description is solely coincidental as is any event or incident. Likewise, the views and opinions
expressed in the text do not necessarily represent those of the author.
Published E-Book: February, 2013 by Margaret Anne Bennett Feuerbacher
PROLOGUE
London, 1812
“Really, Raynor, a bachelor living with a small female and no governess.” Lady Lydia Russell
pressed her thin white lips together disparagingly.
Anthony Russell Raynor, Viscount Raynor, observed the older woman’s dark hair, liberally
streaked with gray and pulled back into a tight bun, long straight nose, and hazel eyes. One might
possibly consider her a handsome woman for her age, except for the colorless lips perpetually pinched
in a sour expression, a harbinger of her temperament.
Beside her on the burgundy damask settee sat her daughter, Lady Olivia Cosgrove, blond, blueeyed, a diamond of the first water. Olivia and Raynor were related by her mother’s marriage to his
uncle, Sir Richard Russell. Throughout the visit, Olivia had said nothing. Instead, her large blue eyes
watched Raynor as she gave him small smiles of encouragement.
Lord Raynor snapped his eyebrows together. “Marissa had governesses.”
Lady Lydia held up a hand. “But none stay. It’s disgraceful.”
A discreet knock sounded on the drawing room door. Raynor and both women eyed the five-year
old the Honorable Marissa Raynor as she entered holding the hand of her nursery maid, Hattie.
“Ah, Marissa, come and meet your cousins,” Raynor said, rising from his chair. The child’s blond
curls, creamy complexion, ruby lips, and soulful brown eyes never failed to tweak his heartstrings.
Still, Raynor knew his niece’s cherub countenance was deceiving.
Led by Hattie, the child went to her uncle and daintily perched on the edge of the wingback chair
he’d vacated. Raynor quickly made introductions and was proud of Marissa’s polite responses.
“Would you like a treat?” he offered her as a reward.
Marissa nodded and slid off the chair. Slowly she inched her way over to the tea cart in front of
Lady Russell.
“Come here, child,” cooed Lady Russell encouragingly.
Marissa didn’t answer but stood on the other side of the cart, eyeing the dish of macaroons among
the plate of scones and small cakes and the silver teapot.
“Would you like a cookie, Marissa,” Raynor asked, noting how the child stared at the macaroons.
“Yes, please,” Marissa replied in a tiny voice.
“She may have one after she comes to me, Raynor.” Lady Russell spoke sharply, ignoring the
child’s response to her uncle. “Come here, Marissa.”
“I want a cookie,” Marissa said petulantly, then added, “please.”
“After you do as you are told,” Lady Russell replied curtly.
Feeling powerless as he watched the inevitable, Raynor stiffened. His little niece frowned and
pouted and clenched her tiny fists at her sides. Then at the top of her lungs, she began chanting, “I
want a cookie! I want a cookie!”
Raynor nodded to Hattie, and the nursery maid went to the screaming child, picked her up, and
carried her toward the door. The screeching never stopped, but blissfully receded as the pair made
their way down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor nursery.
Lady Russell tsked, tsked. “Really, Raynor, the child is completely out of control.”
Raynor arched one dark eyebrow. “You could do better?”
Lady Russell bristled. “It’s plain to see the child needs a woman’s influence. Besides, she will
also have Olivia.” She nodded her head toward her daughter. “No doubt the child will benefit with her
cousin living nearby. They will be close, like sisters.”
“We’ve been through this before, Lydia,” Raynor said, trying to rein in his anger. “As the closest
blood relative, my brother’s daughter is my ward. I will maintain Marissa’s fortune.”
Lady Russell’s thin nostrils flared as she glowered at him. “Are you insinuating—“
“I am insinuating nothing,” Raynor said. He was tired of this woman trying to assume
responsibility for his brother’s only child. “My decision will not change.”
Rising, Lady Russell said, “I have every right to see my niece.”
Raynor met her gaze. “Whenever you like, feel free to come by and visit.”
Lady Olivia Cosgrove gracefully rose and walked over to Raynor. She placed a hand on his
sleeve. “Forgive Mother, Anthony,” she said in dulcet tones. “She is truly concerned for Marissa’s
welfare. We all are.” She smiled and gave his arm a squeeze. “We’ll come see the child another
day.”
~~~~~
“Hmmp.” Lady Russell plopped down on the carriage seat, then turned to her daughter. “You
greatly disappointed me, Olivia. You did not say one word in defense of my arguments.”
Olivia Cosgrove tugged at her kid gloves while eying the palatial façade of Lord Raynor’s Curzon
Street townhouse. “Really, Mother, you did little more than make Anthony dig in his heels.”
“The child is worth a fortune, Olivia. And Raynor certainly doesn’t need a shilling of it.”
“Yes, Mother. Nor shall he have it,” Olivia replied with a sly smile.
“And just how do you propose for that to happen?”
“Anthony and I are on excellent terms. I will simply marry him,” Olivia said.
Her mother noted the determined glint in Olivia’s eyes. “That’s all well and good for you, but my
problems won’t be solved.”
“Dear Mother,” Olivia said letting out a melodious laugh. “I certainly don’t want to contend with
someone else’s brat. After we are married, I will convince Anthony to give the child to you and
papa.”
*** Chapter 1 ***
The morning had been no different than the other two previous visits, thought the Honorable Miss
Georgeanne Forsythe. As before, she’d had to wait over two hours before being admitted into the
austere office of the Hawkins Employment Agency for Domestics. A shiver ran through her slender
frame as she stood in front of the formidable agency owner. She met Mrs. Hawkins’s cold gray stare.
Georgeanne squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and began to relate the events of yet another
dismissal.
“Well,” the proprietress began disparagingly, “I cannot fathom what more you expect of me, Miss
Forsythe. I have tried to be compassionate, taking into account your situation and knowing you would
not fare well in anything other than a genteel establishment. Accordingly, you were assigned to two
perfectly acceptable positions. Yet, you have managed to lose both positions under adverse
circumstances.”
“But, Miss Hawkins—“
“Mrs. Hawkins,” interrupted the agency owner, pushing up her wire-rimmed spectacles. There
was no Mr. Hawkins. There never had been. But the shrewd business woman knew it would bode ill
for her thriving agency if that ever became common knowledge. Her clientele would never accept the
fact that a spinster was capable of running a successful agency without the guiding hand of a superior
male.
“Yes, I am sorry, Mrs. Hawkins,” Georgeanne replied, her vivid green eyes squarely meeting two
unflinching gray ones. “As I was saying, the Fenches’ children were a delight. But I ask you madam,
what would you have me do? Mr. Fench grabbed the neck of my dress. Why, he ripped the bodice.”
“Perhaps if you had worn a more decorous gown. . . “
“Fustian! It was one of my better dresses that I wore to church on Sundays, and never have I had
to resort to putting a scrap of lace in my bosom. No, I tell you that lecherous old goat was simply
trying to have his way with me.”
“But to blacken the gentleman’s eye was most unseemly.” Clearly, mused Mrs. Hawkins, she’d
have to eat a lot of humble pie to keep Mrs. Fench as a client, thanks to this young miss.
“I tell you he would not listen and gave me little choice in the matter,” Georgeanne persisted,
feeling the heat of an angry bloom gracing her cheeks.
“It is all of a piece, Miss Forsythe, for it matters very little. Unfortunately, with your background
and previous failure, I have nothing available for you.”
“I am desperate, Mrs. Hawkins. I will take anything.”
Mrs. Hawkins eyed the young girl before her. A mass of auburn curls defied staying in a neat bun
at the nape of her slender neck. Then with her heart-shaped face and creamy complexion, add a smile
that would beckon any man with blood running in his veins . . . well, the girl was too pretty by far for
her own good. Any matron housing a male over ten years old would never allow such a temptation
under her roof.
But you had to give the plucky chit credit. Not many of these pampered girls from her class
would have bothered to come here a first time, and now this, her third application. Most would have
preferred to beg a position as a poor relation rather than put themselves out for hire. In spite of her
misgiving, Mrs. Hawkins liked the girl.
“There is one possibility. . .” she said, her voice trailing off as her fingers beat a staccato rhythm
on her desk.
“Anything,” begged Georgeanne with her hands prayerfully clasped in front of her.
“Lord Raynor has a five year old niece who is an absolute terror. I will not mince words with
you. I have sent half a dozen governesses over, and only one made it through a whole month. As I see
it, Miss Forsythe, this is your last chance.”
Afraid to inquire what could possibly be wrong with the child, she asked, “What if Lord Raynor
refuses to hire me?”
