Scandal At The Christmas Ball: A Governess for Christmas / Dancing with the Duke’s Heir

She smiled crookedly. ‘I am not weak-willed, not usually, but when I peered into the drawing room and saw everyone taking tea and looking so relaxed and at home...’ Miss Forsythe straightened her shoulders, adjusted her paisley scarf, and forced another smile. ‘But there, I know I must step into the breach at some point. A military term you will be familiar with, Mr MacIntosh. I will leave you to your solitude, while I head into battle.’

Which was exactly what she looked like she was about to do, Drummond thought, adding brave to her list of attributes. He extended his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you. We will face the enemy together. A pincer move, if you will. Shall we?’

* * *

Could her fellow guests really be regarded as the enemy? Joanna Forsythe wondered as she sipped on her tea and made polite conversation. How would they react if they discovered they were mingling with a social pariah? She didn’t recognise a single one of them, which was a considerable relief, since it made it highly unlikely that any were privy to her shameful reputation. Save her host and hostess.

Glancing over at the Duchess, Joanna felt that mix of excitement and nerves which made her feel sick and giddy at the same time.

The Duchess had written a letter in her elegant script, accompanying the invitation to Brockmore Manor.

Now that she is aware of the painful truth, Lady Christina wishes to make amends and has desired me, as one of her oldest and—forgive my lack of modesty—most influential friends, to act as her intermediary.

There will be opportunity to discuss this further during the course of the party, but it is my sincere hope that you will be able to partake in and enjoy the festivities without allowing this most regrettable matter to prey on your mind.

All very well for Her Grace to say, but despite the opulence of her surroundings, the fine food, the luxury of silk sheets and a roaring fire in her bedchamber, and the promise of a fun-filled holiday, Joanna’s thoughts turned again and again to the question of how, precisely, her former employer proposed to make reparation for the damage she had inflicted. Clearly, the all-important discussion with the Duchess was not to be tonight. Then tomorrow was Christmas Day. Boxing Day? There were activities planned from dawn to dusk. How was she to contain herself in waiting?

A burst of laughter from the other side of the room drew her attention. Looking over, she settled her gaze on Drummond MacIntosh who, having handed her into the care of their hosts, had been conversing for the last half-hour with the group of men by the fire, but now he excused himself to make his way over to join her.

He unsettled her, but there was no doubting that he was by far the most attractive man in the room. Not the most handsome, that accolade must go to Aubrey Kenelm, but Mr Kenelm’s golden-haired perfection held no appeal for Joanna. Drummond MacIntosh’s features were more forceful: a strong nose, a most determined jaw, and an even more decided mouth. His skin was deeply tanned, despite the season, the colouring of a man who spent much of his life outdoors, and there were lines fanning out from his eyes. Etched by the elements, or by carousing, or by pain? He was a soldier, so most likely all three. His hair was the kind of glossy black that she would have attributed to artifice, were it not for the streaks of auburn in his curls.

‘Now that you have entered the battlefield, Miss Forsythe, are you feeling more at ease?’

‘The company seems most convivial,’ Joanna replied. ‘I am sure I will feel much more relaxed when we are better acquainted.’

‘You must know our hosts in some capacity, surely, to have been invited?’

‘I’ve never met them. In fact, I know you better than any other person in this room.’

He smiled at that. ‘Then we are in the exact same situation, for I know not a soul here either.’

‘Which begs the question, why are you here? Oh, heavens, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so inquisitive. You will have your reasons, as I have. I’m a teacher,’ she clarified, ‘at a school for girls. A provincial institution, you will not have heard of it. The school is closed for the holidays, but unlike my pupils, I have no family to celebrate with. So you see...’

‘...the Brockmores’ generous offer was most timely. A very good reason, Miss Forsythe, but now I’m intrigued as to why they would do such a thing for a complete stranger.’

She would not lie, but the truth—no, she could not be telling someone she barely knew the whole truth, no matter how oddly tempting it was. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed,’ Joanna said lightly, ‘the reason is very mundane. My former employer is a great friend of Her Grace. It was she who facilitated this invitation, having learned of my currently straitened circumstances.’

