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

The shepherdess chimed quarter to the hour with her crook. Startled, Joanna leapt to her feet. There was no time to be posing such questions, and no point either, for the answer was a very emphatic yes! Quickly threading the silk ribbon which matched her gown through her hair, she stabbed a few more pins randomly into her coiffure. Her turquoise necklace and matching earrings, her last gift from Papa, were the finishing touch to her toilette. Placing the guard in front of the fire and draping a shawl around her shoulders, Joanna gave her reflection a final check and, satisfied with what she saw, headed down to dinner.

* * *

After an elaborate meal of countless courses, the guests were invited to assemble in the ballroom, which was a grand affair, running the full length of the house from front to back, opening out on to the terrace and the south lawn, which could be glimpsed, glittering with frost, through long French windows. The ceiling, twice the height of the other reception rooms, was painted alabaster white, with only the ornate Adam cornicing to relieve its plainness. The pilasters running down one side would give the room the look of a Roman forum, were it not for the garlands which had been twisted around them. The greenery and mistletoe which they had so enthusiastically hung yesterday had been festooned with silver and gold paper formed into stars, lanterns and snowflakes, which caught the light from the three huge chandeliers which blazed down, their flames reflected in the highly polished wooden floor.

The striking of a gong announced the emergence of their hosts on to a small balcony set above the assembled guests dressed, as Joanna was beginning to realise was their custom, in co-ordinating evening wear of silver and dove-grey.

The skin on the nape of Joanna’s neck prickled with awareness.

‘They are fond of a little theatricality, are they not?’ Drummond spoke softly, for her ears only. ‘I’ve been waiting all day for the opportunity to speak to you.’

She bit back a smile of relief. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. Our hosts are about to address us.’

Which was no lie. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the Duke of Brockmore began, ‘as you can see, we have laid on some festive games. We hope that there will be something to suit everyone.’

Joanna listened distractedly as, between them, the Duke and Duchess explained the various activities laid out in the ballroom, all the time acutely aware of the man by her side. Drummond, like the rest of the gentlemen, was wearing country evening dress. A pale blue waistcoat almost the exact, original shade of her own gown. Dark blue pantaloons which clung to his legs. He had very long legs, and they were very nicely shaped too. Not many men looked so well in tightly knitted pantaloons, but Drummond’s legs showed them to perfection. Not flabby, but certainly not too thin either. Muscled, she was willing to bet. Though who would take on such a wager, and how she could be so certain, when she had never seen a pair of well-muscled legs in the flesh before, she could not imagine. She dragged her eyes away from the perfect legs and her thoughts away from their shocking trend, only to discover that the owner of said legs was gazing at her quizzically. ‘Your coat,’ she said distractedly. ‘I was just thinking how exactly it matched the panels of my gown.’

‘We have inadvertently copied Their Graces,’ he agreed, ‘in co-ordinating our attire.’

Joanna laughed. ‘‘Do you think they will be flattered by our imitating their style, or consider us presumptuous?’ The Duke and Duchess, having concluded their little speech, were now descending from their Olympian heights to join their guests.

‘I am inclined to think the former, in which case we should continue to co-ordinate each night, for their good opinion, as you know, is essential to my future happiness.’

His tone was light, but there was an underlying edge to his words that made her turn to face him. ‘You do not sound overly enthusiastic about achieving that.’

‘I am as enthusiastic about it as I am to bob for apples. Though perhaps you wish to have a go?’

It was the lightest of brush-offs, but it still stung. ‘I have no intention of bobbing for apples,’ Joanna said tartly. ‘This is my only evening gown, and I cannot risk ruining it with water stains. Which means, I’m afraid, that unless you plan to wear that same coat and waistcoat every evening, you’ll have to come up with some other method to impress our hosts. If you will excuse me.’

‘Joanna, I did not mean...’

But she turned her back on him, making for the French windows at the furthest point in the ballroom from the laughing guests gathered around the huge copper bath of water where apples bobbed on the surface, beguiling the innocent into thinking them easy to capture between their teeth.

She was not, however, the only guest to seek this secluded spot. Lady Beatrice, dressed in a deceptively simple gown of puce figured silk with piped satin trimming, was standing in the shadow of the long curtains. ‘A wise decision, Miss Forsythe,’ she said coolly. ‘If one is set upon eating an apple, there are plenty in the fruit bowl to be taken without destroying one’s coiffure.’