“The gentleman has no choice. No one else will take the job.”
A short while later, Georgeanne sat in a smelly old hackney heading for Curzon Street. She
searched inside her beaded reticule for a small bit of linen edged with lace to wipe some of the grime
off the window. Although she’d been in London for several months, she couldn’t rid herself of how
different her circumstances were now compared to her last visit.
A soft sigh escaped her as she replaced the hanky, smeared with black filthy deposits from her
attempt to clean the glass. Not that she could see out any better than before her fruitless effort. What
did it matter anyway? The posh neighborhood of Mayfair with its tree lined walks, manicured parks,
and large mansions only served to remind her of the dramatic contrast between her current lifestyle
and that of two years ago when she was in London for her one and only Season.
As the hackney drew up alongside the curb in the middle of the block, Georgeanne observed an
imposing, gray stone edifice, rising four stories. Glancing around the square, she recognized the
house where she’d once attended a soiree with a young gentleman . . . ah, yes, Sir Roger Hempstead.
A nice sort, but not too plump in the pockets.
She shook her head at her own folly. That was in another lifetime. She was here now, sitting
before Lord Raynor’s townhouse with her whole future riding on his lordship accepting her as a
suitable governess.
On that depressing thought, she wrinkled her nose and muttered a most unladylike expletive under
her breath. She counted out a few precious coins to pay the driver, then lifting her skirts, ascended the
wide flagstone steps.
After a judicious use of the brass, lion’s head knocker, the door swung open. A short, balding
butler looked past her to the rickety cab pulling away. When he finally gave her his full attention,
Georgeanne stiffened at his raised eyebrows. Dutifully, she handed him the letter of introduction Mrs.
Hawkins had prepared and waited patiently as he digested its contents.
“You are applying for governess,” he asked disbelievingly in a deep, sonorous tone, which was
incongruous for a man of his small stature.
“Yes, I am,” she answered.
He stepped aside and let her enter the marble tiled foyer. After instructing her to be seated, he
left to inform Lord Raynor of her presence.
Georgeanne had barely sat down on a narrow cushioned bench against one wall when a door down
the hall opened. A darkly handsome gentleman emerged and called to the butler.
“Who is it, Bivens?”
“An applicant for governess from the domestic agency, my lord,” the butler replied.
“It’s about time. Show her in,” the gentleman said and ducked back inside the room.
Returning to where she sat, the dapper Bivens peered down his short nose at her before requesting
that she follow him. Georgeanne stood, and before she could smooth the silk skirts of her dark blue
gown from under the black velvet pelisse, Bivens started forward.
“Step lively,” he hissed. “It won’t do to keep his lordship waiting.” From his tone, it was obvious
he thought little of her prospects.
They walked toward the opened door. With a somewhat condescending sniff, the butler
announced her, impatiently gestured for her to make haste and enter the room. Then the door softly
closed behind her.
Georgeanne quickly scanned the large library. One look at the much used room told her this was
Lord Raynor’s domain. Leather bound books filled shelves from ceiling to floor on two sides. An
Axminster carpet covered a good portion of the oak floor boards. Heavy red drapes hung at the tall
windows overlooking a small garden. Several burgundy armchairs were grouped around a burgundy
and cream striped sofa facing a marble fireplace in which a banked fire glowed.
Her gaze drifted to the other side of the room. Lord Raynor stood behind a massive, carved oak
desk which did little to dwarf his size. With his aristocratic features, dark heavy eyebrows, strong
cheekbones, straight nose and square, obstinate jaw, he looked unapproachable. Black hair was swept
back off his high forehead. He was tall, nearly six feet, impeccably dressed in a coat of blue superfine
that required no padding to fill out his broad shoulders. A meticulously tied cravat tucked into a
yellow satin waistcoat accented the buff unmentionables hugging his slender hips.
Georgeanne hadn’t realized she’d been staring until he coughed. When he indicated she take a
seat, she sat in one of the two leather wingback chairs positioned in front of the desk. Ducking her
head to hide her embarrassment, she brushed her skirt and clasped her hands in her lap.
“Your references, please,” he demanded without preamble.
Georgeanne shifted uncomfortably in her chair and cleared her throat. “I am afraid I have none,
my lord,” she said, raising her eyes and meeting his unyielding gaze.
He had the most beautiful blue eyes, clear like a summer’s sky, framed with long dark lashes.
She wondered if his black eyebrows were still bushy when they weren’t drawn together. She hoped
not, for they quite ruined what otherwise was a very handsome countenance.
“Is this your first post?” he asked.
“Oh, no. This will be my third position.”
“Your third!” He sounded incredulous while his eyes studied her more closely. “How is that so?
You cannot possibly be more than eighteen.”
“I do thank you for the compliment.” Georgeanne beamed a bright smile. “Actually, I am two
years older than that. But I have only been, er . . . working for the past four months.”
“Two employers in a span of four months,” he repeated drily.
“Oh, dear, you do make it sound so very bad.” She gave him a beseeching look before taking a
deep breath. “I should explain, my lord, that my circumstances changed rather drastically. My old
nanny was able to help me get a position through the Hawkins Employment Agency, whereby I first
became a companion to Lady Melford. Unfortunately, her memory was a bit faulty. You see, at a
dinner party one night she complained of her neck hurting, and naturally, I suggested the obvious, that
she remove her pearls. Three long, heavy ropes, if you will. Anyway, she passed them to me to put in
my reticule for safekeeping.”
She paused to gauge his reaction. Seeing his whole attention was trained on her, she drew a
sustaining breath. “Well, what a to-do there was the next morning when she searched for the strands
in her jewel box and found them missing. I answered her summons carrying my reticule, crammed
full with the pearls. Of course, when Lady Melford saw it, she guessed where her precious necklace
was and nearly had an apoplexy. Then, she discharged me on the spot for thievery, of all things.”
Lord Raynor had observed her as she recited the incident. But he made no derogatory comment
and motioned for her to continue.
“I was last employed by Mrs. Fench as governess for her two children.”
“You did not care for your charges?”
“Oh, they were likable enough. It was my employer’s husband that was the problem. He
persisted in misinterpreting my position, if you understand my meaning,” she added, feeling the heat
of a blush rise in her cheeks.
“An interesting history to say the least,” he responded derisively.
“As to my qualifications,” Georgeanne hurried on, hoping to divert his thinking, “I have studied
history extensively, along with French and Latin. My mathematics is adequate, and I do consider
myself to be a progressive thinker,” she concluded with pride.
“You’re not a bluestocking?” he asked, his eyebrows snapping together.
“Good gracious, no! I mean, I do like to read but only romances,” she added. “I did enjoy Lord
Byron’s Childe Harold. But that would hardly classify me as a blue since so many ladies of the ton
think him quite acceptable, you know.”
“I am aware that he is well received. But I suspect it is because of his brooding good looks and
rank more than his talent, which I don’t mean to belittle in any way.” Lord Raynor rose and looked
gravely down on Georgeanne. “However, I am afraid, Miss Forsythe, you lack the experience I am
seeking in a governess for my niece. The child lost both parents a year ago and is still having
difficulty adjusting.”
“I see.” Georgeanne bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “I could, of course—“
“No, you could not,” he cut her off ruthlessly.
“I see.” Georgeanne accepted her dismissal with a rueful smile, rose, and turned to leave. She
was almost at the door when Mrs. Hawkins’s portentous words returned to her. Whirling around, she
took two steps toward the beetle-browed nobleman. “If I may be so bold, my lord?” she began
tentatively.
“You can save your breath, Miss Forsythe. You do not have the expertise needed to handle my
niece.”
“Yes, but what will you do now?” She stood before him brazenly with her head high, meeting his
cool gaze.
“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.
“Without a governess, how do you plan to go on?”
“You are hardly the last governess to be had in a city of this size.”
Ah, she had him there, she thought, and she smiled, her glee barely containable. “But that is just
it, my lord. I am your very last hope, at least from a respectable agency!”
Lord Raynor rounded his desk in a couple of long strides and stood before Georgeanne glowering
down at her. “Explain yourself.”
So she did, just as it had been relayed to her by the proprietress of the employment agency. “You
do see that we need each other?” she finished on a hopeful note.
He stared at her for a long moment. Then slowly, he walked back behind the desk and sat down.
Propping his elbows on the desktop, he steepled his fingers together and requested in a calmer voice
that she retake her seat.
“We seem to be at an impasse,” he said, regarding her from under lowered dark eyebrows. “You
understand, I want only the best for my niece.”