Mr MacIntosh frowned at this but said nothing. He had a way with silence, Joanna was discovering, of making her want to fill it. She used it herself, to good effect, on her pupils. Usually they squirmed, then they confessed. Joanna bit her lip. Finally, he surrendered with a gruff little laugh. ‘It would be unfair of me to press you further, especially since my case is remarkably similar.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My invitation also came via a—a well-wisher who regrets my current circumstances, and wishes to change them for the better. For me, this party is something of an initiation test.’

‘Then our cases are not so similar after all! I assure you, Mr MacIntosh, that I do not require to pass any sort of test. Whatever it is that the Duchess proposes—’ She snapped her mouth closed, staring at him in dismay. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr MacIntosh, I would not wish to monopolise your time.’

But he shook his head, detaining her by the lightest of touches on her arm. ‘I would be delighted if you’d call me Drummond.’

‘Drummond,’ she repeated, ‘a very Scottish name, though your accent is almost imperceptible.’

‘I have been a long time away from the Highlands, Miss Forsythe,’ he replied, his accent softening at the same time as his smile hardened.

‘Joanna.’

‘From the Greek?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘You look surprised, but not all Highlanders are heathens, Miss—Joanna. I was packed off to school in Edinburgh, and had Greek and Latin beaten into me along with any number of other useless subjects.’

‘Education is never useless, Mr—Drummond—though it should never be beaten into anyone.’

‘I did not mean to imply—I am sure that you do not subscribe to the view that to spare the rod is to spoil the child, and are an excellent teacher.’

‘I love my profession. Even in my current situation, I cannot imagine another way of earning my living.’

‘Then for your sake, I sincerely hope that this party is the route to securing a better living—if that is what you hope the Duchess will propose.’

Joanna laughed shortly. ‘I’m not a charity case. I didn’t come here in search of patronage, but justice. Now you have somehow managed to extract a great deal more from me than I intended.’

‘Justice,’ Drummond said, his mouth twisted. ‘It is a noble aim. My motivations are a wee bit more prosaic. All I’m looking for is a fresh start and I’m afraid, unlike you, that the patronage of our hosts is a prerequisite for that. There, now you have also managed to extract a deal more from me than I intended.’

She shook her head, quite at a loss, for his tone had been so bitter. ‘I did not mean to imply that there was anything wrong with patronage, Drummond.’

‘Were it for anyone but myself I’d agree with you, but I’m like you, you see, I prefer my independence. However...’ He forced a smile. ‘There now, as I said, I’ve told you more than enough.’

And it had cost him, Joanna thought. Whatever he wanted or needed from the Duke of Brockmore, it hurt his pride to have to ask. She, who had been forced to beg and to plead, could understand that, though she suspected her sympathy would be very unwelcome. ‘I don’t know about you, but I truly am in dire need of some solitude,’ she said, touching his arm lightly. ‘I think I will retire to my chamber to rest before we green the house.’

Drummond nodded, but as she turned to go, he caught her hand. ‘You will return though, won’t you? You won’t spend the whole evening hiding in your room?’

‘Or even lurking in a dark corner,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘Do not fear, whatever the outcome of my—my other business, I intend to forget all about the harsh realities of life, and enjoy these festivities to the full, while I can.’

His grim expression softened. ‘A most commendable strategy,’ Drummond said, with a lop-sided smile. ‘With your permission, it’s an approach I’d like to share with you.’

Chapter Two

Friday, 25th December 1818, Christmas Day

Christmas morning began, as tradition dictated, with a church service, then an elaborate champagne breakfast followed by a stroll to the village green, now carpeted with a thick blanket of snow. The local children had gathered, and were crowding excitedly around the huge horse-drawn sleigh which accompanied the Brockmore party. On Boxing Day, food baskets would be delivered to tenants and those in need, but today was all about distributing treats to the children of the estate. The Duke and Duchess, aided by some of their guests, handed out wooden dolls and horses, lead soldiers, tin drums, skittles, balls, skipping ropes, hoops, spinning tops and penny whistles, and soon the air was filled with whoops of glee. The frenzied beating of tin drums was soon interspersed with the shrill sound of penny whistles being blown, as if some miniature marching band were tuning up.

Percival Martindale was making a terrible hash of the gift-giving, Drummond noticed as he watched from the sidelines. The poor man got it wrong every time, handing dolls to small boys, skipping ropes to toddlers, and a tin drum to the perplexed mother of a swaddled baby. Heaven knew how he would cope with his new wards. Perhaps he would find a wife to help him bring them up. Or hand them over to a governess. Martindale was smiling gratefully now at Joanna, who had tactfully intervened, swapping Martindale’s choices for something more appropriate, earning herself a grateful smile and a pat on the arm.

