she needed in the schoolroom adjacent to the nursery, she rose from her bed and lit a lamp, then wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. She went into the nursery and found Emmaline asleep but fitful, her blankets kicked askew. The fire had burned low, so Mercy added some peat, then pulled Emmaline’s blankets over the little girl’s shoulders. She gently smoothed her hair away from her face.
The child’s eyes opened. “Mama?”
“No, dear. It’s Miss Franklin. Are you warm enough?”
Mercy’s bare feet were freezing. She guessed Emmaline must be cold, too. She pulled up an extra blanket before sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“I dreamed . . . Papa carried me to Mama’s room,” she whispered, her chin quivering with distress. She reached up and clutched Mercy’s shawl tightly in her small hand. “We were laughing, and then everything was . . . was . . . red. And I could not breathe. I jumped down, away from Papa, and ran and ran . . .”
Mercy drew the trembling child into her arms, holding her and rocking her gently until her body stilled and she went back to sleep. The poor child must have bits of memory from the time she’d lost her mother, and Mercy wondered if any of her own dreams reflected her early years before the Franklins.
She would never know.
She eased Emmaline down to the mattress and covered her, but did not leave her right away, in case she awoke or needed comfort again.
No doubt Claire Rogers would say it was not a governess’s place to soothe her charge this way, but holding this child felt exactly right to Mercy. She realized with chagrin that caring for Emmaline might be the closest she would come to motherhood, for her chances with Reverend Vale were tenuous at best.
Mercy sighed. Any other father would have welcomed a son-in-law such as Andrew Vale. He had a good living, was kind and respectful, and was exceedingly handsome, with his suede brown eyes and lovely blond hair. Mercy felt herself blush when she recalled her longing for him to kiss her.
Perhaps she had inherited an unhealthy wantonness from her mother, though surely her response to Lord Ashby’s touch had been an aberration, a reaction to a strange situation that had caught her—had caught both of them—off guard. Now she knew what a mistake it had been to offer her assistance after he saved her from falling.
Somehow, in spite of his injured ankle, he’d managed to get up the stairs and all the way into the nursery corridor. For that matter, he’d hurried to her side to prevent her fall. Mercy thought it likely that he could have gotten himself to his bedchamber.
But even now, strange sensations shuddered through her at the image of the utterly masculine earl standing beside his massive bed, looking at her as though beckoning her.
So absurd.
He was a thoroughly contrary man, his demeanor not attractive in the least. Whatever strange sensations Mercy might feel, she could easily quench them. She had much to do in the next few days, beginning her lessons with Emmy and writing to Mr. Vale, which she vowed to do upon the morrow. It would be an extremely delicate letter to which she would need to give her full attention.
She needed to know if he was yet unmarried, and if so, whether he was still interested in courting her.
When it seemed fairly certain that Emmaline would sleep through the rest of the night, Mercy tucked her shawl around her shoulders and left the nursery. She closed the door quietly and turned to the corridor, only to collide with a large, solid body.
Chapter 9
“L ord Ashby!”
Nash caught Miss Franklin’s elbow and held her there, suspecting that she wanted naught but to make a quick exit to the privacy of her bedchamber. She stood so tentatively in her chemise and shawl, her feet bare, her hair in disarray, and ready to bolt.
Every nerve in his body tightened in reaction to her.
She smelled like sweet rain, fresh and alluring—so incredibly different from his hideous
The child’s eyes opened. “Mama?”
“No, dear. It’s Miss Franklin. Are you warm enough?”
Mercy’s bare feet were freezing. She guessed Emmaline must be cold, too. She pulled up an extra blanket before sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“I dreamed . . . Papa carried me to Mama’s room,” she whispered, her chin quivering with distress. She reached up and clutched Mercy’s shawl tightly in her small hand. “We were laughing, and then everything was . . . was . . . red. And I could not breathe. I jumped down, away from Papa, and ran and ran . . .”
Mercy drew the trembling child into her arms, holding her and rocking her gently until her body stilled and she went back to sleep. The poor child must have bits of memory from the time she’d lost her mother, and Mercy wondered if any of her own dreams reflected her early years before the Franklins.
She would never know.
She eased Emmaline down to the mattress and covered her, but did not leave her right away, in case she awoke or needed comfort again.
No doubt Claire Rogers would say it was not a governess’s place to soothe her charge this way, but holding this child felt exactly right to Mercy. She realized with chagrin that caring for Emmaline might be the closest she would come to motherhood, for her chances with Reverend Vale were tenuous at best.
Mercy sighed. Any other father would have welcomed a son-in-law such as Andrew Vale. He had a good living, was kind and respectful, and was exceedingly handsome, with his suede brown eyes and lovely blond hair. Mercy felt herself blush when she recalled her longing for him to kiss her.
Perhaps she had inherited an unhealthy wantonness from her mother, though surely her response to Lord Ashby’s touch had been an aberration, a reaction to a strange situation that had caught her—had caught both of them—off guard. Now she knew what a mistake it had been to offer her assistance after he saved her from falling.
Somehow, in spite of his injured ankle, he’d managed to get up the stairs and all the way into the nursery corridor. For that matter, he’d hurried to her side to prevent her fall. Mercy thought it likely that he could have gotten himself to his bedchamber.
But even now, strange sensations shuddered through her at the image of the utterly masculine earl standing beside his massive bed, looking at her as though beckoning her.
So absurd.
He was a thoroughly contrary man, his demeanor not attractive in the least. Whatever strange sensations Mercy might feel, she could easily quench them. She had much to do in the next few days, beginning her lessons with Emmy and writing to Mr. Vale, which she vowed to do upon the morrow. It would be an extremely delicate letter to which she would need to give her full attention.
She needed to know if he was yet unmarried, and if so, whether he was still interested in courting her.
When it seemed fairly certain that Emmaline would sleep through the rest of the night, Mercy tucked her shawl around her shoulders and left the nursery. She closed the door quietly and turned to the corridor, only to collide with a large, solid body.
Chapter 9
“L ord Ashby!”
Nash caught Miss Franklin’s elbow and held her there, suspecting that she wanted naught but to make a quick exit to the privacy of her bedchamber. She stood so tentatively in her chemise and shawl, her feet bare, her hair in disarray, and ready to bolt.
Every nerve in his body tightened in reaction to her.
She smelled like sweet rain, fresh and alluring—so incredibly different from his hideous
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