‘Or making one’s gown virtually transparent.’

‘Neither dilemma seems to have occurred to Miss Canningvale,’ Lady Beatrice said, eyeing the flame-haired beauty disdainfully. ‘Though if her objective is to draw the attention of every male in the company, she is succeeding. Just look at Aubrey Kenelm, he is positively mesmerised.’

‘Perhaps he has made a wager on her success,’ Joanna said drily.

‘More likely he has made a wager on the probability of her bosom falling out of that dress, and if she leans over into the bath one inch further—oh, please, do not pretend to be shocked, Miss Forsythe.’

Joanna laughed. ‘I am surprised, not shocked, and Mr Kenelm is about to lose his bet. Look, Captain Milborne has come to the rescue with a towel and an apple.’

‘A practical man, and a thoughtful one,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘Much underestimated qualities, don’t you think? I can’t imagine Captain Milborne lisping poetry and sending flowers, and treating one as if she were a feather-witted piece of Sèvres that might fracture in a summer zephyr. Why is it, do you think, that so many men believe beauty and brains are incompatible?’

Joanna laughed nervously. ‘Clearly not in your case.’

Lady Beatrice shrugged. ‘It would be much better for me if it were so. I am nearly thirty, Miss Forsythe, yet I cannot bring myself to play the vacuous ninny the men who court me desire in a wife.’

Joanna, who hadn’t thought of Evan in years, now found herself thinking of him for the second time in a day. He had not thought her a vacuous ninny, but he had not been much interested in any of her thoughts. ‘Perhaps you have not met the right man,’ she said.

‘Your words lack conviction, Miss Forsythe,’ Lady Beatrice replied sardonically. ‘I think you are as cynical as I. I wish I was a man,’ she confessed with a heartfelt sigh. ‘If I were a man, I could enter politics, and that is what I wish above all. The power to influence events, Miss Forsythe, not what passes for love, that is what would make me truly happy. Have I shocked you?’

‘You have reminded me it is wrong to make assumptions based on first impressions.’

‘Talking of which, I think the rather intimidating Mr MacIntosh assumed he would be spending what is left of this evening in your company. He has scarce taken his eyes off you. He is looking over at you again now. What did he say to you, may I ask, to make you seek refuge here by the window?’

‘I asked him an impertinent question and he lightly slapped me down. I suspect I overreacted.’

In the centre of the room, a narrow wooden beam had been suspended from the roof by two lengths of rope. Aubrey Kenelm was removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, amidst much cheering from the other guests. Shoeing the wild mare, the game was called, the amateur farrier expected to mount the wooden horse and to hammer the underside on a marked spot, four times in eight blows. It did not look particularly difficult, but Mr Kenelm was struggling to get on to the beam, which swayed alarmingly, and was just far enough off the ground for his legs to be unable to gain purchase on the ballroom floor when he was positioned in the ‘saddle’. Drummond had joined them now, standing next to young Mr Throckton.

‘I kissed him,’ Joanna confessed abruptly. ‘Drummond—Mr MacIntosh—I kissed him, and now I think that he might think—I don’t know what he thinks,’ she admitted, her cheeks flaming.

‘What do you think, Miss Forsythe? Did you enjoying kissing him?’

‘This is becoming a very personal conversation. Yes, if you must know, I did enjoy it. Very much.’

Lady Beatrice raised her brows. ‘I’ve always found kissing a rather insipid pastime.’

Joanna laughed, part scandalised, part in admiration. ‘That has been my limited experience, until today.’

‘Then you need a rapprochement with Mr MacIntosh, if you wish to experience more of it. If you do desire such a thing?’

Aubrey Kenelm, having finally succeeded in mounting the wild mare, was ignominiously thrown tumbling to the ground as he leaned over with his hammer.

‘Your silence speaks volumes,’ Lady Beatrice said. ‘I rather think this game will provide much entertainment,’ she added, with what in a lesser-bred person would surely be called glee. ‘Let us go and enjoy the spectacle.’

* * *

One male guest after another had dismally failed to ‘shoe the wild mare’. Watching with trepidation, knowing he could not refuse his turn, Drummond was extremely relieved when Captain Milborne, exhorted by Miss Canningvale, finally achieved the feat.