For some reason, Drummond did not appreciate this over-familiarity. On impulse, he headed across the snow, waiting patiently until the last gift had been dispensed, then stepping quickly between Martindale and Joanna, offering his arm, and sweeping her away before the other man could protest.

‘I was not in need of rescue, you know,’ she said, as Drummond steered the pair of them away from the revelry. ‘Mr Martindale seems a pleasant but rather melancholy gentleman.’

‘I take it, then, that you are not aware that he has recently been obliged to take in his sister’s two children? Both their parents were killed in a carriage accident, apparently.’

Joanna’s smile faded. ‘I had no idea. How very tragic. But what then, is Mr Martindale doing here at Brockmore? Surely his place is with his new charges, especially at this time of year?’

‘According to Edward Throckton, who is a positive mine of information, the Brockmores were close friends of the deceased couple. They felt the chap desperately needed a break after all he has been through. Apparently, the children have been packed off to mutual friends who have a large brood of their own. They will be well cared for, I am sure, and most likely better able to cope with the loss than poor Martindale, for children, as you must know, are actually very resilient.’

Joanna’s mouth tightened. ‘I never knew my mama, she died giving birth to me, but I have known several children lose a parent, Drummond, and whether they are five years old or fifteen, what they need more than anything is security.’

‘Martindale strikes me as someone who knows his duty. I am certain he will do his best by them—better, perhaps, when he’s had this break to distance himself from his grief.’

‘I hope so, for the poor mites deserve nothing less.’

‘I’ve some experience in this field, you know. I’ve had lads—and I mean lads, Joanna, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—lose a parent. Sometimes, when we were on campaign, word came months after the death, and often it would fall to me to break the news. I happen to agree with you, security is what they need the most. In such cases, it is the army routine which provides that.’

‘And so as an officer, you also acted in loco parentis, just as a teacher does at times—though I do not mean for a moment to compare the two. For you, so far away from home, it must have been so much worse.’ Joanna pressed his arm. ‘Though not so bad as to have to inform a parent on the loss of a child.’ She covered her mouth, aghast almost before the words were out. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, what a tactless thing to have said. I cannot imagine...’

But it was too late. ‘No,’ he said, his voice sounding hollow, as if it did not belong to him. ‘No, you cannot.’ So many such carefully crafted letters, full of kind words and platitudes, glossing over the terrible reality of death in battle. And that one, last letter he had not been permitted to write, despite it being the most important of all. Drummond squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to dispel the memory.

Joanna’s face was pale, her expression horrified, but he felt as if he was looking at her from afar. It was the deafening silence he remembered most. The sudden, shocked silence like that which followed a cannon’s roar. The disbelief writ large on the faces of his men, that must have been reflected in his. Followed by a blood-curdling roar of anguish. His own voice, emanating from the darkest, deepest recesses of his soul.

‘Drummond?’ Joanna gave him a little shake. ‘Drummond?’

He dug his knuckles into his eyes, pushed his hair back from his brow. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

‘It is I who should apologise. I did not intend to evoke whatever terrible event it was you recalled. I am so very, very sorry.’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, relieved to hear that his words had a deal more conviction.

‘Do you want to tell me...?’

‘No!’ he barked, making Joanna flinch. ‘No,’ he repeated, more mildly. ‘Some things which happen during conflict are not for the ears of civilians—they would not understand.’

‘I am truly sorry.’

‘Forget it. We have talked enough about my occupation, tell me about yours. What is it you love so much about teaching?’

To his relief, though she hesitated, she accepted the crude change of subject. ‘Not beating Latin and Greek into my pupils, for one.’

‘Men teaching boys, that is a very different thing.’

‘Did they succeed?’ she asked, eyeing him quizzically. ‘Or might a gentler approach have been more effective?’

Drummond shrugged. ‘It is simply how things were, and no doubt are still. Masters on one side, boys on the other, the one pushing, the other resisting.’

‘You don’t think that a little encouragement, some interest in the subject matter would have helped bridge the gap? How can one expect to imbue a child with enthusiasm for a subject when it is patently obvious to the child that their teacher does not share it?’

