Awe-Struck: A Perfect Rose, Regency romance preview

Prologue

The baby girl was beautiful. Her mother thought so. Her father thought so. But it was not just parental dotage. Everyone thought so. And as she grew older, she grew more beautiful. The golden curls lengthened and grew thick and glossy. The sparkling green eyes and peaches and cream complexion did not alter in teen years and the slender form blossomed forth into womanhood. A brilliant match was anticipated. Indeed, it was scarce a fortnight till she would be whisked off to London for her coming out; a great affair to be the most important event of her life. But tragedy, as it often does, interfered and the silver threads of her ball gowns were exchanged for the black bombazine of mourning. Her beloved parents were snatched from her by a careless whip that caused their carriage to careen madly; finally overturning, snuffing the life from its occupants.

It was off to an aunt's crowded household for the beauty. An aunt with more children than good sense. With four older daughter's of her own and none with half the looks of her young niece, Magdahlia Charston could not launch the interloper into society until her own daughters were safely married. And no man would marry her direct blood once he looked upon such a comely face. So her niece was put on the back of the pantry shelf. The beautiful gowns sent from her sister's estate were altered for different, less shapely forms. Some were let out and shortened; some were taken in and lengthened with lace edging and flounces. The small but adequate stipend of an inheritance was diverted to the insatiable expenses of a feminine household and there was little left to sustain its intended recipient.

The comely niece was not one to bemoan her circumstances. She had a knack for children and her aunt had, besides four older daughters, three younger ones still in the schoolroom. To save expenses, not to mention keep her out of sight, it was deigned the orphan should take up lessons and tutor her small relations.

All in all it worked out well; at least for the first few years. With two of her daughters married off Madam Charston could almost breath a sigh of relief. Almost...There were still two of marriageable age left in the nest and it looked as if they were not going to attract much above merchants for husbands. And merchants were not the sons-in-law she envisioned branching off the family tree.

It could be men were not receptive to a woman with a lisp, but if Emily set her tongue properly and avoided S words, it was barely noticeable. And Lally's twitching eye was a come hither attraction if looked at in muted light. And just when all was said and done, there would come the younger ones. Egad! Would it never end?

It would be different if there was money to be offered, but the dowries of her first two daughters had depleted the estate and her sister's trust had nearly run dry. There was always Grand Dame but she shied away from the family ever since the coach accident had taken Amelia. Amelia had always been everybody's favorite and her daughter would have been given the same honor. But see what that got anyone. Amelia was dead and her daughter a poor relation.

Well, it was a Charston's duty to help a destitute niece and Magdahlia had more than done her duty to her way of thinking. It was only right that her very own daughters' future's come first. Besides, she was doing the girl a favor keeping her from sight. Beauty was trouble and that girl was sinful in looks! Without money, men were not going to think of honorable proposals; and Magdahlia's generosity did not extend to brats born on the wrong side of the blanket. Why, if the girl showed any inclination to light behavior Magdahlia would throw her out before it should infect her own little cherubs!

And so it was at this time that a prospective suitor came to call on the next-in-line Charston sibling. And not just any suitor but a titled one! Never mind he was merely the son of a baron; the Hon. Percy Smythe was as Madam Charston came to realize the last breath of hope in her Emily's future.

It was of no consequence if he was not a Corinthian of the first water and his clothes were less than immaculate. He came with a card from Grand Dame vouching his credentials and that said something for the man. It was the least the tight old woman could do for the remaining Charston's, Magdahlia thought ungraciously.

Supper was to be served and with it all the pretense of a horn of-plenty in a house of rusty brass. What was left of the silver was polished; the crystal buffed. The unblemished pieces were carefully placed where the Hon. Percy Smythe would be sitting; the candelabra fully lit to display that half of the table. The marred pieces were set in the shadows; the candles snuffed as if a breeze had wreaked havoc on an otherwise perfect banquet. The smaller children ate in the schoolroom, tucked away from eyes and ears on the second floor. Of course someone must supervise their nourishment -- and the poor relation was expected to earn her keep.

The supper went well. Emily's blotchy complexion was complimented by the near darkness on her side of the table. Likewise her somber gray, high-necked frock was flatteringly discreet; hiding the dreaded freckles that peppered her person. And she was able to fend off the letter S. Of course this meant not referring to the Hon. Percy Smythe by name, but it was only their first meeting after all and she did not want to appear too bold!

After supper there was a light game of piquet voleur and an even lighter glass of sherry, watered down in case a second glass was requested. Fine liqueur was expensive but necessary. It would not do to appear stingy on the basics.

The Charston's did not keep late hours; oil was expensive and candles messy. The Hon. Percy Smythe took Magdahlia's smothered yawn as the intended hint and excused himself. The length of his stay was dependent on two things, Madam Charston's hospitality...and the magistrate's memory. He'd left London for the country in haste, dun-plagued; his notes due on demand. His voucher from Grand Dame was authentic but she was old and relied on his family's reputation.

The maid, who'd been with the family for decades and was near deaf as a post--but hearing was no object for Lady Charston and working for board and no wages was--led the way to the second floor. Unfortunately the elder servant was also poor of sight and easily turned around. She led the gentleman with assurance down the hall, turning left instead of right; halting in front of a faded oak door, and throwing it open with a flourishing motion. Not knowing better, the Hon. Percy Smythe stepped within and the servant bowed out, closing the door behind her.

The room was dimly lit. But even so it was obvious as soon as he glanced about there had been an error and this was no bedchamber. Toys and large picture books were strewn about. Chalk caricatures were drawn on the bare walls. Small nap pallets were in a neat row, but void of occupants. Smythe realized the light was not coming directly from the room but rather through the adjoining doorway. For want of choice he approached the doorway. He could hear a low, soft voice, lulling to the ears, reading aloud.