“I am a qualified teacher,” she reminded with spirit.
“Yet, by your own admission, you have had little experience with children.”
“Oh, but I love children,” she contradicted him. Her gaze wavered for a moment before she
asked, “The child is not unnatural, is she?”
“Unnatural?” He looked puzzled again.
“Yes, like hateful, mean. She won’t do things to hurt or scare me?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” The crease in his high forehead unfurled. “Marissa’s tantrums stem
from her confusion over losing her parents. My brother and his wife doted on her. She misses them
dreadfully.”
“Well then, it appears we both have something to gain, my lord,” she offered. When he did not
answer, Georgeanne prompted, “You are in desperate need of a governess while I am in desperate need
of employment. Please, give me a chance? I can hardly do worse than the others.”
There was no pleading in her voice, Lord Raynor noted absently, as he studied the young woman
before him. He was impressed with how she carried herself, despite her onerous circumstances.
Sitting with her back ramrod straight, the large chair seemed to almost engulf her petite form.
Besides, if what she said was true, and she had given him no reason to doubt her word, he really didn’t
have much of a choice.
Unfortunately, she was extremely attractive. Too attractive, he thought, observing lustrous
auburn curls poking out from under her dark blue bonnet and unusual leafy green eyes fringed with
long dark lashes.
While Lord Raynor studied her, Georgeanne sat patiently waiting. Not once did his expression
give away his musings. Just when she thought the situation was hopeless, Lord Raynor placed his
hands on the desk, splaying long tapered fingers upon the leather blotter, and leaned forward.
“We both seem to be in a bit of a predicament.” He snapped his brows together. “I will give you
one month, Miss Forsythe.”
Rising from his chair, he came from behind the desk, walked across the room and jerked the bell
pull. Within moments, the door opened. “Take the new governess up to the nursery, Bivens. Have
Hattie, that is Marissa’s maid,” he explained for Georgeanne’s benefit, “acquaint Miss Forsythe with
the schedule and settle her in. Your trunks?” he inquired, turning again to her.
“I can send for them.” A small sigh of relief escaped her.
“Give the direction to Bivens and he will see to the matter.” He returned to his chair and
immediately busied himself with some papers.
“Is that all?” she asked, slightly miffed with his cavalier dismissal.
He glanced up with his bushy eyebrows meeting and asked irritably, “Is there more you wish to
say?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then you may go,” he barked, bending his head over the papers again.
Georgeanne smiled through gritted teeth, trying to check her tongue. Rising she bobbed a curtsy
and replied, “As you wish, my lord.”
She knew her effort at meekness had failed miserably when he raised his head and directed
another dark scowl at her. Fearing her unruly tongue would cost her another position, she quickly
hurried out the door after the dapper Bivens.
The starchy Bivens paid not the least heed to Georgeanne trailing behind him as he led the way
across the foyer to the wide stairs set against the far wall. A masterpiece designed by Robert Adams,
the staircase’s simple yet elegant lines acted as a frame for the numerous portraits of Raynor’s
ancestors hanging above it.
Not surprising, dark bushy eyebrows were the prominent trait among the males. When
Georgeanne noticed that one unfortunate woman had been cursed with the affliction, she could not
help gasping, “Good heavens!”
Two steps above, Bivens stopped and looked down his short nose at Georgeanne to see what had
caused the exclamation. He followed her line of vision to the Elizabethan painting of a formidable
female robed in heavy, ruby red brocade. In a wooden tone, he informed her, “Only a superior artist
could capture the family likeness so remarkably well.”
At a loss for a response, she nodded her head and perceived the butler’s observation as a hint of
what she might expect. Her vivid imagination instantly conjured up an uncharitable picture of Lord
Raynor’s niece. As she resumed the trek up the stairs, she was overcome with pity for the poor little
girl.
Though it retained the ornately carved mahogany banister and slender spindle spokes, the
stairway narrowed considerably as it ascended to the third floor. As they traversed a carpeted hallway,
Bivens indicated Georgeanne enter a room midway down the corridor. When Bivens went to find the
maid, Georgeanne poked her head into a well lighted chamber. She was surprised by the relative
luxury and spaciousness of the appointments.
Stepping in, she was delighted to find a full sized bed with a quilted counterpane and hangings
that matched the floral printed muslin drapes adorning the two windows. Opposite the bed, an oval
mirror reflected back her image from over a small vanity with a white organdy skirt. A large
wardrobe covered most of another wall, and several hook rugs were scattered about the floor, adding a
warm, homey touch.
The sound of small feet running down the hall warned Georgeanne to school her expression. She
swung about to face the door and presented an impassive mask to greet her new charge. A child, small
for her age with long blond curls and huge doe-like eyes, came to an abrupt stop just outside the room.
“You must be Marissa,” Georgeanne said brightly, inordinately relieved by the sight of the soft,
pretty features of an earthly cherub. The little girl bobbed her head in answer to her name but
remained at the door. “Please come in,” Georgeanne said.
“There you be, Marissa. I see you’ve already met your new governess.” This cheery call came
from a short and slightly plump young housemaid. She was dressed in the usual servant’s uniform, a
gray bombazine gown covered by a crisp white apron with a mob cap perched atop her head. Giving
Georgeanne a quick appraisal, her merry eyes became wary as she took in the new governess’s rather
elegant attire. Cautiously, she eased her way around the child and into the room.
“I’m Hattie, Miss, and right glad I am you’re here, too,” she said in a broad cockney accent. “And
this here’s the Honorable Marissa Raynor. I’m the nursery maid, but I can help you too, if you like.”
“Thank you, Hattie. I am Georgeanne Forsythe, and I will appreciate any help you can give me.”
Hattie returned Georgeanne’s smile with a broad toothy grin and bobbed a curtsy.
“You won’t stay,” interjected a small voice from the doorway.
Looking behind the maid, Georgeanne saw that Marissa’s mouth was set in an obstinate pout. Her
eyes met the child’s brown eyes with a dare. She went over to the child, smiled, and firmly stated,
“Oh yes, I will.”
“No you won’t! No you won’t!” screamed the little girl before she turned and raced down the hall
with her heels flying up behind her.
“Never mind that, Miss,” sighed Hattie in resignation. Shaking her head, the maid headed out the
door after Marissa. “Ain’t no doubt you’ll see more of the little lady’s ways before the day is out.”
Georgeanne hesitated only a moment, then fell in behind the maid, thinking it would behoove her
to go after her new charge. When she arrived at the school room door, she halted. Marissa was in a
frenzy, racing around the room, tossing her toys about and repeatedly murmuring, “She won’t stay.
She won’t stay.”
Squaring her shoulders, Georgeanne marched up to the little girl and called out her name.
Marissa ignored her and continued her chanting. To stop her, Georgeanne grabbed one small forearm
and knelt down.
“Listen to me, Marissa,” she said. When Marissa reared back with a doll in her hand raised over
her curly blond head, Georgeanne reached out and snatched the missile from her and repeated, “Listen,
Marissa.”
But the little girl refused to listen. Instead, she pulled away and picked up a wooden toy soldier
that was quickly followed by a corn husk doll, a tin sailboat, and a ball—all of which Georgeanne
confiscated.
Losing her patience, which was always in short supply, Georgeanne’s fiery temper ignited. She
rose slowly from the floor and tossed the armful of toys over her head. When Marissa reacted by
screeching at the top of her lungs, Georgeanne ordered Hattie to follow her out of the schoolroom.
Once the reluctant maid joined Georgeanne in the hall, she pulled the door firmly shut, crossed
her arms under her bosom, and leaned against the wall. Hattie, on the other hand, stood wide-eyed
with her mouth agape.
“You can’t mean to leave her be, Miss?” the young maid asked, her tone accusing. Baffled by the
governess’s attitude, she wasn’t sure how to react.
“I most certainly do,” Georgeanne said emphatically. “I have no intention of allowing myself to
be used as a target.”
“If you say so, Miss. But what if she don’t quit?”
“Oh, she will stop,” she replied confidently. Moments later, Georgeanne smiled. “Listen.”
Sure enough, Marissa had ceased yelling. No longer could they hear crashes or thuds or objects
being thrown about the room. Easing the door open, Hattie peered in before swinging the door wide.
There on the floor by the toy box sat Marissa, sullen with tear stained cheeks, cuddling a much abused
rag doll.
“Well, I’ll be. Ain’t you something,” cooed the much impressed nursery maid with a look of
awed respect for Georgeanne.
