She would overcome her attraction to the duke. It didn’t matter at all that he had been the first man to kiss her and most likely the last. She would disappear to him in a few days as all governesses tended to do in a household.
She would not be swayed by the sensuality infused in her blood centuries ago. She would not weaken as her ancestors had, even though she was now indebted to the duke. Charmed, perhaps. And in trouble—unless she watched her step.
Chapter 11
Four days passed, and to Ivy’s relief the mysterious London mistress failed to arrive. The duke had behaved, although Ivy felt his presence in every corner of the estate. At night she fancied she heard his footsteps outside her room. Once she awoke from a dream with a start, not certain if the door to her dressing closet had opened and closed.
Had the duke entered while she was asleep? One of the children? A servant perhaps? Whoever it was should be punished for invading her privacy. Still, she could hardly complain when her imagination might be the guilty party.
She missed the creaky floorboards and familiar ghosts of Fenwick.
Until she could return home, this would be her sanctuary.
She wasn’t sure what to make of the children. Mary was eleven, dark-haired and quick, burdened with the emotional perception of a seventeen-year-old girl who has not only seen too much of life but has understood its coarser elements. Walker, at seven, was noisy and bold, not developed enough to elude either his family or life’s foils, although for all intents Mary stood as his primary defender and foe.
Ivy thought them charming, manipulative, and self-indulgent, much like their uncle. She was grateful to have been guardian of her own sisters; learning their peculiarities had prepared her somewhat for her role as governess. If Rosemary and Rue had not chased each other through the gardens at sword point, Ivy might not have understood that an unsupervised girl could be as bloodthirsty as a boy.
Nor did it strike her that a boy weeping into his pillow was a sign of weak character.
The children were late to lessons as usual that morning. She marched impatiently into Walker’s bedchamber. “Mary,” she said to one of the two forms huddled under the covers, “why are you crying?”
Mary pulled down the sheet to reveal her guileless face. “It’s Walker, miss. I’m comforting him. He won’t get up.”
“Walker, what is the matter?”
He rubbed his nose. “I am not crying.”
“Yes, he is,” Mary said. “He’s afraid our father will be killed at war, and our mother will never come back.” She scrambled across the bed, fully dressed. “Papa will kill her lover if she does. He might kill them both.”
Walker howled.
Ivy braced herself. “Walker, I insist you wash your face so that your valet can come in and dress you. That is not my responsibility. No matter what happens, your uncle will take care of you and Mary.”
Mary pulled the covers to the floor. “Until his lover comes.”
“I beg your pardon,” Ivy said, battling a sudden compulsion to carry the children off to Fenwick for safekeeping. “That is not how one should refer to His Grace’s houseguest.” Houseguest being a euphemism for several other choice words she refused to utter. She didn’t particularly want to witness the duke’s depravity herself.
“Do you have a lover?” Mary asked ingenuously.
“Certainly not. I wouldn’t be employed as your governess if I did. And now I’ll expect you both outside in the garden in half an hour. I’ll have Cook pack a small hamper for your breakfast.”
Walker sniffed. “Are we studying French?”
Ivy returned to the door. “No, morals. I shall read to you. Perhaps Aesop and a good dose of sunshine will chase away the darkness in your young minds.”
* * *
James found Ivy under the weeping willow by the lake, reading “The Boy Who Cried a False Alarm” to the children. He stood back, listening to her, and wondered when Aesop had become a writer of torrid fables that put immoral thoughts in a man’s mind. Surely that was not the fabulist that James remembered from his early days. The tales James recalled had been told to frighten him and Curtis into behaving. The ruse hadn’t worked on him then and it didn’t now. He doubted it would do much to change the children’s behavior, for that matter, even though Ivy appeared to have their complete attention.
It wasn’t the fable’s fault, of course. Or Aesop’s. It was the appealing voice of the storyteller who read the tale with unselfconscious vigor, acting out a part here and there for her enthralled audience, one of whom spotted James in the background and gave an unholy shriek.