‘A good point. Perhaps if my teachers had been more like you I wouldn’t have been so eager to finish school.’

‘I was lucky, I had an excellent example to follow. My father was a botanist as well as a tutor, and taught me to think of pupils as flowers, some blooming easily and showily, some needing to be gently coaxed. I have a weakness for those who need coaxed, I must confess,’ Joanna said with a tender smile. ‘There is nothing quite so rewarding as helping a child to find their own particular talent—and every child is gifted in some way, you know.’

‘That has been my experience too,’ Drummond said, ‘though I’m not too sure any of my raw recruits would have taken to being likened to a flower. I take it, from the way you talk of him, that your father is no longer with us?’

‘He died very peacefully, a few weeks after my twenty-first birthday, almost seven years ago.’ Her eyes were misty with tears, but when Drummond made to apologise, she shook her head. ‘No, you’ve not upset me, I have nothing but lovely memories of our time together.’

‘May I take it that it was the loss of your father which required you to take up teaching for a living?’

‘In a way, that is how I have always earned my crust, as they say, for latterly, I took over the youngest of Papa’s pupils but, yes, his passing changed things. For a start, the house was only a life rent, and though I could have negotiated to take it on...’ Joanna grimaced. ‘A man can command a great deal more fees than a mere woman, no matter how well educated she is. I simply couldn’t afford it.’

‘That seems damned unfair.’

‘So many women would agree with you, and so surprisingly few men,’ Joanna said wryly. ‘Right or wrong, it is how it is, there is no point in getting angry about it.’

‘I’m not angry. Well, yes, I am. To be forced from your home and into—where did you go?’

‘I found a good position as a private governess to two girls. My education and Papa’s reputation made it astonishingly easy—not that my education was much called for. A smattering of French, literature, history, enough to make an adequate conversationalist, was all that was required along with the usual singing and sewing.’ Joanna wrinkled her nose. ‘Young girls who are destined to marry well care little for learning.’ Her brow cleared, and she smiled. ‘You know, I hadn’t thought of my current position in a positive light until now, but there is a great deal to be said for being a school teacher, even when one is not being paid, and is treated as a drudge.’

‘Then what on earth are you doing at such a school, when it is clear...’

‘On the contrary, the situation is far from clear. It is a decidedly complicated matter, and one that I am not in a position to discuss until I have spoken to the Duchess.’

The cold air had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks. Her plain poke bonnet framed her face. Her countenance was heart-shaped, with a most decided chin. Her mouth was set, and her eyes met his unflinchingly. It was not only curiosity which made him want to press her further. He liked her. He had an absurd wish to help her, though what he could do—and besides, it seemed help was already on hand in the form of the Duchess. What’s more, he could hardly press her to talk when he’d so steadfastly refused to confide in her himself.

Drummond sighed, holding up his hands in a gesture of mute acceptance. ‘It is Christmas Day, and we agreed only last night, didn’t we, to forget all about reality and to enjoy ourselves.’

‘We did. We aren’t doing very well are we?’

‘Well, we must remedy that forthwith.’

She smiled with her eyes. A silly phrase, but in this case it was true, her eyes were smiling. The snow was falling thickly now, swirling around them. A snowflake fell on to her cheek. Drummond gently brushed it away. Joanna stood stock-still. Their eyes locked. There was a stillness in the air, a muffled silence enveloping them as the snow fell softly on to the existing carpet of white. He trailed his fingers down her cheek, to rest on the soft wool of her scarf. Her breath formed a wispy white cloud. Another snowflake landed on her cheek, and this time he used his lips to melt it. Her skin was cold, and so very soft. He wanted to kiss her. Her lips were parted so temptingly, and it had been so very long since he had wanted to kiss anyone.

But a gentleman did not go around kissing ladies he was barely acquainted with, no matter how much he wanted to. Making a show of brushing the snow from Joanna’s shoulder, Drummond looked up at the sky, blinking as a flake of icy snow landed on his eyelash. ‘They’ll be sending out a search party for us, if we do not make haste.’

‘Yes,’ Joanna said, making no move.

Her breath was rapid, her cheeks bright. ‘When you look at me like that,’ Drummond said, ‘I find it very hard to think of anything but kissing you.’