Ignoring the compliment, Georgeanne went over to her charge and stooped to retrieve a doll with
its porcelain head bashed in on one side. “May I play with you, Marissa?” Georgeanne asked, her
voice soft, almost pleading.
Marissa peeked at her from under long, wet lashes. She stared at the new governess for several
moments, then reached around Georgeanne’s skirts for another rag doll which she shyly held up to her.
Georgeanne took the proffered doll and joined the child on the floor, feeling happy and relieved
with the outcome of their first encounter. She couldn’t help looking upon this small victory as an
omen. All she foresaw was clear sailing ahead, devotedly working with Lord Raynor as his niece’s
cherished governess.
*** Chapter 2 ***
Several days passed without the Curzon Street household being turned upside down by one of his
niece’s infamous tantrums. It was while sitting in the library going over some tedious business papers
that it occurred to Raynor the advent of this peace and quiet had coincided with the arrival of the
comely new governess. Although he tried to deny it, he couldn’t. Ever since that astounding
interview, he often found himself thinking of her heart-shaped face, small straight nose, and peaches
and cream complexion. Her large eyes, greener than a spring meadow, had the unprecedented
tendency to invade his dreams.
He had accepted the truth of Miss Forsythe’s story since the facts were borne out by her elegant
dress. But more than anything else, it was her assertive demeanor that clearly emphasized she had not
been in servitude long. A minion would never dare to act so pert or put forth her presumptuous
bargain. In fact, so audacious was her proposition that he was hard pressed to imagine any lady of his
acquaintance conceiving such a preposterous idea. Still, she had made her point, and as evidenced by
the past few, blissfully silent days, she had apparently succeeded doing the impossible—taming his
niece. Why, if the truth were owned, the dithering Bivens appeared more relaxed.
The past year had been a trying one for all of them. The unfortunate demise of his brother, due to
a carriage accident that had also killed his wife, had been as painful a blow to him as his little niece.
He’d worshiped Alister, who had been the older by five years, and had never given a moment’s
thought to stepping into the role as Viscount and head of the family. Given a generous allowance, he
hadn’t needed to worry about his future. Oh, he’d never been reckless like so many others of his class,
gaming huge sums away on a toss of the dice or a chancy cock fight. But he’d still lived the carefree,
frivolous life of a bored aristocrat.
Consequently, when he accepted the title, Raynor vowed to reform his hedonistic ways. He
became a respectable peer and provided his brother’s daughter with the care and home she needed.
But the happy sprite he’d remembered no longer existed. Since the death of her parents, she was a
distraught and morose little girl. Then the tantrums had started, with high-pitched screams
reverberating against the walls of the third floor day and night.
Unfortunately, he’d never had any contact with children and was at a complete loss when it came
to handling one sad little girl, especially one like Marissa. In the end, he found it easiest to let his
otherwise competent staff cope with the unruly child while he dealt with his own problems, which
included the weighty responsibility of taking his rightful seat in the House of Lords.
Yet, as improbable as it seemed, the new governess had succeeded where others more experienced
had failed. He wondered how she’d managed it. Perhaps he ought to check on the two in the
schoolroom, he thought, pushing himself out of his chair. A moment of panic overtook him along
with the mental picture of his niece tied up in a chair, a gag stuffed in her mouth. It wasn’t as though
he hadn’t been tempted at times to do the same himself, he guiltily acknowledged.
A few minutes later, Raynor reached the top of the stairs and halted to listen closely. Dead
silence greeted him. Dreading what might be awaiting him, he walked slowly down the corridor to the
white paneled door of the schoolroom and noiselessly pushed it open.
At first, he saw no one. Then, the melodious voice of the young woman came from a far corner of
the room. He turned toward the trestle table. The light from one of the tall windows fell upon Miss
Forsythe’s head of thick auburn hair, pulled back in a loose knot, touching the guinea yellow curls of
his niece. The two were huddled together over papers scattered about the table top.
As he watched, a wealth of love for his little niece swept through him. His bachelor ways had left
him woefully unprepared to play at being a surrogate parent, and he silently admitted, the frustration
he felt when dealing with Marissa. He studied the two heads so close together as the sunlight licked
the governess’s auburn tresses into crimson flames. How different they were, he mused. One glowed
like a soft halo in the sun while the other radiated a fiery brilliance. At length, Georgeanne glanced
up, and he quickly crossed the threshold.
“I see you are busy with your schoolwork,” he said, advancing toward the table.
“Georgie and I are doing ‘rithmetic,” supplied Marissa, giving her beloved uncle a huge grin.
“Don’t you mean ‘Miss Forsythe’?” he asked drawing his brows together.
“Actually, my lord, I rather like Marissa’s special name for me,” Georgeanne said, giving the
child an approving smile.
Raynor nodded. “Very well.” After a moment he asked, “How is my niece doing with her
studies?”
“Marissa is an excellent student, especially when she applies herself,” Georgeanne said, flashing a
bright smile at her charge, who immediately returned it with an even bigger one of her own.
“Georgie keeps me busy, Uncle Tony.”
Raynor cocked an eyebrow in inquiry. “Is that so? I suppose that explains why I haven’t seen you
in several days.”
“Actually, it is because you did not send for her, my lord,” Georgeanne answered for her charge.
“I see.” Miffed that a mere governess would see fit to correct his behavior, he drew his brows
together. “May I have a moment of your time, Miss Forsythe?”
“As you wish.” She turned to Marissa and instructed the child to complete the exercise before
them. Then she rose and followed her employer toward the door.
Marissa, however, did not look at all happy. She stuck out her lower lip and slouched down in her
seat and mulishly announced, “I want to come, too.”
Raynor looked over his shoulder. “You and I will talk later, Marissa. There are matters I need to
discuss with Miss Forsythe now.”
“I will be back before you finish your sums, dear,” added Georgeanne encouragingly.
“No, I want to come.” Marissa threw her pencil down and pushed the papers on the floor.
‘Now, Marissa,” began Raynor, only to be cut off by Marissa’s shrill screaming.
“I want to come! I want to come!” Marissa chanted.
Raynor watched in growing horror as huge tears welled up in Marissa’s brown eyes and her face
turned an alarming shade of red. Georgeanne, in contrast, shook her head in disgust. She glanced
from the screeching child to her stunned uncle, put her hands over her ears, and started for the door.
Raynor, not knowing what to do, followed her out of the room.
Once in the corridor, Georgeanne reached behind him and closed the door. Calmly, she asked,
“Was there anything in particular you wished to speak to me about, my lord?”
Raynor felt conflicted between utter amazement and blazing anger. “Miss Forsythe, you can’t be
serious? That little girl, my niece, is in there yelling at the top of her lungs.”
“Oh, I am quite aware of that,” she responded somewhat sarcastically.
“So what do you plan to do about it?” He was fast losing his temper in the face of her
indifference.
“Exactly what I am doing, my lord,” Georgeanne said, her own anger rising to match his. Ever
since that first day, when she’d ignored Marissa’s tantrum, there had been no repeat of this sort of
behavior. She had no intention of it beginning anew.
Truth was, Georgeanne was more than pleased with how their relationship was progressing. In no
time, they settled down to an enjoyable and practical routine. She began each morning breakfasting
with her charge. At first, Marissa was reticent, since prior to this she’d eaten all her meals with only
Hattie for company. But once Georgeanne made it plain that she intended to share most of her meals
with her, Marissa responded in kind to Georgeanne’s warm and friendly overtures.
Over the next few days, Marissa became less argumentative and sullen. And as her trust in
Georgeanne grew, she showed signs of a happy and lively spirit. But they had seen nothing of the
child’s uncle. Though Marissa obviously cared for him a great deal, talking about him whenever an
opportunity arose, he’d remained absent from the little girl’s life. It was little wonder, thought
Georgeanne dryly, that Marissa was upset over being excluded from his company. Raynor had not
sought his niece out nor so much as sent an inquiry to determine how she was progressing with her
new governess until today.
“You mean to actually ignore her?” he blustered. “You cannot be serious? Just listen to her
carrying on in there.”
“I cannot help but hear her, my lord,” Georgeanne responded in a long-suffering tone.
“Exactly, madam!” He was practically screaming himself.
“What exactly would you have me do?”
“I don’t know. But you’re the governess, so do something!”
As she glowered at the insufferable man, Georgeanne squared her shoulders. Then with her satin
skirts swishing in her wake, she walked around him and reentered the schoolroom.