At the doorway he could only stare in wonderment. Perched on the edge of the bed, reading to three small, sleepy children, was the most wondrous sight he'd ever seen. An angel in white, blonde tresses hanging freely to her waist, her shapely form highlighted by the shadowed light, sat unaware of her audience.

Her breathy voice read on, it's husky quality as stirring as the rest of her. Her face could not possibly match such perfection. He shifted his weight to the other foot to lean forward for a better look. A board beneath his foot creaked causing the girl to start and turn to face him, leaving off in mid-sentence. Egad! What a face! More beautiful than any he'd ever glimpsed!

She rose and glided toward him, unselfconscious of her flowing nightdress, while murmuring reassurance to the children. Mr. Smythe's breath caught in his throat as she approached. She was not quite as young as she had appeared from a distance, perhaps eighteen or twenty. As a governess she was a waste, he appraised; as a woman she was exquisite! He reached out a hand. She, not knowing any different, took his. A plan formed in his mind. He had to have this woman! She was a mere governess; what trouble could come of it?

"Miss. I am the houseguest, Mr. Smythe. Percy to you. I am afraid the senile maid brought me to the nursery by mistake. But I see it was a blessing in disguise for I would rather perish than give up this moment with you."

The angelic young woman smiled. Unused to pretty speeches she was quite taken by the charming man, nattily dressed as he was in casual, understated elegance. Or at least it appeared so in the dim light.

Smythe was blinded by her sincere smile. His hand shook with a tremor that traveled through his body like lightning. His forehead beaded with sweat. "If you would be so kind to show me to the guest chamber, I will trouble you no further."

The angel tugged gently, guiding him to the doorway, then down the hall, a lit candle in hand to light the way. Smythe's thoughts were anything but honorable as he lecherously eyed the gentle sway of her hips as she walked ahead, still grasping his hand in what she thought was an innocent expression of trust. She seemed to know the way as she without hesitation threw open double, well-oiled oak doors.

The room within was huge, lit by a single lamp by the bedstead. Smythe was beginning to suspect frugality was a Charston trait. When the angel would have turned loose of his hand and withdrawn, he tightened his grip and pulled her within the room and into his arms.

Because she knew no better she did not struggle until he placed a slobbery kiss against her lips, his hands taking liberties no one had ever taken before. Then she did struggle, beating her fists against his chest. This seemed to incite him all the more and he ignored her panic, as if she were a mere butterfly beating her wings against him.

His tongue was against her full lips. She did not know why she did it but she opened her mouth. He chuckled over her capitulation. She bit down as his tongue defiled her. He screamed, drawing back. The flat of his palm caught her across the cheek. She stumbled back further into the room. He came at her like a jungle cat after prey. The back of her knees hit the bed and she fell back, not uttering a sound; so shocked was she. He fell on her, ripping and tearing at her nightdress like a possessed, crazed beast.

Neither noticed the doors were still open. Neither saw the still horrified features of Magdahlia Charston still clad in her gown of puce satin, her turban slightly askew. She saw her niece prostrate on the bed, not crying out. She saw her prospective son-in-law fall on top of her. Then she screamed. The cry of an eagle, piercing and shrill. The dishonored Hon. Percy Smythe came to his senses and climbed to his feet.

The angel, in a state of semi-undress, her nightdress torn and tattered, shrank across the bed and climbed from the other side. Madam Charston pointed a talon at her. "You harlot! You seductress of the devil! Pack your belongings and get out! My dear, departed sister would roll over in her grave! I wish never to set eyes on you again. I can only hope you have not turned my little ones into strumpets such as yourself. Get out, I say!"

Chapter One

The cumbersome coach-and-four stopped outside the inn to water the horses. If you would dare lump the four cobs pulling the coach in the category of equine. Public transport did not have access to fine bloodstock. The gentry and dandies took the best. Merchants and tradesmen claimed the mediocre and public transport chose from what was left. If they were to be saddle mounts they would have been shot or sold to the kitchens, but it was not a prerequisite to have a fine gait to pull a public hack.

Once the badly sprung, paint-chipped coach came to a standstill the small side door was unlatched and a feminine figure heavily cloaked and hooded emerged. This was not uncommon, but once inside the inn the figure did not remove the cloak. The worldly innkeeper suspected a clandestine meeting of lovers. He had no way of knowing she had arrived by public transport. But as he ran experienced eyes over the attire, he noticed a mended rent in the faded, red cloak. Nay, it was not a titled lady cuckolding a rich husband. She further revealed her dire straits by not ordering refreshment. Instead, she asked in a breathless, husky voice that made the innkeeper all the more curious. "How much further is Lairdscroft?"

"Well lass..." He waited but she did not correct the title. This was more curious still. He tried to peer under the hood. She turned away. A single woman going to Lairdscroft was cause for gossip. He scratched at the motley stubble growing at his jaw. "Tis not a stone's throw, but not far enough for a boulder to get up fair speed."

This either satisfied the mysterious figure or exasperated her for she made no comment as she exited the inn, pulling the cloak tight about her as she passed the coachman on his way in to wet his whistle before continuing the journey.

"What's her story?" The inquisitive innkeeper tried to sound mundane.

The grubby coachman shrugged his stooped shoulders. "Lairdscroft' s new governess. Draw me a pint."

The stout innkeeper waddled to do his bidding. "His lordship ain't in residence. Only the two boy's and the nanny is."

"Don' know 'bout that. I just deliver the mail and my orders were, deliver that bit of pock-marked baggage to Lairdscroft," the coachman replied sourly.