‘You do not feel the need to try to equal the Captain?’

Drummond turned to find Joanna at his shoulder. ‘I have no wish to steal his thunder. Look, I shouldn’t have brushed you off as I did.’

‘There is no need to apologise. We have known each other for little more than a day. It was presumptuous of me to question you, and silly of me to take offence when you chose not to confide in me.’

‘I would like to explain, all the same,’ Drummond said sheepishly. ‘Our acquaintance may be short, but I don’t feel—I find that I would like you to understand. If you would like to...’

‘I would.’

He saw his own relief reflected in her eyes. And something else too. Not only liking. She too thought them alike, he’d not misunderstood. Drummond looked around anxiously for a way to escape.

A game of Blind Man’s Buff was getting underway. The majority of the guests were shouting out and running around while poor Miss Creighton as ‘it’, a silk cravat tied around her eyes, stumbled about in pursuit. At the other end of the ballroom, the Duke and Duchess were supervising the setting up of a huge shallow punch bowl filled with raisins. The Duke was pouring brandy from a decanter over the dried fruit. The Duchess was tugging at his sleeve, obviously concerned that he was utilising too much spirit. Later, the brandy-soaked raisins would be lit, the ballroom dimmed, and in the dark the foolhardy would try to snatch the ‘snap dragons’ from the hot punch. It had been a popular game in the Mess at Christmas. Drummond was very good at it, but he wasn’t in the least bit interested, at this precise moment, in demonstrating his prowess.

A round of applause signalled Miss Creighton’s success in handing over the mantle of ‘it’ to another. Drummond grabbed Joanna’s arm and rushed the pair of them through the nearest door. It led to a small retiring room lit by a single lamp on a round table, two low-backed chairs set opposite each other by the grate. ‘The Duke and Duchess’s retreat, I suspect,’ he said. ‘I wonder if there’s a spyhole into the ballroom? It wouldn’t surprise me. His Grace has a reputation for being all-seeing and all-knowing.’

He waited for Joanna to seat herself, then took the other chair. ‘When you asked me if I was in two minds about being here...’ He smoothed his finger over his brow, feeling the tiny indent of the scar. ‘Ach, the truth is that I am.’

‘You sound very Scottish when you say that. Akk.’

‘Ach,’ he said, accentuating the accent for her benefit, enjoying the way she smiled at him, the soft curve of her breasts above the neckline of her gown, the flush in her cheeks, the glint of red that the firelight reflected in her hair. He leant over to touch her hand. ‘Though I am glad I came, for if I had not I would not have met you, the reason I’m here in the first place is because the Duke of Wellington more or less commanded me to come.’

‘Wellington! You do have friends in high places.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call us friends,’ Drummond said, thinking of the deafening silence between them since Waterloo. ‘He wants me to serve him as an aide, but unless I can persuade the Duke of Brockmore that I’m worthy of his support I’ll be of no use to Wellington.’

It was a convoluted enough explanation. Judging by the frown on Joanna’s face, it was no explanation at all. Her words proved him wrong. ‘A word in the right ears from the Duke of Brockmore will establish you with the right people, you mean?’

Re-establish more accurately, but to admit that was to encourage questions he could never, ever answer. ‘That’s the gist of it.’

‘But if you have the support of the Duke of Wellington, isn’t that enough?’

Drummond’s fingers strayed once more to the scar on his eyebrow. He jerked them away, knowing the habit betrayed his discomfort. ‘Two dukes are better than one,’ he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. ‘When Wellington acts, he likes to be sure he will succeed.’

‘He has cause to believe he will. He is a national hero. What a privilege to serve directly under him—what an opportunity for you though...’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Is the position not to your liking? Are you—I don’t even know how you’ve been occupied in the period since you left the army. What have you been doing in the—what is it, three and a half years, since Waterloo? Or did you remain in the army for some time afterwards?’

Wednesday, the fifth of July, 1815, a mere two weeks since the battle had been fought, had seen his final day of military service dawn, preceded by what had seemed an endless night. A day that was over in a matter of minutes. Drummond hauled his thoughts back from that overcast parade ground, for Joanna was waiting patiently for an answer to her questions.