Marissa stood behind the table with her balled fists held rigidly out in front of her. Never once
looking at Georgeanne or her uncle, she seemed unaware of them. Nor did her shrill screams show
signs of faltering or ceasing.
Georgeanne eyed the little terror. Then her eyes scanned the room. She went over to the
washstand, picked up a china basin containing the remains of Marissa’s ablutions from after
breakfast. She nodded at her employer, who was watching her every move from the doorway, walked
over to Marissa and calmly poured the contents of the basin over the child’s head.
After a moment of sputtering and staring dazedly up at her governess, Marissa broke into a more
natural sounding cry. In response, Georgeanne got down on her knees and used the little girl’s
pinafore to gently wipe her face and smooth back the damp curls.
“Just what in damnation do you think you’re doing?”
From his expression, Georgeanne deduced Lord Raynor was on the verge of strangling her. But
she had no desire to haggle with him. It was Marissa who needed her attention. Defiantly, she threw
him a look of utter disgust before taking the child’s hands, from where they now hung limply by her
sides, in her own and giving them a comforting squeeze.
“Marissa dear, let me get you dried off and changed into a pretty fresh frock. Then, we can return
and go over your sums.” She rose and placed a protective arm about the child’s tiny shoulders.
“Come with me, dear,” she said, gently urging Marissa around the table, past her speechless uncle, and
out the door.
When they returned a short while later, Georgeanne stared at the clean but empty room. When
Hattie came in with lunch, she related, “Milord dispatched a footman to tidy up everything.”
Though Marissa’s behavior remained subdued the rest of the day, Georgeanne stayed close. Guilt
had Georgeanne reading an extra story at bedtime. Even then, she’d been reluctant to leave the
pathetic little figure after Marissa fell asleep.
Overshadowing her charge’s recovery, Georgeanne felt on edge, waiting for Lord Raynor to call
her upon the carpet for her unconventional handling of his niece. Several days passed, and still she’d
heard nothing. And while Marissa appeared content, the child was less inclined to bring up the subject
of her uncle. No doubt, she felt slighted by him. Thus, Georgeanne became furious with the absent
nobleman and his intolerable lack of concern for his orphaned niece.
Georgeanne knew better than to gossip with the servants, but some things called for desperate
means. “I was under the impression Lord Raynor cared a great deal for his niece.”
“Oh, he does, Miss,” Hattie was quick to respond. “’Tis just he don’t understand the little one.
And I do think her screaming scares him. He’s like any other man, you know.”
Just what that cryptic remark meant, Georgeanne wasn’t sure, nor was she content to leave well
enough alone. In a fit of pique, she dashed off a note. Then, she cornered his lordship’s valet with
instructions to deliver her missive to the unfeeling lout as soon as possible.
Later, after her ire had cooled somewhat, she regretted her impulsiveness. Once again, she was
plagued with dreadful imaginings of her employer’s reprisal. If he did not dismiss her outright, he
would surely have a great deal to say about such impertinent behavior from a servant.
As had become her habit during the two weeks of her employment, Georgeanne made it a point to
take Marissa outside in the afternoons when the weather was nice. She couldn’t tolerate being cooped
up all day and believed it was unhealthy for her charge as well. Since today had promised to be
unusually sunny and warm, Georgeanne arranged for a picnic lunch, and they escaped the schoolroom
early.
Luckily, there was a park in the center of Berkley Square, two blocks from the townhouse. They
could easily walk to it without having to prevail upon any of the staff to accompany them.
As they returned from their outing, Raynor, driving a shiny black phaeton with bright red wheels,
happened to pull up to the front of the house. He tossed the reins of his two perfectly matched grays
to his groom before jumping down. He nodded to Georgeanne and gave a stiff and formal greeting to
his young niece. “Where have you been so early in the day?” he asked Marissa, eyeing the picnic
basket Georgeanne carried.
“We went to the park, Uncle Tony. And I had ever so much fun,” answered the child, her large
doe eyes warily trained on his austere countenance.
“How nice,” he commented dryly as they entered the house. He stopped in the act of removing
his gloves and turned to Georgeanne. “Miss Forsythe, I’d like a few moments of your time in the
library. Perhaps when Marissa takes her nap,” he added almost as an afterthought.
“Can I come, too?” asked his niece, pleading with her velvety brown eyes.
“Not this time, Marissa. I need to talk with Miss Forsythe about your studies.”
“But I want to come,” she replied, her pink lips set in a stubborn pout.
Georgeanne recognized the earmarks of a full fledged tantrum brewing. She grabbed Marissa’s
shoulders and quickly steered the child ahead of her. “I will come down later, my lord, when Marissa
does not need me.” She didn’t wait for his concurrence but hurried up the stairs, pushing a very
disappointed Marissa ahead of her.
In the course of divesting her charge of her short jacket and chip straw bonnet, Georgeanne
enthusiastically reviewed their little excursion in the park. Marissa had made new friends with a
dowager’s furry lap dog and the footman walking it. This diverted the child’s attention. The little girl
seemed to have a special fondness for dogs and soon forgot the slight she’d suffered from her uncle as
she chattered merrily with Hattie, describing all the tricks the dog had performed.
Later that afternoon, after sending Marissa and Hattie to the kitchen for a gooseberry tart,
Georgeanne, feeling not an ounce of trepidation, stood before the library door. This was her first
interview since the unfortunate episode in the schoolroom and her hastily scribbled missive.
However, his lordship hadn’t bothered to check on his niece before now, nor so much as send a note to
remonstrate Georgeanne for her actions. So he must have something else on his mind, she decided,
knocking on the door and entering the room after hearing him call out gruffly.
She stepped inside as Lord Raynor rose from behind a desk covered with papers. He motioned for
Georgeanne to be seated in one of the wing chairs facing the front of his imposing desk. As she took
her seat, she regarded him closely. He really was quite one of the handsomest men she had ever met.
Well, maybe not handsome precisely, she thought, for his nose was too long, his jaw was decidedly
square, and his eyebrows were bushy. Still, she definitely found him most appealing. When he
suddenly stopped speaking, she realized she’d not been paying attention and had missed what he had
said . . .or asked?
Raynor had watched Georgeanne demurely position herself on the edge of the cushion. Her back
was ramrod straight and her hands were folded in her lap, reminding him that until recently she had
been a member of the ton. “About your note, Miss Forsythe?” He waited for her response but instead
received a sweet smile. “Miss Forsythe?”
“Oh, dear.” She met his eyes and colored prettily.
“Are you all right, Miss Forsythe?” he asked solicitously, observing her perplexed expression.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then, perhaps you will answer me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When nothing more was forthcoming from the flustered young woman in front of him, he tried
again. “Miss Forsythe, I asked you a question.”
In obvious embarrassment, she bowed her head. “Would you be so kind as to repeat it, my lord?”
He arched a dark eyebrow at her request but acquiesced. “I am concerned about Marissa. I take it
she has sustained no lasting effects from her, er, dousing?” As Georgeanne’s chin came up, he saw the
sparks flashing in her vivid green eyes.
“If you are inquiring whether Marissa took ill, I must say the concern you show your niece is
most touching.”
He did not hide his annoyance at the sarcasm in her voice. “I take offense at your
presumptuousness.”
“Then I hope you will excuse me.”
She neither looked nor sounded contrite. He noted Georgeanne’s pressed lips as she leveled a
contemptuous stare on him. He was of a mind to put her in her place, then remembered her
remarkable success in controlling Marissa’s outbursts. “Suppose you explain yourself, Miss
Forsythe.”
He watched her squirm slightly in her chair. It was only correct she be ill at ease. After all, she
was the one in the wrong.
“I have found it does no good to fuss over Marissa’s tantrums. She is less likely to carry on if left
alone,” Georgeanne said. “She knows I refuse to listen to her screams or watch her thrash and kick
about. Once she understood that, she quit throwing fits.”
Lord Raynor pondered her reasoning for a moment. “But you threw a basin of water on the
child?”
“You left me little choice,” Georgeanne shot back.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had no alternative. Indeed, you demanded I do something. I could hardly beat her—“
“I should hope not,” he interjected forcefully. “Though I suppose a judicious spanking once in a
while may not be out of order.”
She gave him a quelling look. “I deduced if Marissa were distracted, she would quiet down.
Perhaps I should tell you how the idea came about?”
Raynor sat down and gave her a nod. “Pray continue, Miss Forsythe.”
