Page 29 of What Lies Beneath

He knew he would not sleep a wink unless he discovered the truth and resolved to seek her out. This was not immediately possible, however, for he needed to admire Tilly’s artwork, which he honestly thought was quite marvellous and wondered if he ought to seek a professional teacher for her in anticipation of the moment she outgrew Mrs Harris’ skills. That the day would come eventually made him suddenly melancholy, however, and it took all his meagre acting skills to get him through Tilly’s bedtime story when he was by then quite agitated.

Pip kissed his daughter goodnight, left her room and immediately went to the nursery, intent on begging Mrs Harris’ pardon once again if he needed to. Perhaps if he tried hard enough, she would come and have a drink with him again, for until he’d put his foot in it, he had been enjoying the evening more than any he could think of recently. She was clever and interesting, and he respected her opinions. There had been several moments during the day when he had wondered what she might think about one thing or another, and had looked forward to discussing Mr Evans and his wife with her.

Arriving at the nursery, he gave an impatient knock and strode in, only to stop in his tracks as he discovered the room in complete darkness. She wasn’t here.

Hell.

If he had not spent the entire day feeling so entirely out of sorts, he might have stopped to think for a moment before immediately taking the narrow staircase that led to the rooms over the nursery. These had once been the bedrooms allocated to nursery maids and the nanny, but which now housed only Mrs Harris. The other staff rooms were on the other side of the house as Harris’ status was higher than a mere servant and so he had given her some measure of privacy. He wondered now if it also increased her loneliness as he hurried up the stairs and along the gloomy, narrow corridor to her bedroom.

It was only as he got halfway along the corridor that he realised how inappropriate his behaviour was. Why, just yesterday he had hated himself as he wondered if she had slept with one eye open, fearing the sound of his footstep outside her door, and now he was outside her door.

About to turn around and retrace his steps as silently as he could, the noise of a slamming door downstairs startled him, as a sudden rush of cold air gusted past him. Having no particular fear of ghosts, he did not immediately think the worst but realised there must be an unlatched window somewhere that had created a draft. Even as he thought the words, however, a soft creaking reached his ears as the door before him opened a few inches. The gust of wind must have disturbed the latch, he realised, holding his breath and praying Mrs Harris did not appear in the gap to find him lurking.

About to berate himself thoroughly for his lunacy and this intolerable situation, he froze as the scene visible through the door suddenly hit his astonished brain.

Turn around, he told himself. Close your eyes, turn around, and leave.

He couldn’t. It was impossible. He couldn’t breathe, never mind move, as his mind comprehended what he was seeing. Mrs Harris, naked as she stepped out of a small tin bath. He could only see her back, though only was a ridiculous word, for her long slender back was elegance itself and tapered down to her tiny waist and then on to a bottom that defied description, perfection being the only word remotely adequate for the task. From there, his gaze fell upon shapely, lovely legs. Oh, God. His intellect, already under a severe strain, turned to molten honey and slid from his brain as she turned slightly to reach for a towel. If her back view had been a revelation, Mrs Harris in profile deserved an epic poem with a thousand cantos. Damn, she deserved a thousand epic poems, for her breasts, oh, heaven have mercy, her breasts were full with rosy, pink nipples and—and he was going straight to hell.

Though he had ceased to be a reasoning, functioning human being several seconds ago, and it had only been a matter of seconds, though for him time seemed to have stopped, some scrap of decency reasserted itself and Pip forced himself to turn around, though the effort damn near killed him. He ran back down the stairs as if the devil were at his heels, instead of lurking rather more intimately than that, but oh, how he wanted to open the door and go inside and take her in his arms and—

“Tilly,” he said out loud, once he was back on the nursery floor. “Tilly’s governess. She is Tilly’s governess. She is out of bounds.”

He carried on all the way back to his room, repeating the words under his breath like a mantra to ward off evil spirits. His own evil spirit, he thought in desperation as he closed his bedroom door and leaned heavily against it.

“Out of bounds, out of bounds, out of bounds,” he muttered under his breath.

“My lord?”

Pip jumped as he realised his valet was in the room. Peterson, who had only been with him for a few months, had proven himself to be a calm and reliable man with a good sense of humour. He might need one, as his master’s wits were unravelling at an alarming rate. At this moment, Pip wished the poor fellow to the devil.

“Ah, er… Peterson. Yes, very good,” he said nonsensically, before adding, “Carry on,” and fleeing the room again before his perplexed valet could utter a word.

He needed to be alone for a moment, he decided, and took himself down to his study. There, he poured himself a large—very large—drink and sat down in his usual chair by the fire, the one he had sat in last night. Mrs Harris had sat opposite, he remembered, visualising her there now. Naked.

He squeezed his eyes shut with a curse, trying to rid himself of the image but it persisted even when his eyes were closed, becoming even more intriguing as his imagination got a hold of the idea.

“No, no, no, no,” he told himself before cursing long and viciously. Of all the rotten luck. If he must have the misfortune of seeing his daughter’s governess taking a bath, could she not have been a little less desirable? She could have been all skin and bone, couldn’t she, or possessed of a hairy back? Or covered in scales, he added, feeling a little hysterical now.

“Pull yourself together, you bloody halfwit,” he said sternly. “You’ve seen plenty of naked ladies in your day, my lad, there’s no need to lose your wits over this one.”

This was patently true. Pip was no saint. He’d had many mistresses, and much enjoyed his time with each one of them, but… never in his life had he felt desire like this. He wanted to… to… Hell, he just wanted, and he did not know what to do with that wanting or how to rid himself of it now it was there.

Yet that was too simplistic, and he knew it. This feeling had been there for some time, nagging at the edges of his mind, and he had simply refused to acknowledge it. Mrs Harris was clever and sharp and did not back down if he challenged her. She made him laugh and surprised him, and he had begun to crave her company. Yet this sudden glimpse of her as the embodiment of a sensual dream was new and only deepened his growing attraction to a woman he could not touch.

It was forbidden fruit, surely. He tried to reason that if she had been a woman of his own class, a widow or a lonely wife, this feeling would not be a fraction as strong as it was, for he would be able to scratch the interminable itch. Yes, that must be the reason he was so agitated by the sight of her, because Mrs Harris was out of bounds, and he knew it and that only added to the desperate frisson of excitement that thrilled beneath his skin at the idea of touching her. Not only was she a woman in his employ, and therefore untouchable, but she was Tilly’s beloved governess. If he started an affair with her, it would be found out eventually, or one of them would come to their senses and finish it. Either way, Mrs Harris would find the situation untenable and hand in her resignation. Tilly would never forgive him, and he would certainly never forgive himself. This sobering thought did much to settle his agitation, and he let out a breath of relief as some measure of sanity returned.

“There, see, you can act like a grownup,” he told himself in disgust.

He downed his drink, refused to give into the desire to have another, and went up to face his bewildered valet with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Good morning, Ottilie,” Regina said with a smile which widened as Tilly gave a little chirrup of delight upon seeing her and ran to give her an embrace. It was truly something wonderful to have the love of such a child; her trust, too. She must remember that and hold on to all the good fortune she had been granted, rather than dwell upon an uncertain future.

“Are you better now?” Tilly asked, wrapping her arms about Regina’s waist and gazing up at her.

“All better,” Regina agreed, knowing she ought not to allow Tilly so much intimacy, not if she were a proper governess. From the start, however, the earl had made it clear he wished for her to be kind to his daughter and show her affection. If that affection was closer to mother and daughter than governess and pupil, it was far too late to do anything about it now.

“Your headache is gone?” Tilly pressed, looking anxious.