‘I’ve been in the country,’ he said, staring into the fire. ‘I have a small estate in Shropshire. When I took out the lease, it was sadly run down, the tenanted farms in great need of modernisation, the house itself in a state of disrepair. But it is astonishing what one can achieve in a relatively short period, when one has no other occupation to distract one. And how little effort it takes, when things are in fine fettle, to keep them ticking over.’

‘You mean you are bored?’

He gave a gruff little laugh. ‘To distraction.’

‘And so this offer of a post with the Duke of Wellington...’

‘Is a godsend. So I ought to think.’ Drummond winced. ‘That sounds damned ungrateful, and I’m not. You can have no idea, Joanna, what this would mean to me.’ He hunched forward on the chair, his fingers curled into his knees. ‘I have served my country for most of my life. My father bought my first commission when I was fifteen. It was all I’d ever wanted.’

‘Then it isn’t surprising that you’re finding life as a country squire frustrating,’ Joanna said, leaning towards him, close enough to cover his hand with hers. ‘Even if I did not have to earn my bread, I think I would still want to teach. It gives my life a purpose.’

Drummond nodded. ‘A purpose. Aye, that is exactly what I need.’

‘Yet you have mixed feelings about the one which is on offer?’

‘It is not so much the position itself, it is...’ He thumped his thigh with his other hand. ‘One of the reasons I can’t bring myself to talk of it is because I know I’m being so contrary. I should be grateful that Wellington is willing to take a chance on me, that the Duke and Duchess of Brockmore are willing to open the right doors for me. It is more than I deserve, I know that.’ He stared down at his clenched fist, slowly, deliberately unfurling it, his mouth set, his eyes narrowed. ‘All the same, it sticks in my craw that I’m reduced to depending on others to do what I can’t do myself. But I have no other options, I’ve proved that beyond doubt.’ Drummond heaved a huge sigh, managed a very twisted smile. ‘It just feels so bloody unfair, but there it is. If I wish to end my seclusion, I must do so on their terms. And so here I am.’

‘Reluctantly willing,’ Joanna said, with a twisted smile of her own.

He laughed softly, getting to his feet and pulling her with him. ‘You’ve a way with words.’

‘I should hope so.’ She was still frowning. The wheels were turning furiously in that clever mind of hers. There were gaps, he supposed, in his explanation, and she’d find them quickly enough. He tried to smooth the furrow between his brows with his thumb.

She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. ‘Don’t worry, I can see you’ve had a surfeit of weighty talk for tonight. I only wish I could help.’

‘Oh, there’s nothing to be done, it is all being done for me, providing I behave like a good wee laddie. You must be thinking I’m a right misery guts.’

‘I’m thinking no such thing.’

‘What is it then, that’s going on behind those big brown eyes of yours? Though they’re not actually brown.’ He trailed his fingers down her cheek to tangle in her hair, caught up loosely at the nape of her neck. ‘They’ve a sort of golden light to them, did you know that?’

‘No.’

She was staring, as one mesmerised, into his eyes. Was he imagining the passion smouldering there? ‘And your hair,’ Drummond said, gently easing her closer, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘I thought that was brown too, when I saw you first, hiding yourself away in the gloom, but brown is far too dull a colour to describe it. Chestnut maybe, or chocolate.’

Her laugh sounded breathy. ‘One cannot describe hair as chocolate.’

‘Yet it is permissible to describe lips as cherries?’

She shivered as he caressed the back of her neck with his thumb, and her shiver set his pulses racing. ‘Ridiculous,’ Joanna said, twining her arm around his neck, closing the gap between them, her skirts brushing his legs.

‘You’re right,’ Drummond said softly. ‘Not cherries, but rose petals.’ His lips touched hers. ‘Soft pink, warmed by the sun, with a promise...’ He groaned, pulling her tight up against him. ‘With a promise I cannot resist.’

This kiss was just as delightful as the first one, only more so, for their mouths moulded to each other without hesitation. Not a tasting kiss, but something more raw, more sensual. He closed his eyes, a frisson of desire shooting through him as the tip of his tongue touched hers, and angled his head to deepen the kiss. With a soft moan, she leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his chest, sending the blood rushing to his shaft.

