The gentleman behind her was equally well dressed. He was garbed in a dark blue jacket over fawn-coloured breeches, and was wearing a pair of highly polished Hessians. The perfectly tailored garments accentuated the width of his shoulders and the musculature of his legs, but there was nothing foppish about him. The fabric of his single-breasted waistcoat was tastefully subdued, while his snowy white cravat was well but not fussily tied.
Unfortunately, it was not the manner of his dress that gave Helen cause for alarm. As she slowly raised her eyes to his face, icy fingers tightened around her heart, and for a moment, she could scarcely breathe.
No! It could not be! Not now, after all this time, surely it was not him…
‘Ladies, thank you for gathering so promptly,’ Mrs Guarding began in her usual brisk manner. ‘I am very pleased to introduce our newest student, Miss Gillian Gresham. Miss Gresham comes to us from Hertfordshire and will remain with us until the spring. I know you will all make her feel welcome at the Guarding Academy.’
The young lady introduced as Miss Gresham glanced briefly at the cluster of women in the room, but she did not smile, nor did she respond to a whispered comment made by the gentleman beside her. She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to look up or even to acknowledge him.
Helen bit her lip. She wished with all her heart that she could smile, but her face was frozen from top to bottom. Dear heavens, was the gentleman truly the young woman’s father? She would not have thought him old enough…
‘I would also like to introduce Mr Oliver Brandon, Miss Gresham’s guardian,’ Mrs Guarding went on to say. ‘Mr Brandon has been good enough to donate an excellent selection of books from his own library for our use, and we are exceedingly grateful to him for his kindness. And now, Miss Gresham, Mr Brandon, if you would be so good as to follow me, I shall introduce you to the members of my staff.’
Helen nervously clasped her hands in front of her as the three began their perambulation. She kept her eyes down, wishing with all her heart that she could turn and run from the room, but she knew she dare not. Mrs Guarding would never forgive such a breach of etiquette from a member of her staff. Worse, it would only serve to draw attention to herself, and that was the last thing Helen wished to do. Which meant that she would just have to stay and see it through.
Perhaps he would not recognise her, she thought with sudden hope. After all, it had been nearly twelve years since he had last seen her and her appearance had certainly changed from the time she was a young woman of nineteen. There was also the possibility that he might not remember her, given that the room in which he’d found her had been very dark. And considering the awkwardness of the situation, he could have had only the briefest glimpse of her before—
‘And this is Miss Helen de Coverdale,’ she heard Mrs Guarding say. ‘Miss de Coverdale has been with us for two years and instructs the girls in the areas of watercolours and Italian.’
Helen was aware of Miss Gresham and her guardian stopping in front of her and knew there was nothing she could do but acknowledge the introduction. She slowly raised her head and smiled tentatively at the young woman. ‘Good morning, Miss Gresham.’
‘Good morning,’ came the lack-lustre reply.
Finally, with a reluctance borne of fear, Helen turned her head and looked at Oliver Brandon, trying all the while to ignore the butterflies swirling madly inside her stomach.
He, too, had changed over the past twelve years. His face, a striking mixture of lines and angles, was no longer that of a youth but of a man; one who had experienced life, both the good and the bad of it. He had a slender nose poised above a firm chin, a beautifully sculpted mouth and eyes that glowed a rich shade of brown. His hair was so dark as to appear almost black, as were his brows and lashes.
And he was tall. Helen had to tilt her head back to look into his face. Unfortunately, as she did, she saw the change in his expression, and felt her breath catch painfully in her throat. She recognised a brief flicker of surprise, followed by confusion, and then disbelief as forgotten memories stirred to life like the cold ashes of a long dead fire.
Helen’s heart plummeted. It seemed that her hopes of escaping recognition were to be dashed. The man knew exactly who she was. And it was clear from the look on his face that time notwithstanding, he thought no better of her now than he had all those years ago.
Oliver stared at the young woman standing before him and felt as though he’d gone tumbling backwards in time.
Good God, was it really her? After all these years, could it possibly be the same woman?
He blinked hard, wondering if it was just his memory playing tricks on him. It had, after all, been years since he’d last seen her, and what he had seen of her at the time hadn’t been all that much. But if it wasn’t the same woman, it could surely have been her twin. The resemblance was uncanny. She had the same dark, lustrous hair and the same exotic beauty of the woman he had encountered so briefly all those years ago. But if it was the same woman, what the hell was she doing here?
How had a nobleman’s whore become a teacher at a private girls’ school?
‘Mrs Guarding, might I have a word with you in your study?’ Oliver said finally.
The headmistress glanced briefly at Miss de Coverdale, and then nodded. ‘By all means, Mr Brandon. Miss Emerson, would you be so kind as to show Miss Gresham to her room?’
‘Yes, Mrs Guarding.’
‘Thank you, ladies. You may all return to your classes.’
As silent as little grey mice, the teachers filed out. Oliver saw a few cast surreptitious glances his way, but he noticed that none of them met his eye. And Helen de Coverdale did not look at him at all. She turned and walked away, not scurrying as the others had, but seeming to float across the floor, her movements slow and graceful, indicative of a poise and refinement he would not have expected in one of her class. At the door, she hesitated.
Oliver held his breath. Would she turn and look at him? If she did, it would be tantamount to an admission of familiarity. He waited as the seconds seemed to drag into hours.
In the end, she did not turn. Helen de Coverdale left the room and quietly closed the door behind her. She did not look back at him once.
Oliver slowly let go the breath he’d been holding. It had to be her. He’d seen the tell-tale flash of recognition in her eyes. She’d known who he was as surely as he’d known who she was. Which meant that his suspicions had to be right.
Helen de Coverdale was the young woman he’d stumbled upon in a darkened library, clutched in the passionate embrace of the married lord who had employed her.
Helen sat on the stone bench in the rose garden and thought back to the one and only time she had seen Oliver Brandon. It seemed a lifetime ago now, and in many ways, it was. She had been employed as a governess to Lord and Lady Talbot at the time. A dreadful position, and one which, had she had a choice, she would have turned and run away from as far and as fast as her legs would have carried her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had a choice. She had taken the job because she’d needed money to live on after her father had died. But she had seen the look in Lord Talbot’s eyes the first time he had spoken to her, and had known what it would portend. Men had been looking at her like that since she was a child of thirteen, their hungry eyes lingering on her face and on her already ripening body.
Helen hadn’t always had to worry about her appearance, of course. Before her father had died, her life had been very different. Robert de Coverdale had been a barrister, and as his only daughter, Helen had been a most eligible young lady. Indeed, her father had held out great hopes of her achieving a respectable marriage, perhaps even to a titled gentleman of some fortune.
What he had not expected was to see his only daughter fall in love with an impoverished clergyman who had come to the village during the summer of her seventeenth year.
Helen shuddered as she cast her mind back to her