“When I was a little girl, there was an incident one afternoon in the hamlet of Yattendon, where
Mama had taken me to buy ribbons. A boy was there, an idiot born to one of the farmers. He was
about twelve years old and usually did a decent job working on the farm with his father. Anyway, it
was market day, and he had come with his family to sell their produce. I do not know quite what
happened to set him off,” she said, a frown creasing her smooth brow. “But suddenly, he started
stomping his feet and screaming obscenities right in the middle of the village square.”
“Not surprising behavior from an idiot,” Raynor responded.
“He really was a very good lad normally, you see.”
“Yes, but I fail to comprehend how any of this concerns my niece.” Raynor was impressed by her
defense of the demented boy and liked her more for it. But he saw no connection between Marissa and
her story.
“That is just it,” Georgeanne said. “No one could do anything. He was so big and strong. But his
father ran to the village pump and filled a bucket with water. He tossed it on Judd, and the boy simply
stopped. There was no more yelling, or kicking, and he was his docile self once again. Later, when I
was telling Papa about the incident, he explained how some people lose control of themselves, and all
they really need is a jolt to make them aware of their surroundings. At any rate, it worked on Judd and
Marissa.”
“I take exception to you classifying my niece in the same category with a village idiot.” His
voice was low, indignant.
“Oh, but I never meant . . . oh dear. What I am saying is that Marissa only wanted one thing and
she could think of nothing else. All I did was make her, well, wake up. It worked, did it not?” she
asked in a tiny defensive voice.
“Yes. Yes, it did. And I admit that somehow your unorthodox methods seem to be effective in
curtailing my niece’s tantrums. But in the future, I would prefer you leave Marissa alone in a room to
tossing a basin of water over her.”
“Of course, my lord, but you would not let me.”
“I realize I was wrong to interfere. It will not happen again,” Lord Raynor said irritably.
She tried not to fidget, but her anxiety grew as the silence lengthened, and Lord Raynor still did
not speak. His intent study of her made Georgeanne extremely uncomfortable. Finally, she was aware
that his eyes had dropped to her mouth. She self consciously ran her tongue over her lips to moisten
them. “Was there something else, my lord?”
“Ah?” His head jerked up. His smoldering blue eyes refocused on hers, almost as if he were
coming out of a trance. “As a matter of fact, I am curious about my niece’s studies. What have you
mapped out for her daily lessons?”
“As to that, we cover mathematics, grammar, geography and history.”
“How long do these lessons generally last?”
He sounded so stern, she wondered at what he was hinting. “Usually most of the morning.”
“But not today. You went somewhere this morning.”
“Yes, my lord. Marissa has been very good. And since the weather was exceptionally nice, we
decided—“
“We?” Bushy eyebrows snapped together.
“Yes, my lord,” she said, through clenched teeth. “We decided to take the morning off and go to
the park.”
“How often do you and my niece opt to discard her studies?”
Georgeanne returned his glare. There was no misunderstanding the accusation or the sardonic
tone of his voice this time. “We spend a good deal of our time in the park investigating the different
flowers and trees, my lord. In fact, we brought home several blossoms and leaves to start a botany
scrapbook.”
“Really?” he drawled disbelievingly.
“Really,” she repeated angrily. “You are welcome to join us tomorrow morning when we begin
constructing the booklet, if you so desire. You might benefit more from such an experience than
harassing me.” She stood and fisted her hands at her sides.
“Harassing?” he mocked, also coming out of his seat.
“Yes, harassing. You tell me you are concerned about your niece, yet over the past two weeks,
you have presented yourself to Marissa only once. I even posed the matter to you in a note which you
ignored.”
“Ah, yes, I wondered how long it would take before you would bring up the contents of your
missive.” His smile was anything but encouraging. “The reason, Miss Forsythe, is because the child
invariably throws those deplorable fits when I am present. She seems to get along better when I stay
away.”
“Well, there you are out, my lord. Those fits are purely enacted for your benefit.”
“Hardly, she knows I detest them.”
“No, she does not. She only knows the uncle she dearly loves will have almost nothing to do with
her.”
“That is absurd! I have employed the best governesses and provided for her every need. I am
constantly monitoring how she is getting along.”
“All hired help.” Georgeanne brushed these arguments aside with a wave of her hand. “The
servants are incapable of giving her the love of a family member, my lord. Nor can they replace her
family. She does not understand what happened to her parents. Only that she will never see them
again. And you,” Georgeanne said, pointing at him, “her guardian, are never here to give her the
affection she desperately needs.”
Georgeanne observed Lord Raynor, clenching and unclenching his jaw while contemplating her
words. In the face of his anger, she refused to lower her eyes or so much as blink. Rather, she stood
her ground and returned his glower with confidence.
“You seem very sure of yourself, Miss Forsythe,” he said, in a somewhat calmer voice. “Dare I
presume you possess the solution of how I can relieve my niece’s mind that I’m not about to desert
her?”
Georgeanne knew he was being facetious. So she ignored his arched look and gave him a dazzling
smile. “As a matter of fact, I have two possible remedies. The first is for you to allow Marissa to
have a dog. One of a friendly nature that would provide her with a playmate of sorts as well as keep
her company.”
“Such an animal is highly impractical in the city. A dog requires space to run,” Lord Raynor
answered, though she could see he was mulling over the idea.
“It need not be a big dog, my lord, for Marissa should learn how to care for it, after all.”
“Yes, that would teach her some responsibility, and there is always a footman to take it for
walks.” He studied her for a long moment before nodding his head. “I shall give your idea due
consideration, Miss Forsythe.” It was not the answer she’d hoped for, but she supposed it was better
than an outright denial. “Your second remedy?”
“Do you have time to take tea at home in the afternoons, Lord Raynor?” Georgeanne asked, her
tone ever so sweet.
“On occasion,” he responded carefully.
“Would you be willing to include your niece two or three days a week?”
“Yes, but can you promise Marissa will not throw any tantrums?”
Georgeanne wrinkled her brow as she considered his question. “No, not always. But I can
promise you some delightful times. Marissa is such a lovable little girl once you get to know her.”
He gave a curt nod, then rose. “Shall we begin tomorrow, say four of the clock?”
“Done!” Georgeanne replied, extending her hand across the top of the desk to seal the bargain.
Meeting her eyes, Lord Raynor accepted her slender fingers, clasping them firmly in his large hand.
The warmth she felt from the contact of his bare skin sent a tremor and brought heat to her cheeks.
Hoping he hadn’t noticed, she gave a gentle tug to break his grasp.
Lowering her eyes, Georgeanne curtsied, stepped around the chair and began backing toward the
door. She heard the door open behind her but did not turn around. She was brought up short, though,
when her heel came down on the arch of the man’s foot.
Georgeanne quickly hopped off the highly polished Hessian and whirled around to stare up into a
handsome face, split into a wide, captivating grin. His light brown hair was carefully brushed in a
disarray of curls. He was of medium height and lean build, and as he reached out one hand to steady
her, his hazel eyes warmed with open admiration.
“Please excuse me, sir,” she begged a little breathlessly.
“My pleasure, madam. In fact, you may tread on me any time you like,” he answered with a deep
laugh that rumbled through the room.
Raynor came out from behind the desk. “That will be all, Miss Forsythe.”
Georgeanne curtsied once again. “Until tomorrow then, my lord,” she said before leaving in a
whirl of skirts. She almost ran up the stairs to her room. Once inside the cozy chamber, she closed
the door, leaning back against it, and tried to slow her ragged breathing.
Whatever was she thinking? She was the governess, Lord Raynor’s employee. How could she
ever hope to attract his attention as an eligible parti? More likely, he would take her sauciness as an
invitation to offer her a most dishonorable position. She’d do much better to simply remember who
she was and keep to her plan. Besides, Marissa would be the one to suffer if she got herself fired for
being impertinent with the child’s uncle.
*** Chapter 3 ***
Lord William Townsend gave his friend a quizzical look, then lifted the back of his claw hammer
coat of robin egg blue and seated himself upon the very chair Georgeanne had just vacated. With the
candidness of a loyal and trusted friend, he said, “She isn’t a light skirt?”
“Hardly, she is Marissa’s governess,” replied Raynor in a tone that declared the discussion of
Georgeanne was at an end. He’d recognized the all too familiar predatory gleam in his friend’s eye
when Townsend had clapped eyes on Miss Forsythe.
“Never say so?” exclaimed Townsend, deigning to ignore his host’s wishes. “Is she any good? I
mean as a governess,” he amended quickly when Raynor’s face took on a ruddy hue. “Meant no
offense,” he blundered on, “but you must admit, she ain’t in the regular way of governesses.”