"The pox marked her? That explains it all. Poor lass."

The coachman spat leaving a thin stream of spittle running down his chin. "Bah. I find those that are visited by the curse are disfigured for their sins."

By the time the coach pulled out, the loose-tongued innkeeper had passed on the news to his wife who in turn passed it around her sewing circle. The small village was abuzz with the sympathetic gossip of the disfigured governess. All agreed the small motherless boys of Lord Lairdscroft were outgrowing the need for a nanny, but they had hoped his lordship would remarry and the next woman that came to Lairdscroft would be as a wife and not merely a pock-marked governess. Ah, well. At least Lord Lairdscroft took care of his bairns and saw to their upbringing.

The coach deposited both the mail and its occupant in a well-kept courtyard. It was gone in a puff of dust that caused the cloaked figure to cough delicately. No one was there to greet her, leaving the awkward task of showing up on the door stoop a dusty, travel-weary figure, toting the rope handle of a small trunk in one hand and a packet of mail in the other. She dragged the trunk up the imperiously daunting wide stone steps, onto an entryway supported by massive columns. Her white-gloved hand turned loose of the trunk to rap boldly on the huge crest-embossed double oak doors. Self-consciously she put the hand in the deep pocket of her cloak. It would not do for her new employer to see the gloves had been mended and the stitches had torn again.

There was no answer. What had she expected? She was a week early. Perhaps no one was at home. What would she do if that were the case? She was pondering the answer when she heard a rustling in the cropped bushes to the side of the elevated entryway. Like an unseen ghost, peals of laughter floated to her ears. Suddenly two young boys broke into the open. They stopped short when they saw the cloaked figure staring at them. One boy, uncommonly handsome for one so young, with longish brown hair tied back in a velvet black ribbon and inches taller than his sibling, stepped in front of his brother protectively. "Who are you?" he demanded, the laughter gone, his arms akimbo, hands resting arrogantly on the hips of creased trousers and rumpled blue shirt.

The voice from inside the cloak soothed his fears. It was music to the ears, low, husky and lilting. "I am the new governess. Your governess, I believe."

The smaller but stouter boy with sandy hair and clad in durable nankeen from head to toe peeped from behind his brother. "Why are you wearing your traveling cloak? Aren't you staying?"

"I have only just arrived. But there seems to be no one home."

"We're home," the older boy asserted. "My Father, Lord Lairdscroft is not. He will arrive in three days time."

"Surely you two are not alone? Where are the house servants?"

"You weren't expected yet. Most are in the village making purchases for father's return. We are able to take care of ourselves."

"'Side's, there's Nanny Ada." The younger boy came out from in back of his sibling.

"She's old and half-blind. She sleeps more than she's awake." The older boy laughed. "We snuck out to play in the maze. You won't tell on us, will you?"

"Apparently there's no one to tell. If you would be kind enough to show me to my room, I would like to get settled and wash away the dust of travel."

The older boy remembered his manners and in a proper Lord-of-the-Manor tone he introduced himself, "I am Justin McLairdin and this is my brother Brodie. I'm twelve. He's six. Father says we're precocious and need a governess. That's why you're here."

Brodie ran up the steps, brushing past her and opened the front door, turning the knob by using both his small hands. "Come on in."

More sedately Justin climbed the steps and took the rope handle of the trunk and dragged it inside. "You can leave it here. It will be brought up later Miss..."

"Beauclaire. Victoria Beauclaire. But you can call me Torie."

"Torie. I like that." The older boy flashed a grin that was as charming as it was sincere.

"You are going to be a heartbreaker Master Justin. Has anyone ever told you that?" She handed him the packet of mail.

"They say I am the spitting image of father when he was my age. But I will not let good looks interfere with my studies."

"I am relieved to hear that. Looks are not everything." The soft voice faded.

Brodie worked his way behind her and before she could protest he had grasped the cloak and tugged it from her shoulders. "Let me take your coat!" The hood fell back from her face. The two boys gasped their eyes wide.

The soft voice grew huskier. "It'll be our secret, all right? If anyone sees this I'll be sent away? Do you understand?"

The boys nodded. "Don't worry Torie, we can keep a secret." Brodie put his small hand in hers. Justin took her other. "Come on, we'll show you up to your room. You can take your cloak with you just in case."

* * *

For two days the boisterous boys and Torie had run of the house. The third floor nursery had the look of a toyshop hit by a storm. The old nanny, fondly known as Nanny Ada, was not much more than a retired servant. It was a godsend though, as her poor eyesight made it easier for Torie. The other servants seldom came up to the nursery as the boys had a penchant for pranks.

Except at meal times it was not necessary to see anyone and even then the boys helped by meeting the maid at the door and bringing the tray to Torie themselves. When she did venture down to the lower floors or outside with the boys, Torie's cloak was second nature. She had hidden in it for so long it no longer seemed unnatural, even in the warmth of the midday sun.

Torie had received no instructions in the letter she had received from Lord Lairdscroft retaining her services. Not that she was ignorant of her duty. She'd been a companion to the elderly and governess to the young for five years prior to Lairdscroft. But employers, especially the titled, had guidelines near to eccentricity on what they wanted their children to study.

The boys were of the opinion she was there more as a playmate than a teacher and it was true Torie did run with them through the maze, the voluminous cloak becoming a fantasy monster to the boys, chasing them up and down the green paths. To balance this out she made them both pick up the nursery. The boys grumbled about this and gave her sullen looks but when she reminded them of the alternative and her imminent departure, they gave in to the task.