When they broke apart they stared at each other, eyes clouded, cheeks flushed, lips parted, astonished by the passion which had swept them up. From the ballroom, he could hear the Duke ordering the servants to dim the lights. ‘Would you like to play with fire?’

‘I thought we just had.’

He laughed. ‘That is not what I meant. Come with me.’

Drummond opened the door, edging them both through the darkness to the crowd gathered by the flaming bowl of hot punch and raisins. He eased them to the front. ‘Do you trust me?’

Joanna eyed the flaming bowl. ‘Implicitly.’

‘Good.’ In the crush, no one noticed that he slid one hand around her waist, that she pressed herself back into his embrace, that he pressed his lips fleetingly to the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. ‘Now take off your glove, and do exactly as I say, and I’ll show you that it’s possible to play with fire, without getting your fingers burnt.’

Chapter Three

Sunday, 27th December 1818

Boxing Day had offered no opportunities for Joanna to be alone with Drummond, giving her ample time to reflect upon their conversation from the previous night. What she struggled to understand was why a man who had served his country with distinction had to wait for three years before being offered an opportunity to do so again? A second chance offered by Wellington, he had said, implying that he had erred. Had he left the army under a cloud? From what little she knew of him, she found that hard to believe.

Though her head buzzed with questions, when the man in question finally did find her alone in the breakfast parlour the next morning, suggesting a walk through the succession houses, she knew they would remain unasked. Let the past be. Weren’t they both here to make a fresh start?

The Duchess’s famous orchid collection was housed in a wooden-framed glass structure, comprised of a central block three storeys high, flanked by a low wing on either side. As the door closed, a blast of hot humid air hit them, followed by the sweet, earthy smell of the carpet of moss which acted as groundcover for the rare and precious blooms, whose heady, perfumed scent hung in the air like incense in a cathedral.

Steam rose from the damped-down floor. Drummond unbuttoned his greatcoat and draped it over his arm. He wore a pair of tight-fitting buckskin breeches tucked into a pair of Hessian boots with brown tops which showed off his long muscular legs to perfection, Joanna thought. His navy-blue coat fitted tightly across the breadth of his shoulders and had, like all his coats, a military cut to it. His cravat was simply tied, his linen shirt dazzlingly white. Hatless, his hair began to curl in the steamy air. Her own would begin to frizz. Her fawn-striped woollen gown with long ruffled sleeves was one of her favourites, and least patched, but as she unfastened her cloak, when compared with Drummond’s immaculate attire, she felt decidedly dowdy.

‘I am thoroughly enjoying this break from routine,’ Joanna said, ‘but I must confess I am unused to being so idle.’

Drummond folded her cloak neatly and laid it on top of his greatcoat, on a gilt-painted wrought-iron bench. ‘Then salve your conscience by giving me a lesson in botany,’ he said with a teasing smile. ‘Let us take a tour of our hostess’s spectacular collection.’ She tucked her hand into his arm and he pulled her closer, so that their hips touched, their legs brushed as they moved.

In the central atrium, a selection of palm trees, exotic ferns and succulents soared towards the glass ceiling like a miniature patch of jungle, and some of what appeared to be the more common orchid specimens were planted in waist-high containers around this magnificent centrepiece. The two wings faced east and west, the latter, according to a helpful plaque, housing the rarer specimens, and so Joanna and Drummond headed through those doors. The orchids were artfully planted in beds built to resemble a mountainside, with streams burbling between the rocks, a shoal of tiny fish swimming in a pool. The colours of the blooms were breathtaking: delicate blushing-powder-pink; impossibly fragile pale lemon; tiny icing-sugar-white clusters like constellations in the night sky; huge single blooms on mossy mounds, ranging from pale blue to speckled green and poisonous purple.

‘Latin name, origins, habitat, donor. The Duchess has been most meticulous,’ Joanna said, peering down to read a label. ‘You can educate yourself without any help from me.’

‘Never mind that. Which ones do you like?’ Drummond asked. ‘Did your father grow orchids?’

‘Oh, no, even a small succession house was quite beyond our humble means. His hobbyhorse was roses. He loved to experiment with them, to graft different varieties and create new colours and scents.’

‘Did he name one after you?’

‘He did. An English rose. Apricot, with a blush of pink. He called it Joanna Athena—after the Roman goddess...’

‘Of learning—you see, they did manage to beat some Latin into me at school.’