Leaning back in his chair, Lord Raynor studied the fashionably dressed peer sitting across from
him. Though there were any number of fobs hanging from his puce stain waistcoat with its
elaborately embroidered border, Will Townsend was no dandy. He didn’t conform to George
Brummell’s decrees for plain unexceptionable attire with an eye to minute detail. Still, Townsend cut
a very pleasing picture, especially where the fairer sex was concerned, as Raynor knew all too well.
With Townsend’s hunting instincts obviously having been aroused, Raynor was concerned. He
knew that once informed Miss Forsythe was indeed a respectable lady, Townsend would cease the
chase. At least he hoped that was so.
Walking over to a sideboard with a tray of glasses and an assortment of bottles, Raynor poured
them each a glass of Madeira. After handing a glass to Townsend, he settled into the wingback chair
next to his friend, and described his newest employee’s straightened and unusual circumstances.
“Sounds like a flip-flopped fairy tale,” Townsend said, staring into the bottom of his crystal
goblet. “What did she mean about seeing you tomorrow? Pretty sassy for a governess, wasn’t it?”
“In the ordinary sense, you’d be right. Except she’d just finished raking me over the coals for
grossly neglecting my niece.” As another act of impertinence by Miss Forsythe came to mind, Raynor
let out a hearty laugh. “Get this, Will, she had the audacity to pen me a note saying, ‘It would
behoove your Lordship’s understanding to spend some time with your niece. Respectfully, The
Governess.’”
After both gentlemen shared side splitting guffaws over the tone as well as the curt closing of
Georgeanne’s missive, Raynor retrieved the wine decanter from the sideboard and refilled their
glasses. “She thinks Marissa needs a mutt for a companion.”
“Ain’t such a bad idea,” Townsend said. “Remember, I had old Rufus, a springer spaniel, when I
was a brat. Used to sleep with me, too. My sister claimed he had fleas, but I didn’t care.”
“She was correct. Rufus did,” Raynor chuckled. “But you haven’t heard the best yet. Miss
Forsythe conned me into having tea with Marissa several days each week. Said the child misses my
company. Dare say she may have the right of it, for Marissa clings to me whenever I try to leave her.”
“Tea, you say?”
“I’m hardly looking forward to it since Marissa can’t be depended upon to behave. Still, it will be
well worth the try.”
“I’ve never seen Marissa cut up, though I’ve heard her a time or two,” Townsend duly
commiserated. “Still, as you say, some good might come of spending an hour with the little girl. And
with her governess in attendance, even if it’s a sore trial on the ears, it won’t be on the eyes,” he added
with a meaningful grin.
“Speaking of screaming fits,” Raynor said, taking a fortifying gulp of his Madeira, “did I tell you
Lydia Russell and Olivia Cosgrove dropped by not too long ago?” At Townsend’s raised eyebrow, he
continued. “Lady Russell had gotten wind of Marissa’s last governess leaving. Wanted to take the
child.”
“No doubt you squelched that idea,” Townsend said, with a chuckle. “Only thing she wants is the
child’s inheritance.”
Raynor nodded. “Olivia never said a word. She seemed not to take her mother’s side. But Marissa
hadn’t been in the room five minutes before Lydia Russell had Marissa screeching like a banshee.”
“Lady Cosgrove doesn’t seem to take after the mother. Easy on the eyes, too.”
“There’s that, and it might do Marissa some good to develop a relationship with Olivia,” Raynor
acknowledged. Then turning the topic of interest, he set about describing his morning’s drive, tooling
the pair of grays he’d recently acquired. Shortly thereafter, the two gentlemen called for their hats
and headed to Tattersalls, where they could inspect whatever new bits of blood were to be put upon the
block.
~~~~~
Just in case his lordship had a change of heart and cancelled out, Georgeanne waited until the next
afternoon before telling Marissa about taking tea with her uncle. As she expected, the little girl was
ecstatic. To ensure a successful afternoon, Georgeanne decided upon a demonstration in deportment.
Rearranging a few chairs to resemble seating in a drawing room, Georgeanne showed Marissa
how to sit with her back ramrod straight. When Hattie brought up cups and saucers, they practiced
taking tea with a stuffed rabbit representing Lord Raynor. She even had Marissa select imaginary
macaroons and scones from an empty platter. Although the child would not be expected to balance a
cup and saucer, Georgeanne was determined Marissa would have tea heavily laced with milk, not a
glass of lemonade. She wanted the little girl to feel included in the ritual as though she were one of
the adults.
When the time came for them to descend to the drawing room, both wore their best Sunday
dresses. Georgeanne’s simple yet elegant yellow silk gown was trimmed with gold braid around the
scooped neckline, high waist, and tiny puffed sleeves. Marissa resembled an adorable cherub in a pink
muslin frock with tiers of ruffles at the neck and hemline.
As they descended the stairs, Georgeanne covered for her own nervousness by continuing her
litany on proper etiquette. “Remember to drape your napkin across your lap,” she restated in an
urgent whisper.
“I know.”
“Do not grab the cookies. And only take how many?”
“Two.”
“Very good. And never talk with food in your mouth.”
“I know, I know.”
“And—“
“I know, I know.”
Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, Georgeanne turned the child around to face her. “Marissa, I
had not said anything.”
“You’re going to upset me, Georgie,” Marissa defended herself with words she’d obviously
overheard the servants use.
Georgeanne ran a hand over the golden ringlets, held back off the child’s face with a wide pink
ribbon. Stooping down, she took hold of the little girl’s shoulders with her hands and looked squarely
into her large, brown eyes. “This is very important for both of us, Marissa. If you are a very good girl
today, then we will be able to have tea with your uncle again. You do want that, do you not?”
Solemnly, Marissa nodded her head several times.
“And if you do just as you ought, it will help me, too. Can you understand that, sweetheart?”
Marissa nodded once again. “You don’t want to get turned off?”
“Exactly, and that will not happen if we are both on our best behavior.”
“I’ll be good, I promise,” Marissa said, in a small penitent voice. Then she threw her arms around
her governess’s neck.
Overcome by the child’s spontaneous hug, Georgeanne felt tears prick behind her eyes and gave
Marissa an affectionate squeeze before she stood up, making much over straightening her gown as
well as Marissa’s. Then, she took her charge’s tiny hand in hers and entered the drawing room.
Lord Raynor turned from standing by the fireplace and came forward to greet his guests. “Good
afternoon, ladies.” He watched Marissa curtsy and highly praised her on its execution. This brought
an instant smile to her face. Gravely, he reached for her small hand and led the little girl to a chair
before inviting Georgeanne to join them.
No sooner were they seated when there was a knock on the door. Bivens brought in a large silver
tray loaded with scrumptious pastries, sweetmeats, finger sandwiches, and a silver tea service and
china. While the honor of pouring was given to Georgeanne, Marissa helped by passing her uncle a
plate of small sandwiches.
Raynor upheld the conversation by quizzing his niece on her morning activities. After serving
everyone, Marissa hopped up on her chair and carefully draped the napkin across her lap. As
instructed earlier, she left her plate, teacup and saucer on the small octagonal side table at her right.
Georgeanne and Raynor shared an amused look as Marissa consciously went through the movements
of eating her macaroons and drinking her sweetened, milky tea.
Georgeanne was pleased with Marissa’s behavior. She comported herself just like a miniature
lady. She seemed to blossom under her uncle’s attention. At one point, Georgeanne hid a smile
behind her serviette as Marissa began to answer one of her uncle’s questions after just stuffing a
whole macaroon in her small mouth. Realizing her error, she snapped her mouth shut and dutifully
chewed and swallowed before she rendered a reply.
Raynor was pleased by Marissa’s display of pretty manners and began to enjoy himself. He
relaxed and leaned against one side of his chair, crossing a booted calf atop his knee. Observing
Marissa’s doe eyes slewing back and forth between Miss Forsythe and himself, he asked, “Is anything
amiss, Marissa?”
Before answering, the child looked expectantly toward her governess. “No, Uncle Tony.”
“Then, why are you staring at me? Have I grown horns?” he prodded gently.
Again the little girl’s eyes cut to Georgeanne before she answered half under her breath. “Georgie
wouldn’t let Mr. Rabbit slouch in his chair.”
“Mr. Rabbit?”
“Mr. Rabbit is you, Uncle Tony, when Georgie and me practiced how to sit and drink my tea.”
This time Raynor’s eyes joined Marissa’s as they turned to the furiously blushing governess. “I
see.” Raynor smiled, and immediately corrected his posture.