Paints and toys were neatly tucked away and clothes thrown down the laundry chute, rather than on the floors. Dishes were found in the most amusing places and returned to the kitchens. The complacent Nanny Ada was more than happy to share the children. Torie found her a charming old woman, grown wizened and a bit muddled with age, but around her Torie could be herself with no hooded mask to disguise her curse; for all faces were a blur to Nanny Ada's rheumy eyes.

On the third day after her arrival Torie woke from her pleasant bed in a cozy room next to the boys'. Silence greeted her. There was no whooping laughter; no cries from Brodie over Justin's teasing him by holding a favorite toy over his head, just out of reach. For though she had only been there three days, Torie knew the boys were highly spirited and happy, despite having only the one parent.

Torie supposed this was a credit to his lordship. But she had no intention of finding this out first-hand. If her employer had seen her true state he would not have hired her. She'd faced the rejection before and found it easier to avoid confrontations altogether. Employers were busy people and could not trouble with the staff. She'd worked a full year at her last post before ever coming face to face with her employer and even then, with her hooded cloak, she'd passed as nondescript. If children did not grow older and go away to school, Torie would never have had to look for another post. She found as a companion to the elder it was a lot less heartbreak, but it was a dull life for one still young enough to yearn for laughter and childish adoration.

This, she mused philosophically as she dressed in her practical white muslin, with a faded yellow sash tied about the waist. New lace had been stitched around the collar to refurbish the frayed edge and along the cuffs to cover where the sleeves were wearing thin. Torie did not bother with a mirror; she knew what sight would greet her. It was the first thing she forced herself to see in the morning and the last thing at night, until she had stopped looking into mirrors altogether. A curse they called it and no one knew better than Torie why that was so. It had cost her more posts in her younger naive years than she cared to remember. That was before she discovered people did not fear the unknown as much as the obvious and she had taken to hooded cloaks and anonymity.

But for now she had her responsibilities. Where were those two rambunctious boys? She found them glum and seriously intent on hot bowls of oatmeal at the small nursery table set up for meals. They looked up and smiled.

But the smile faded as Brodie ran to her, throwing his arms around her. "Torie! Justin says we can't play anymore. He says when father comes home today you will change and he'll send you away and we won't be friends anymore!" His small, candid gray eyes were bright with tears.

Torie was touched the small boy had become attached to her so soon. Justin on the other hand was more cautious. "He will send you away if he sees the way you are, won't he?" His tone wavered despite his resolve to remain impartial.

Torie smiled. "Yes, one way or the other he will send me packing."

Brodie insisted, "What if he doesn't find out? It will still be our secret!"

Justin frowned. Torie didn't know whether it was over deceiving his father or the thought of her leaving. Then his face lit up. "It could work! Father doesn't come up here. Hardly ever! We always go down to him. We eat in the dining room when he's home, but Nanny Ada eats up here. We can say you prefer that too! We can still go out and play. We'll just be more careful!"

"I don't want to get you two in any trouble." Torie didn't know what was worse, encouraging the children to deceive their father, or leaving the post with no reference and no money. Once again her face would be her downfall.

Justin had the solution. "Don't worry, Torie. After a few months we'll tell father you're self-conscious about your looks. After you've settled in and he's seen how much Brodie needs you, he can't discharge you. Maybe someday he'll even see how you really are and he won't mind."

"We'll see." Torie was unsure, but she had little choice. Tomorrow always took care of itself.

* * *

Late afternoon fell before there was the rumble of wheels and the sound of hooves on cobble. A retinue of personal servants paraded through the house, unloading and primping. The house servants suddenly came alive; dusters appeared in hands and polishing cloths were set into motion. It was now impossible to leave the third floor without being seen and Torie's misgivings began anew.

She stayed upstairs while the boys scampered downstairs, whooping and hollering. Old Nanny Ada tottered after them; her doddering steps taking her only half the distance before the master of the house arrived. A second horse drawn vehicle pulled up outside and a blue and gold liveried servant held open the carriage door.

Torie peered from a curtained window, careful to keep out of view as a tall, well-proportioned figure emerged. She could not make out the features but she could see thick, dark brown, longish hair tied in a Cadogan knot. His head inclined slightly toward the servant holding the carriage door. He strode up the stone steps easily. He was not young she was sure, but no gray fox either. Probably late thirties she presumed. No frothing lace dandy, but a prime dresser in an informal, white linen shirt, a cravat of white cambric, and a pastel pique waistcoat of light blue, carrying his overcoat and gray felt top hat.

Torie tried not to stare at the gray-toned, tight-breeches encasing athletic thighs as the master of the house disappeared through the front doorway, but as he wore no frock coat, they were hard to miss. The fading sunlight caught the well-polished Hessian's on his feet reflecting a glare that caused Torie to draw back.

She could hear the echoes of the children shrieking their welcome, and the tone of a manservant asking permission to take coat and hat. His lordship did not seem to stand on formality with his children as she heard a deep, throaty chuckle and Brodie's laughter. Torie could not help herself. She crept to the balustrade overlooking the floors below and peered down. The broad shouldered man dwarfed the little boy in his arms as he lifted Brodie high overhead and twirled him around.

Justin stood slightly aloof, but when the tall man set Brodie on his feet and cocked an eyebrow at his oldest son, the boy smiled broadly and ran to his father for a generous hug.

Torie's eyes misted as she remembered the past. She drew back hastily as Brodie's small finger's pointed upward. She could only make out the words 'governess' and 'early' from the youngster's lips, but his lordship seemed disinterested and instead took his sons by the hand and off they went into the inner recesses of the house.

Well, that problem was settled! Nanny Ada had just begun descending the staircase and simply turned around and went back to the nursery. Apparently servants were sight unseen in this household. Thank heavens for that! Torie sighed. This might just work after all!

