The Silent Governess(54)

“Poor boy.”

“I am well, Mamma.” He bestowed another of his cherry red smiles.

“I am relieved to hear you say so. Well, I am away to visit my mother. Miss Keene, you will return to your duties in the schoolroom promptly, I trust?”

“Yes, madam.”

“At least . . . your duties for the present.” Mrs. Howe nodded curtly and left the room.

Andrew opened his mouth for another bite and Olivia hurried to oblige him. He asked as though of a great adventure, “Did Cousin Edward really rescue me?”

“Yes, he did,” Olivia said, and the little boy looked happier than he had opening gifts on Christmas morn.





Chapter 38




The governess ought never, under any possible circumstances,

to allow herself to be either the source of family contention,

or mixed up as a party in any domestic quarrel.

—THE GUIDE TO SERVICE, 1844

Olivia met Lord Brightwell coming out of the room next to the study. She waited until he closed the door, then whispered, “My lord, how is Ed—Lord Bradley?”

The earl’s face was grim with exhaustion, but he managed a small smile for her. “Dr. Sutton has every confidence in a full recovery. The beam struck Edward across the nose and both brows. He has suffered minor burns around his eyes, but Sutton does not expect any long-term effect to his vision. His left arm is also injured. And two of his fingers burned, though not severely.”

“How dreadful.”

“He is well, Olivia.” He lifted his chin toward the door he had just exited. “I was just in to see him, and his only concerns were for Andrew’s well-being and your own.”

“I am so sorry, my lord,” Olivia said over the lump in her throat.

“My dear, those children have been running amuck since they came here, and if Judith has led you to believe they were under a watchful eye every moment before your arrival, then she has given you a false impression.” He looked at her fondly and patted her hand. “You have given those children more attention and supervision than Judith ever has. Assure her it will not happen again and all will be well.”

Olivia shook her head. “I believe I ought take my leave of you. I am certain Mrs. Howe would prefer it, and I do not blame her.”

“Olivia, you are innocent in this, and I will make Judith see reason. But if it comes down to it, she is my niece, but you are my—”

She pressed his arm. “Don’t say it.”

“Very well, but if she will not have you as governess, you are welcome to stay as my . . . ward.”

Olivia shook her head. “I am five and twenty, my lord, and, I pray, no orphan; surely this disqualifies me as anybody’s ward.”

“We shall see about that.”

“I am grateful that you still want this . . . after everything,” she whispered. “But I beg you, put the thought from your mind.”





That night, once she had heard Audrey’s prayers and kissed her brow, Olivia went downstairs to check on Andrew in the sickroom yet again. He lay so peacefully that for a moment she feared he did not breathe. She laid her ear close to his face, and feeling the warm breath on her cheek and seeing the gentle rise and fall of his chest, she kissed him and left the room. In the corridor, she noticed a door ajar—the door Lord Brightwell had indicated earlier.

She hesitated, knowing she should take herself upstairs and climb into bed. Yet she knew she would not, could not, sleep. Not without seeing Lord Bradley with her own eyes. To assure herself he was well, that he had all he needed, and that he did not blame her.

Surely Osborn was seeing to his every comfort—she was being foolish. Dr. Sutton had left half an hour ago and would have stayed were there any cause for alarm.

Then why did her heart beat so fast?

There was nothing for it. She stepped across the corridor, barely believing she was actually going to his bedchamber alone, at night. No, certainly she would not be alone. Lord Brightwell would be sitting at his bedside, Osborn at least.

She paused before the door, but heard nothing. Fearing to wake him should he be asleep, Olivia knocked softly. Receiving no response, she took a deep breath and opened the door several more inches. She would just look in on him. If he was asleep she would make sure he was breathing and then slip away. In and out. If Osborn was there, she would . . . what? Invent some excuse—Audrey could not sleep without first knowing if Lord Bradley was well? She hated to lie, but nor did she want every tongue in the servants’ hall wagging by morning.

She hesitated in the threshold. Several lamps were lit, but she saw no one about. A black and gold Chinese screen stood in the middle of the room, blocking her view.

