Breaking the Governess's Rules. Michelle StylesЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Jonathon,’ his stepmother said in her brisk voice, ‘Louisa Sibson is not coming. Not now. Not ever. Clarissa will nurse you back to health.’
‘Never?’ Jonathon searched his memory. Had he gone back and insisted that Louisa come with him? He had wanted to. Louisa hadn’t been in the curricle when it had overturned, had she? Every breath was fire and the pain in his head screamed worse than ever. He felt the memory of the crash slip away from him and become lost. ‘Was she in the curricle? Clarissa, you would not lie to me. Did I kill her?’
Clarissa turned away, sobbing, unable to meet his eyes.
‘No one is lying, Jonny,’ his stepmother said with great precision.
‘Venetia, where is Louisa? What has happened to her?’
‘She has gone for ever from our lives, Jonny. You had to indulge in your needs and to go against my advice.’
‘Dead.’
His stepmother was silent for a long moment. ‘You will not see her again. Jonathon, you were spared. No one but a fool would have left a cart on a blind bend.’
Louisa had died in the accident. His stepmother had admitted it in that roundabout way of hers. The knowledge hammered against his chest. The one person in the world he loved, that bright shining girl, dead. He had sworn to protect her, but instead he had destroyed her.
‘It would have been better if we’d never met.’
‘You can’t turn back the hands of time, Jonny.’ His stepmother gave him a fierce look. ‘You can only go forwards. It was providence that led you here to Clarissa’s. If the farm manager had not found you, I shudder to think.’ She put a cool hand on his shoulder. ‘You have everything to live for.’
Jonathon collapsed against the linen-covered pillows and willed the darkness to take him to Louisa. His body refused to die.
He turned his head and met his stepmother’s icy gaze. ‘You are wrong, Venetia. Without Louisa, I am beyond redemption.’
Chapter One
Four years later, August 1837—Newcastle upon Tyne
‘Miss Daphne Elliot.’ The three words were said in a warm masculine voice, but they were enough to send an ice-cold chill down Louisa Sibson’s spine.
Her hand froze on the soft folds of Miss Daphne Elliot’s woollen shawl. Louisa kept her gaze downcast and willed the stranger to go. She could not be so unlucky as to encounter Jonathon Ponsby-Smythe here. In Newcastle. He was an habitué of London clubs, fashionable salons and Almack’s, not provincial concerts with second-rate singers. Louisa forced the breath into her lungs. This man, this friend of Miss Daphne’s nephew who had sponsored the concert was someone else. This man was not the man who had destroyed her life. And she was no longer the same naïve girl who believed a man’s whispered endearments of eternal love.
Dimly she heard Miss Daphne answer with delight in her elderly voice and the low rich voice answer again. And she knew her luck in England remained resolutely poor.
Louisa concentrated on the shawl.
What was the proper etiquette for greeting the man who had taken your innocence and destroyed your girlish dreams? Particularly when one of the women most responsible for giving her a new life was enthusiastically greeting him?
And, most importantly, how had she missed his name as one of the sponsors of the Three Choirs concerts?
Louisa weighed her options. Cutting him dead would be the height of rudeness and would distress Miss Daphne no end. Neither could she turn and flee. There had to be a solution, but her mind refused to offer it.
‘Miss Sibson, are you quite the thing?’ Lord Furniss, Miss Daphne’s nephew, asked. Before Louisa could reply, Lord Furniss swallowed her hand in his gigantic paw. ‘I can see from a glance something is wrong. You have gone pale. It is not allowed to have a beauty fainting.’
Louisa withdrew her hand and looked up into Lord Furniss’s broad genial face. ‘There is little danger. I leave the fainting and attacks of vapours to the débutantes. They are the experts in these matters, after all.’
‘As ever, your wit slays me, Miss Sibson, but you do not have to be brave.’ Lord Furniss’s ruddy cheek became a deeper shade of red. He cleared his throat. ‘Chesterholm, we shall have to leave you. The esteemed Miss Sibson protests far too much. She is unwell.’
‘My health is robust.’ Louisa planted her feet more firmly, and her gaze locked with the clear blue-green of her worst nightmare, and her forbidden dream.
‘How delightful to meet you again, Miss Louisa Sibson.’ He held out his well-manicured hand. It was then that she knew her prayers were destined to remain for ever unanswered. ‘A highly unexpected occurrence.’
Louisa twisted Miss Daphne’s shawl about her fingers. By rights, he should have grown fat. Or have his face be marked with scars, something to show his wickedness. However, Jonathon Ponsby-Smythe’s countenance was as fair as ever—golden brown hair contrasting with intense blue-green eyes. Once she had thought his face with its dimple in the chin angelic, but now she could see the sardonic twist and the hardness that lurked behind the smile, the heartless seducer of women.
Gentlemen must be allowed their little indiscretions as long as they do not interfere with the household. She could remember Mrs Ponsby-Smythe’s precise intonation as Jonathon’s stepmother explained why she was dismissing Louisa immediately without reference, and not allowing her to wait for Jonathon’s return.
Louisa took another steady breath and squared her shoulders. She had found her solution. She would get through this unasked-for encounter with dignity and poise. She would demonstrate to him and the rest of the world that he meant nothing to her. She had learnt from her years in Italy. Let him prey on some other gauche governess who might believe his lies. She was now a woman of means, with standing and a good reputation.
‘Mr Ponsby-Smythe.’ Louisa inclined her head. Even now, a traitorous part of her remembered how his fingers had skimmed along her skin, sending quivers of delight throughout her as they bid each other goodbye despite the quarrel. Naïvely she had thought he offered the world, and instead it was one night. For when does the first-born son marry a governess with no family, except in a fairy tale?
‘Lord Chesterholm, Louisa,’ Miss Daphne squeaked, her withered cheeks flushed an excited pink. ‘You have not been paying attention. Young Jonathon has become the fourth Baron of Chesterholm and changed his name to Fanshaw out of respect to his late uncle. Chesterholm, Louisa.’
Louisa crossed her arms and mentally kicked herself. Such a simple thing as a name change. She had not even considered the possibility when she quickly scanned the list of subscribers to the concert. If she had known… she’d have invented a dozen reasons why she could not attend the concert and why she had to leave for Sorrento immediately, even if Miss Daphne had not finished her sentimental journey back to her childhood haunts. ‘Why did you change your name, Lord Chesterholm?’
‘It was my late great-uncle’s wish. He wanted his name to carry on.’ An arrogant smile crossed his features. ‘It suited me to please him, Miss Sibson.’
‘Why should the reason matter?’ Miss Daphne asked, bewilderment in her tone. ‘You are being very bold, Louisa, my girl, with a man you have barely met. Are you certain that you are not sickening? I have never seen you act this way before.’
‘Hasn’t the esteemed Miss Sibson confided about our friendship? That was remiss of her.’ Jonathon’s blue-green eyes burned with a fierce light as his fingers captured her hand and brought it to his lips. ‘Miss Sibson and I are acquainted. Old friends. Is that not true, Louisa?’
Even