* * *

It was a full week before a ripple in the pond appeared. Torie used her own experience to teach the boys. She kept them on the best schedule she could. They rose early, ate breakfast with her, then studied letters and arithmetic for approximately two hours. This all depended on their whims. Torie found the boys agreeable most mornings.

But on a few mornings rebellion surfaced and there was little Torie could do but don her cloak and follow them; albeit slightly more sedately, out of doors and into the maze. She could do little to take the boys in hand on these days, as that would require consulting his lordship and having him interject discipline. Of course Torie could never face her employer. She could never face anyone.

It was so frustrating! The boys were bright and sweet, but other than from their father, they did not always take orders well. They had grown up relatively wild; being motherless and this continued when their father was not in attendance, which was often it seemed. He had ties with Parliament that demanded much of his time.

This, Torie had gleaned from the missive she had received retaining her services. The boys could just have well have been under the supervision of a tutor, but it seemed Lord Lairdscroft wanted them to have the less structured female guidance of a governess until it was time to send them away to school. Torie felt badly that the boys had no mother, but less structured did not mean running wild with no rules! If the boys were not prepared when they went away to school they would have a difficult time indeed, in the rigid world. It was Torie's job to make the transition smooth.

She came upon the idea. If the boys did not want to study indoors on some mornings, she'd bring the studies to them. She made it a habit to carry a few books in the folds of her cloak; and when the boys had exhausted their excess energy and fell giggling to the grassy ground of the maze, Torie's husky voice would suddenly begin reciting, the low tones soothing and alluring, until small ears listened, engrossed. Soon she brought the small chalkboards from the nursery and the paint easels. It was not long before the children had to be reminded to stop for nuncheon.

Sometimes this meal was eaten deep within the maze with Torie. But on days when his lordship was back early from surveying his lands and visiting tenants, the boys were summoned to the dining hall. At these times Torie would hastily tidy the boys and comb their rumpled hair while trying to smooth Brodie's contrary cowlick, before scurrying back to the upper recesses of the nursery in case his lordship came looking for his errant waifs.

After nuncheon, the boys were commandeered into riding lessons. Lord Lairdscroft watched from the pasture rail as the riding instructor taught. At other times he became the instructor, his own horse saddled as he took the boys into the woods for a more relaxed ride. All this Torie watched from the sanctuary of the upper floor. Even from there she could hear the sound of gunfire. His lordship was not an avid hunter but he insisted his sons' learn to shoot. Brodie confided to her that he was scared of the loud pop and always let Justin go first so he could plead tiredness and spend less time shooting.

When the boys returned to the house they became Torie's again. Now subdued, they read aloud and recited a verse. Torie had them memorize a sentence a day, until at the end of the week they could recite from memory a whole passage. By the time lessons were over the hour for dinner was near and the boys must be properly attired for a formal meal. After supervising their wardrobe Torie saw them to the top of the stairway, watching from the inviolability of the shadows as they went to join their father.

Sometimes he waited at the doorway of his study, brandy and cigar in hand; handsomely attired in black breeches and white satin brocade waistcoat, his dark double-breasted frock coat cut expertly, while a crisp silk cravat was tied intricately about his neck. At other times, he was at the entrance to the dining room; the candlelight sparkling off his lustrous brown hair; his face illuminated until Torie knew every feature. The wide forehead, thick brows over gray eyes; or maybe they were green like Torie's own. It was the one feature she could not discern. His patrician, slightly aquiline nose denoted good breeding while the wide, generous lips, no matter how solemnly set, always turned up at the corners when his sons came into view.

It was the one thing Torie knew about him for sure. He did love his children. They stayed with him long after dinner and Torie would have loved to go down and see the trio sitting before a cozy fire, his lordship reading one of the leather bound volumes from the library aloud, his deep voice reverberating through the halls.

Torie could not go down and see, or be seen; but she could listen. She sat at the top of the staircase, her cheek pressed to the cool wood of the balustrade, listening as the deep resonate tones of his lordship cut crisply through the house, clearly audible. She sighed, scrambling to her feet as the words stopped and she could hear the boys' sleepy voices. Then Lord Lairdscroft came into view, a drowsy or sleeping child in each arm as he carried them upstairs. Torie almost ran to her practical but cozy room, next to the boys' and watched through the crack of the door as each child was tucked deep under the covers and kissed on the forehead. Then he was gone and it was Torie's world again.

Chapter Two

The splash came when the children came back from their riding lesson and skipped through the doorway of the nursery. Justin was whistling and Brodie was mimicking him, though no sound came from his puckered lips. Justin halted when he saw Torie. Sometimes he just stared at her. Torie was used to it and was not bothered. Brodie just smiled as he said, "Father wants to see you."

Torie was in the process of wiping the slates of the small chalkboards the children used. She frowned at this bit of news. It was bound to happen sooner or later. This was too soon though. She bit her lip in frustration and felt tears gather. It was not fair! She tried so hard. It was not her fault she looked as she did!

Brodie's smile vanished. He ran to Torie. "It's going to be all-right. Don't cry Torie! Justin fixed it. Give her the letter, Justin!"

Justin stepped forward proudly. "I told father you were marked with a curse and did not wish to be seen publicly. He did not question it and instead wrote you this letter." Justin's assured hand held out a single sheet of paper.

Torie breathed a sigh as she took the missive. It took only a moment to scan its brief contents. In thinly scrawled ink it welcomed her to Lairdscroft, wished her comfortable and well, and thanked her for her interest in his sons' educations.

Justin explained. "He asked what you were teaching us. We recited the verses you made us memorize. He was happy, even when Brodie forgot his lines." He threw an intolerant glare at his younger sibling.