‘Only think? I thought you were a man of action.’ She smiled at him, and that smile heated his blood beneath the icy cold of his exposed skin. ‘There is nothing to think about, Drummond, for this is not real, and no one will ever know. Our paths have crossed for a few days, but when we leave Brockmore, we are very unlikely to meet again. Are you afraid I will slap your face?’

A laugh shook him. ‘It would be what I deserved.’

‘Are you prepared to take the risk?’

He wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hand under her scarf to the warm skin at the nape of her neck. ‘I most certainly am,’ he whispered, putting his lips to hers.

* * *

Joanna owned only one serviceable evening gown. Purchased ten years ago, in the days when she had a little spare cash, it had started life as a simple tea gown of pale blue satin. As a governess, she was occasionally required to accompany her charges to soirées, and with no funds to purchase a new gown had been obliged to adapt this one, shortening the sleeves and lowering the neckline. When the invitation to spend Christmas at Brockmore Manor had arrived, she had upgraded her evening dress for the third time, layering panels of sprigged muslin over the skirt, using the same material to put a new trim on the neckline and sleeves.

Standing in front of the long mirror in her bedchamber on Christmas night, she was pleased with the result, though she couldn’t help wishing that she, like the other female guests, had brought a different gown for every night. Which was as silly a wish as ever could be made, for it was highly unlikely that she would ever have an opportunity to wear any of them ever again. Unless she was able, once again, to take up a governess position in another household similar to Lady Christina’s, once her name had been cleared. Perhaps this was the form the amends the Duchess had referred to would take. Eighteen months ago, she would have given anything to be able to do so but now—the conversation with Drummond this afternoon made her question whether that was still what she wanted.

The Duchess had made no attempt to speak to her yet. Until she did, there was no point in her speculating, though she assumed that removing the terrible stain on Joanna’s reputation would be a pre-requisite. Mind you, if the Duchess had seen her this afternoon, kissing Drummond with shocking abandon, she’d have another, very different blot on her copybook. One which, moreover, she’d been very, very careful to avoid, for whether governess or teacher, she could not afford to be branded a brazen hussy. Yet she’d behaved like a hussy this afternoon, and what’s more she’d thoroughly enjoyed it.

The gilded shepherdess on the ornate ormolu clock on the mantel marked the half-hour by raising her crook to strike a goat bell. It was time to assemble for dinner but Joanna, who normally had a horror of being late, sat down on the footstool by the fire. She was not paired with Drummond for dinner tonight, the seating plan had placed him further down the table, between Lady Beatrice and Miss Burnham. Later, games were due to be played in the ballroom, and she would have the opportunity to speak to him then, if she wished to do so. That he might not welcome her company was a possibility she must consider, given her shockingly forward behaviour. She had practically demanded that he kiss her! Mind you, he had needed little encouragement, and he had seemed to enjoy kissing her every bit as much as she had enjoyed kissing him.

No, there was no denying it had been an extraordinarily nice kiss. Not a bit like Evan’s kisses, and Evan’s kisses were the only ones Joanna had for comparison. She hadn’t seen Evan for seven years, but she most certainly didn’t remember his kisses making her feel like she might melt. She had liked them, they had been pleasant, but she’d been content when they were over, and she didn’t recall ever replaying any of them over in her mind, and ending up all hot and bothered and—and wanting. Yes that was the correct word, the teacher in her thought, wanting.

When Drummond had rubbed the snowflake from her cheek, kissing him was all she’d wanted, and when their lips had met, her only thought was that she didn’t want it to end. Wrapping her arms around herself, she closed her eyes and indulged herself by remembering once more. The soft leather of his gloved hand on the nape of her neck, beneath her scarf. The slumberous look in his eyes. Close up, the hazel of his iris was tinged with green. Close up, she could see the faint slash of a scar slicing neatly through his right brow. Close up, he smelled of soap and wet wool and cold, crisp winter air. He had not crushed her in his embrace, there were so many layers of warm clothing between them she could not feel the heat of his skin, but she could test the breadth of his shoulders with her hands. His lips had been warm, gentle, careful. It was an amuse-bouche of a kiss, Joanna thought, smiling at her own fancifulness. A tasting kiss, a foretaste, enough to tease, to tempt, to entice. It was a perfect kiss as the prelude to another kiss. The question was, whether there should be another.