A giggle trickled down the corridor, and Olivia turned her head. At the far end of the dark passage, she saw snooty Osborn, footman and valet, pressing Doris against the wall and kissing her.

Quietly, Olivia slipped inside. As she began to pull the door, she saw the teakettle sitting beside the door and picked it up, then stepped gingerly into the room.

“Where the devil have you been, Osborn?” Lord Bradley mumbled dully.

Something in his voice worried her, and she walked quietly forward without identifying herself. Carrying the kettle—which Osborn must have been delivering when waylaid by Doris—she peeked around the screen, assuming she would find him awaiting tea. Stifling a gasp, she stopped midstride.

He was in a bathtub, his head resting against its high back, a large bandage across his eyes. Remnants of dark soot lingered along the hard line of his jaw and in the laugh lines around his mouth. His left hand, also bandaged, hung over the edge of the tub, propped on a nearby chair clearly put there for that purpose.

Her gaze traveled up from his swathed hand to his muscled forearm, bicep, and shoulder. His broad chest glinted with golden hair. Olivia felt herself flush, her heart thudding like the deepest bass drum.

“Let me know when an hour has passed. I wish to have done with this foul poultice.” His voice was uncharacteristically languid, and she wondered how much laudanum the doctor had given him. She was thankful his eyes were covered and that no one was there to witness the burning of her face.

He huffed. “If you still insist on washing my hair again, let’s have done. I could sleep for a fortnight.”

Olivia’s mouth went dry.

His hair needed another washing—the normally fair hair still bore streaks of ashy grey. What would it feel like to wash his hair? To entwine her fingers in the smooth blond strands? Imagining it, she released a shaky breath.

He lifted his head, brow furrowed. “Osborn?”

Caught. She froze, expecting any moment the poultice to drop and him to glare at her in shocked disgust at the vulgar intrusion. Dread seizing her, she set down the kettle with a splash and hurried from the room.





All the next morning Olivia berated herself. What had she been thinking to go into his bedchamber? From Audrey, she had learned Lord Bradley was up and about already. That was good news at least. Still, it was late in the afternoon before she finally roused the courage to walk down to his study. If she did not, would he not think her most ungrateful and unconcerned about his welfare? Would her absence not seal any suspicions he might have of the identity of his silent visitor the previous night? Pressing a hand to her chest to calm her beating heart, she knocked on his study door.

“Enter.”

Wiping damp palms on her skirts, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Ah, Miss Keene . . .” Lord Bradley, seated at his desk, laid down the letter he was reading. His coat hung over one shoulder, his injured arm not within its sleeve.

“My lord.” She made a shallow curtsy, detesting the heat she felt infusing her face. For though he was now fully dressed, she involuntarily envisioned him as she had seen him last.

“You wanted to . . . see me . . . again?” he asked. Was that a twinkle in his blue eyes, or was she imagining it?

She licked her dry lips. “I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

“And now that you have seen me, all of me, what is your prognosis?”

She felt heat creeping up her neck, though she had not, she told herself yet again, not seen all of him. So he did know. Or was very confident he did. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

His eyes flitted over her burning face and twisting hands with apparent amusement.

She pressed her jittery hands to her sides and cleared her throat. “Yes, that is . . . I wanted to thank you for rescuing Andrew so courageously.”

“You are prodigiously welcome,” he said. Rising, he stepped around the desk and leaned back against it. “Though why you should feel the need to thank me, I do not quite grasp.”

“You know I adore Andrew, and if anything were to happen to him . . . And of course, I feel dreadfully responsible, letting him run off alone.”

He nodded. “It is unfortunate Andrew learnt of your secret hiding place, and that Talbot did not know to look there, or this”—he raised his wrapped and slung arm—“might have been avoided.”

She lowered her head, ashamed.

“Then again, I would not have earned your gratitude.”

She looked up at him, uncertain whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. “If you wish to dismiss me, I understand and shall go at once.”

He crossed his arms, quickly winced, and let go. “I hardly think it necessary. Nor am I ready to part with you. Judith was vexed, I know, but any mother—even stepmother—would be. Some of the steam went out of her when she learnt her darling brother was likely responsible for the fire—though, of course, Felix does not admit it.”