"I couldn't help it, I got nervous." Brodie squirmed. "'Side's, father says I can come to the party anyway."

"Party?" Torie questioned.

Justin explained. "Father entertains a lot. Mostly in town at the house he leases for the season. But this time of year he invites many important people to come to Lairdscroft for dinner and an occasional rout. We've never been allowed to stay up that late, but this year father thinks it will be beneficial for us to attend. You're invited too, Torie."

"I? Me?" Torie dropped the letter. "I can't..."

"We'll think up something so you don't have to. Anyway, it's not for another month and we have to be fitted for new formal clothes." Justin punctuated this by slapping his knee causing a cloud of dust to rise from his riding breeches. "Father insists. He's sending someone down from London and you're to have a new dress, too. Father's orders."

Torie guessed 'father's orders' were never contradicted. "But it will be wasted on me. I can't possibly attend!"

"You'd best go along with it. Father can well afford it and he'll be suspicious if you refuse. Don't worry, we'll come up with a good excuse for you not to attend." Justin was proud of his new status.

Brodie always the optimist volunteered. "You'll have a new dress anyway. We can play dress up and you can wear it just for us!"

Torie was not so easily appeased. She knew a dress fitting was just that and she would have to be measured. She must think this over.

* * *

The next few weeks passed quickly, as is always the way when apprehension prevails over one's spirit. And as is the way things were not as bad as they first appeared. The tailor came and measured the boys. He brought with him a capable lady of no means and of plain countenance who relied on his meager salary to keep her fed.

Torie fretted on this news and kept the woman waiting for an hour before she lit on an idea. Brodie was sent for the third time to bring her down to the second floor where the fitting was being held. He looked uncertain and scared as he looked Torie over. Even in the modestly cut plain brown linen there was no disguising her problem. He was young but not silly enough to recommend her wearing the cloak and hood. And unlike Nanny Ada, the seamstress had excellent eyes, owing to the fact she wore spectacles to aid in small, undetectable stitches.

"What are we going to do, Torie? Justin said he would come up with an idea but he couldn't, and now they're waiting! They've even sent for father! He could give a flying fig about these fittings but he'll be mad at being bothered. Please think of something. I don't want you to have to go. Please!"

Torie smiled suddenly, grabbing Brodie by the fingertips and twirling him in an exuberant circle. "Don't fret my little man." She laughed with the release of the strain that had plagued her since the news of the fittings. "You'll simply tell them I'm indisposed. It's not far from the truth."

"But Torie, they'll not leave until they get your measurements."

"That's all right. They can have them. Here!" She picked from the wardrobe cabinet a white muslin frock, faded but serviceable. "Tell them to make the new dress to match this one. Even a half-wit seamstress can do that and I doubt his lordship would employ a half-wit."

Brodie's small elfin face creased in a smile. "Torie, you're so smart!"

Torie smiled back. "That's why I'm here! It's certainly not for my looks!"

Brodie grasped the white dress; half dragging it out of the room as his small stature hindered him holding it up higher.

Torie fell back into a dainty, satin slipper chair. Thank heavens, that was one problem solved. Now only a thousand more to go!

* * *

Torie gasped in delight the next week when the dress arrived. Justin and Brodie had brought it up themselves and left it spread on her bed. She had no knowledge of this and went about the day as usual. It was not until the boys went off on their ride with their father that she had time to herself. She usually straightened the nursery or picked up the boys' discarded laundry but today was the day she tidied her own pleasantly comfortable room. Not that it was much amiss. Torie did not own enough to make a considerable mess. But still, she liked it tidy.

She was just straightening her prized possession, an ivory handled brush given to her by her mother when she was a little girl, when she caught sight of a sprig of ribbon, reflected in the mirror on her dressing table.

She whirled about. It was a cloud of gauzy muslin and silky tulle. The seamstress must have misunderstood Brodie's instructions, or maybe Brodie himself had gotten them wrong; for the gown was white. Not the faded white of Torie's other gown, or the yellowed white of her nightdress; but snow white. So bright it hurt her eyes to look at it! But she stared anyway. It was the most beautiful creation she had ever owned! Well, that she could remember since she was a child. But that was a different life and did not bear dwelling on.

Torie picked it up and held it against her cautiously, as if it were fine china that would shatter with little provocation. She allowed herself the luxury of imagining herself dancing in it, even taking a twirl around the room, with it held tightly against her. A painful bump with her elbow against the wall brought her back to reality. With resolve she hung the gown away in the wardrobe. That was one dress that was going to be worn in her imagination only! And it was as good as locked away in a wardrobe of her mind.

It might as well have not existed, as the only reminder was the boys' clamoring around her, telling her of the fox they saw in the woods while riding. Torie listened to Brodie's high-pitched, excited tones, then turned to Justin for a more sedate, orderly confirmation. "It was really just a kit fox. Not the red fox of the hunt. Father wants to know if you received the dress and if it is satisfactory?"

Torie nodded. "It'll do, but I don't know for what."

"Just go along with it. As long as no one gets hurt, there can't be anything wrong with it."

"But Justin, if you're father ordered a dress for me, he obviously expects me to be seen in it."

"Maybe not. Sometimes father gets so busy he doesn't remember the obvious. We've told him you're shy about your looks. He forgot and ordered the dress. We'll just remind him and he won't expect you to attend the ball."

"The ball? I thought it was just dinner?" Torie's dismay made her voice catch.

"Father's guest list had escalated and now it's being called the Winter Ball." Justin's tone held a twinge of bitterness.

"Well that settles it. I certainly shan't be in attendance," Torie vowed.

"Chances are with all the people, Brodie and I will scarcely be noticed if we do attend. No one will notice if you don't." Justin looked downcast.