As Raynor concentrated on entertaining his niece, Georgeanne quietly willed her frantically
beating heart to return to normal. She recognized the deepening blue of his eyes as an approving and
warm assessment of her person. Still, she had to remind herself of her position as governess rather
than an equal paying a social call.
Too soon the afternoon came to an end, and Georgeanne thanked Lord Raynor for inviting them to
tea. With Marissa echoing her every word, he smiled and remarked how pleasurable it had been for
him as well. “In fact, I would be honored if you ladies joined me again tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Tony! Do say we can, Georgie!” Marissa said, pouncing from one foot to the
other.
With Georgeanne shushing the little girl’s squeals of delight, Raynor hastily added, “But you
must understand, Marissa, that this cannot be a daily affair. There are many afternoons I am away
from home.”
“I do. I understand. I really do,” said Marissa, capering about Georgeanne’s skirts as she tried to
usher her toward the door, quieting only when a booming male voice was heard hailing Bivens.
“No need to announce me, Bivens. I can do that myself,” said Lord Townsend, coming through
the door with a broad smile.
Georgeanne found herself once again facing the handsome, fashionably dressed gentleman whose
heel she’d stepped on the day before.
“I say, Tony, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” asked Townsend, though his gaze never
wavered past Georgeanne.
Raynor scowled at his friend. “Allow me to make known to you my niece, the Honorable Miss
Marissa Raynor, and her governess,” he said, stressing the last word, “Miss Forsythe. Ladies, this
gentleman is Lord Townsend.”
Townsend stretched an elegant leg to Marissa. He made a great show of kissing the little lady’s
hand, bravely ignoring the sticky raspberry jam between her fingers. He also possessed himself of
Georgeanne’s hand, though he did not bring it to his lips.
Totally charmed, Georgeanne could not prevent herself from bestowing a dazzling smile on him.
As he still held her hand, she wondered how long the gentleman intended to stand there before
Raynor’s bark broke the spell and Townsend released her and moved away.
“You may take my niece back to the schoolroom, Miss Forsythe. Now,” said Raynor in a clipped
voice.
Having taken an instant liking to the gallant gentleman, Georgeanne was tempted to demure but,
after one look at her employer’s expression, thought better of it. With Marissa acting as her shadow,
Georgeanne dipped a hasty curtsy and quit the room with her charge in tow.
Townsend glared at Raynor. “You didn’t have to run them off,” he said and turned back to the
door through which Georgeanne had disappeared.
“They were on their way out when you arrived.” Much to Raynor’s disgust, Townsend stood with
his back to him, glazed eyes still fixed on the closed door. “What are you doing here, Will?”
“Huh? Oh, came by to see you, old man. Wanted to lend you my support and have tea with you.”
He sounded distracted. “I remembered how yesterday you were not particularly happy over the
prospect of today’s tea. By the way, how did it go? Must say, Tony, your niece was very well
behaved just now.”
The compliment pleased Raynor. “Yes, I have to admit she has come a long way in a couple of
weeks. It must be Miss Forsythe’s influence, for Marissa verily dotes on her.”
“Can see why. Dash fine looking chit, that one.”
“I’m warning you, Will,” Raynor said, his tone ominous as his brows snapped together.
“No, don’t rip up at me. It ain’t what you think. By the bye,” he said. “Heard Sarsfield’s
planning on showing off his new chestnuts in Hyde Park this afternoon. Swung by to see if you’d care
to join me and have a look.”
“That windbag has got more hair than horse sense. Rumor has it those nags are all show and can
barely make the trip to the park and back without getting winded.”
“My phaeton’s out front if you care to check them out.”
“I’ll get my hat,” replied Raynor, ringing for the butler.
“Tea went pretty well, huh?” asked Will, slewing his eyes to catch his friend’s reaction to the
question.
“So good, in fact, that we’re to repeat the event again tomorrow.”
“You don’t say.”
~~~~~
Georgeanne had her hands full trying to dampen Marissa’s exuberance. The child awoke excited
over the prospect of seeing her uncle again that afternoon. Through sheer willpower, Georgeanne
managed to complete their morning studies, but quit early. It was a constant chore recalling Marissa’s
attention to her school work. To make matters worse, the fine weather had given way to a dreary
drizzle by mid morning and showed no signs of letting up.
Shortly before noon, a great commotion erupted in the front foyer. But it was not until Hattie
brought up the lunch tray a little later than usual that they learned of the unexpected visitor who’d
turned the house in an uproar. Lady Lillian Ashbury, Raynor’s aunt.
Her ladyship had arrived unannounced and with an inordinate amount of baggage. This telling
fact, Hattie said, Bivens had related to the housekeeper, Mrs. Harrison. It was, Bivens said, a sure
indication that her ladyship planned to make a very lengthy stay.
Marissa was pleased by the news and began anticipating the appearance of her great aunt. She
jumped up from whatever she was doing to check the doorway whenever she heard or imagined the
slightest sound coming from the corridor.
Nor was Marissa disappointed. Soon after lunch, an older woman of medium stature appeared at
the schoolroom door. She wore her almost white hair tucked up under a delicate lace cap that matched
the trim at her throat and on the cuffs of her lilac silk gown. Both the cut and the understated elegance
bespoke the work of a Parisian modiste. Though in her late fifties, her carriage was regal, making her
appear taller, and her walk held a youthful spring.
Marissa immediately ran to her and was greeted with outstretched arms and an affectionate hug.
Marissa tugged on her aunt’s hand and pulled her into the room as she proudly made the
introductions. “Aunt Lillian, this is Georgie, and Georgie, this is my very favorite aunt, Aunt
Lillian.” Having delivered these words, Marissa looked from one to the other, expecting them to
complete the prescribed dialogue.
Both ladies solemnly regarded each other before bursting with laughter.
“I do apologize, my lady,” Georgeanne said between chuckles. “Marissa, that was a lovely
introduction. I am proud of you. You remembered to do everything just as we practiced. But I cannot
go around calling this lovely lady ‘Aunt Lillian.’” Dipping into a deep curtsy, she said, “I am
Georgeanne Forsythe, my lady.”
With an outstretched hand, Marissa’s great aunt said warmly, “And I am Lady Lillian Ashbury.”
“Uncle Tony did not say you were coming,” interrupted Marissa.
“No, dear, I dare say I have quite surprised him. But when he wrote in his last letter that you were
without a governess again, I decided my nephew was in definite need of my help. But here I see you
already have a new governess.” She turned a sharp eye on Georgeanne once more.
“Oh yes, and she is the very best, too. Georgie plays games with me, Aunt Lillian,” Marissa
offered excitedly.
“That is splendid.” The smile Lady Ashbury gave Georgeanne sparkled in her pale blue eyes. It
was apparent that very little escaped this sharp witted lady.
“Raynor told me you were doing exceptionally well. But I had to see for myself.” She placed a
hand on Marissa’s head. “I understand we will be taking tea together, dear.”
“We have the most wonderful tea parties, and I get to be a grownup,” Marissa said proudly. “You
will come, too?”
Eying Georgeanne, Lady Ashbury replied, “I would not miss it for the world.” Then, declaring
she intended to rest in the meantime, she gave her grand niece a kiss and departed with another
promise to see her at tea.
At the appointed time later that afternoon, Georgeanne and Marissa descended the last set of
stairs just as Bivens responded to a knock at the front door. In walked Lord Townsend. The ladies
watched him carelessly toss his hat and cane at the unflappable butler. The moment he saw them near
the bottom of the steps, he approached them with a pleasant smile.
“What a fortunate circumstance, Miss Forsythe. Where are you and the lovely Marissa headed?”
he asked.
Accepting his hand, Georgeanne descended the last few risers. She watched as he made an
elegant leg for Marissa, who dipped a slightly shaky curtsy, then succumbed to a fit of giggles. It
would be easy to like this gentleman with his affable manners and smiling hazel eyes, Georgeanne
thought. Too easy.
“We are going to have tea with Uncle Tony,” Marissa announced proudly.
“Why, so am I!” he said with exaggerated surprise, which set the little girl to giggling again. He
leaned down so she could take his proffered arm and, with a disarming grin, offered Georgeanne the
other.
“We did not know his lordship was expecting guests,” Georgeanne commented.
“Well, it’s likely he isn’t, but I am counting heavily on the fact I’ve never been tossed out on my
ear before now. Raynor has always encouraged me to consider myself a member of the house, rather
than a guest.”
Before Georgeanne could reply, they reached the drawing room. The merry trio swept into the