Torie was contrite. Here she was so self-absorbed she'd missed her charges' woes. This was to have been their social debut in the adult world. Now with the transition to a ball, they were little more than a place setting. She tried to soothe. "Justin, I'm sure he means well. At least he hasn't forbade your going."

Justin shrugged. "I know he loves us. It's just..."

"What?" Torie prompted.

"I wish we could be the first thing he sees in the morning, instead of the last thing he sees at night."

Torie gathered him to her, ruffling his head of brown hair. "Oh honey, that's more than a lot of children get."

"At least we'll always have you, Torie." Brodie pushed between Justin and her, like a puppy demanding attention.

"Yes, you have me." Torie did not add that always was a long time and there were no guarantee's in life. The boys were young and lived day to day. For them tomorrow was as good as never. For her; tomorrow was everything!

* * *

Tomorrow came and each day after. The boys were readily memorizing quite a few passages. Torie moved them up to worthy novels from his lordship's vast collection. She made it a practice to sneak down in the wee hours of the night and choose suitable candidates that would tease the mind and hold young attention spans.

The library was an easily accessible room from the base of the staircase. It was no trouble for Torie to tiptoe downstairs and gain access undetected. She was so assured of complete privacy she had no qualms about wearing only her faded dressing gown and tattered woven shawl, draped over her shoulders.

She was growing familiar with the room and the sparse light from the candle in her hand was sufficient to guide her past dusty estate volumes, to the dog-eared classics. She held the candle high, scanning the bound spines, looking for Robinson Crusoe. Intent on her mission, she missed the telltale puddle of light, as someone carrying a candle was descending the staircase.

But her ears did hear muffled, slipper soled footsteps on the bottom landing. Torie froze, then collected her wits by blowing out her candle; anyone passing the library was sure to see its light. But the footsteps did not pass the library. Instead, they slowed. Torie ducked behind a large, sheltering wing chair.

Cautiously, she peered around its curves. Her worst fear was about to be realized. Clad in a dark dressing gown, hair tousled and obviously disturbed from slumber, Lord Lairdscroft had entered the room. Torie drew back and scrunched herself into a ball as his lordship approached the chair. Torie hoped his insomnia was only temporary and he hadn't come to read till sleep overtook him.

She breathed a sigh of relief as he bypassed the chair and instead went to the shelves, browsing briefly before choosing a volume. He turned and was almost to the door, when Torie dropped the candle she'd been holding. Even though unlit, the wax pooled next to the wick was scalding hot and ran down the back of her hand, blistering the skin in its path. Torie bit her lip to keep from crying out. His lordship must not have heard the slight thud of the candle hitting the rug, or his senses were sleep befuddled. He merely turned slightly, his brow furrowed, before shrugging and exiting to trudge back up the stairs, book in hand.

Torie was left in the darkness with her pain. Book now forgotten, she held her hand against her and stumbled from the room, bumping into a small tea table. It rocked dangerously but did not topple. She found the stairway and half-ran up the landings to her floor. When she reached her room, she wasted no time in plunging her hand into the pitcher of cool water reserved for morning washing. When her nerves and head had cleared she had time to reflect on her close call.

She shivered in the room's chill. Oh, no! Her woven shawl was gone from her shoulders. It must have fallen off when she'd bumped into the table. There was no help for it. She could not go down again. Even if she took the lamp from her room to light the way, her hand prevented her from doing anything but laying on her bed, her hand dangling over the edge, submerged in the pitcher of water.

She must have fallen asleep. Her next lucid thoughts were of Brodie and Justin's voices calling her name. She rolled over. Her hand came out of the water bringing her crashing to reality. She bit her lip to keep from moaning piteously. The boys mustn't see her like this! She forced herself to rise but fell back as her head swam. What was the matter with her?

A small sandy head peeped around the corner of the doorframe. Brodie's small voice squeaked a little. "Torie? You're late for breakfast. Torie? Justin come quick! There's something wrong with Torie!"

Justin lacked Brodie's reticence and brushed past his little brother. "Torie, are you sick?" He saw her hand now raw, the skin peeling, resting above the covers. "Brodie, go see if Father is still at home. Bring him! Run!" He turned to Torie. "What happened to your hand?"

Torie found words hard to enunciate. "Downstairs. Last night in the library. I went for a book. Lord Lairdscroft was there. I dropped the candle."

"Father saw you?"

Torie shook her head. Her vision blurred. "I hid behind a chair."

"Torie, I think you have a fever. Your face is red and you sound strange. I sent Brodie for Father. He'll know what to do."

Distressed, Torie shook her head vehemently. "He mustn't see me!"

"But Torie, what if your hand gets worse? We have to bring him."

"Help me pull up the covers. Hurry!" The effort exhausted Torie and without Justin's help she doubted she'd have been able to lift the covers, nonetheless pull them up to her chin. "Now, go get me an extra pillow from your bed."

Justin did not question but ran to do her bidding.

When Lord Lairdscroft entered the neat, tidy room, he was puzzled to find a figure swathed in blankets and pillows. The only feature he could discern was a few wisps of golden hair peeping from beneath the covers. Covers pulled completely over mouth and nose leaving only eyes and brow above. And those features were turned away and buried in the feathered depths of a pillow.

Torie's averted face missed the impressive sight of Lord Lairdscroft clad for riding out; in Spencer coat and fawn toned breeches. She could hear, however, the decisive clip of his Hessians on the bare wood floor. She resisted all temptation to turn her head for a peek.

His lordship was given only a second to ponder his employee's strange behavior when Brodie blurted: "She's shy, Father. On account of her looks!"

Justin had little patience for eccentricities. "It's her hand, Father. Look at it! It's made her sick."

Torie felt a movement on the covers. Then her hand was gently lifted. Somehow the pain was not so bad now. She sighed. His lordship's deep voice cut into her utopia. "I'll give cook orders to prepare some goose grease salve and apply it to the burn."

"I'll do it." Justin volunteered.

"Excellent." Torie's hand was gently replaced on top of the coverlet. "Now, if there's nothing else, I'll carry out my agenda. Oh, by the by, I found this shawl in the library." His next words were deliberately drawn out. "On the floor. I'm afraid some wax has spilt on it. I believe there is some wax on your hand, Miss Beauclaire. Must have burned like the devil."

In guilty surprise Torie slowly turned her head. Of course it was her shawl, looking threadbare and worn in broad daylight.

Lord Lairdscroft was taken aback by a pair of dazzling green eyes, all the more brilliant against the white coverlet. He was tempted to snatch the covers from her face, but quashed the impulse under respectability. Instead he made do by reaching out and placing the back of his hand against her smooth forehead. "You are feverish, Miss Beauclaire."

Torie shivered, but not from cold. A pair of dark blue, almost violet colored irises were boring into her own. She had the feeling he could see through the covers to all the secrets hidden beneath. Desperately Torie averted her face. The connection was broken.

"I'll be passing through the village. Just to be safe I'll send the doctor. My sons' have become quite attached to you, Miss Beauclaire. And what my sons care about, I care about."

Torie had little choice but to make some sort of gracious reply. Her voice from beneath the covers was husky, but muffled. "Thank you. You are most kind."

"Not at all." Then he was gone.

* * *

The pragmatic doctor arrived a few hours later. By then cook had prepared a salve of goose grease and Justin had painstakingly applied it to Torie's hand. The doctor was village born and bred. Not the most modern thinking man, he delivered babes and calves alike, only drawing the line at swine. He also had no qualms of passing along gossip.

It was wise of Torie to withdraw under the covers all together, leaving only her injured limb visible. Justin and Brodie was his only audience as he approved the goose grease poultice and swathed the hand in bandages. He had to take Justin's word for the fever and prescribed chamomile tea and a cool, soothing cloth pressed against the forehead. Bed rest went without saying.

So it was with certain affirmation of the new governess' horrible disfigurement that the doctor left to return to his borough. Tongue loosened by ale at the local pub, he repeated his exaggerated version of the house call, describing in detail Torie's pockmarked face and reticence to be seen.

* * *

It was a few days before Torie was up and around. The boys took advantage and ran wild knowing Torie lacked the strength to rein them in. Then on the third day Justin brought her luncheon as usual, but instead of running off with Brodie soon after, he hung around nervously, walking about Torie's room pretending to look at her few possessions with interest.

Torie ate, reflecting on the question: Just where was that little scamp Brodie?

The answer came soon after with a thump at her doorway. Torie looked up in surprise. Not so much from the interruption as from the sight of Brodie struggling with an armful of books and dropping one with a thump to the floor.

Justin made a noise of disgust with his tongue. Brodie shouted defensively. "It's not my fault, I'm little! Why didn't you help me?"

Justin looked down on him from his great advantage of little more than a foot, with disdain. "Because I'm the one who's asking Torie!"

"Asking me what?"

Brodie dropped the rest of his load with a crash. "You haven't asked her yet? I knew I should have done it! Torie will you..."

"Shut Up!" Justin stomped a leather booted foot. "I'm going to ask."

Torie held up a halting hand. "Well, somebody better ask before I go deaf with all this yelling and noise."

"We're bored," Justin began.

"And we want you to read with us," Brodie finished under Justin's baleful glare.

Torie smiled. It did her good to know her efforts these past weeks were worth something. She sat up in bed, one boy on each side of her as they took turns orating verses. She reflected... If one good thing had come from this near tragedy it was the fact she now had a valid reason to not attend the ball. It would be weeks before her hand healed enough to not show a blemish, and the ball was next week.

* * *

As the day of the ball grew closer, Justin and Brodie's mood grew somber. Justin denied anything was wrong, but Brodie confessed to nerves. Torie could not do much to alleviate their fears. What example did she set by hiding upstairs? But what choice did she have?

Brodie explained it was his first public appearance with grown-ups that worried him. What if he spilled his milk at the dinner table? Or dropped his napkin?

Torie could offer some small comfort on this. Even adults dropped napkins occasionally. Brodie looked much relieved. He pointed at Justin. "At least I don't have to do a recital."

"What's this?" It was the first Torie had heard on the subject.

Justin broke silence. "Father says, since I'm becoming such a scholar I should enlighten his company with a few verses after dinner, and before the dancing begins."

"Why, that's wonderful!"

"I don't see how. All those people will be staring at me. I just know I shall bite my tongue or dribble like a baby!" Justin groaned.

"And here you were worried your father would ignore you in the crowd. Now you're unhappy because he's singled you out. Well, young man, we shall just have to do him proud. With a little spit and polish, you'll be a pleasant addition to the night's festivities!"

Justin's face lit up. "Do you really think so? Oh, I do wish you could be there! I would take courage from you."

Torie replied warmly, "I will be there. Rather above. But I will be listening and I know you'll be as fine as Shakespeare or this new fellow Byron."

"I hope you're right or father is not likely to let us attend, ever again."

"Not me," Brodie pointed out. "I don't have to give a speech. And even adults drop napkins."

Torie smiled. How she wished she could attend and see her two little men acting grown up! But there was no use crying over spilt milk, as they say. With resolve she prodded Justin into reading aloud his verse, determined he should give a fine reading. After all, her future could indeed rest on how well Lord Lairdscroft's son deported himself at the ball.