Out of Joint

By A. Faris

Rebecca Guthrie, a governess in the Wentworth house, is in love with Bennett Wentworth, brother to her young charge. Unfortunately, she does not realize the family harbours a secret well beyond the scope of her imaginings. Ashamed of the werewolf family curse, Bennett has vowed never to marry, and chooses to deny the very real attraction he feels for Rebecca.

It takes a past and future tangle in time to uncover their secret passions, and finally bring Rebecca and Bennett together. The same glitch in time, however, threatens to tear them asunder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: May 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781613330807

Book preview

Out of Joint

By

A. Faris

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 by A. Faris

ISBN: 978-1-61333-080-7

Cover art by Dara England

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Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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~DEDICATION~

For my husband, who believed in me.

"Let us go in together,

And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.

The time is out of joint—O cursèd spite,

That ever I was born to set it right!

Nay, come, let’s go together."

Hamlet: Act I Scene V

Prologue

21st February 1856

I should not feel betrayed and hurt that he has abandoned me; I am a fallen woman, though not of my doing or desires.

22nd February 1856

Scotland

The young girl shivers, as if aware of the twin yellow orbs fixed upon her. She draws her cloak tighter about her and looks around.

Georgie, she whispers hopefully.

The scent of her fear is tantalizing, almost masking the stink of her cheap toilet water, applied with too lavish a hand. She smoothes the wool of her drab gray dress in a nervous action. She shifts about, looking this way and that, but sees only the endless shadows around her and the light from the moon above. The round face mocks her inability to see much of her surroundings, retaining all its brilliance for its selfish purposes.

Then, she turns back and stills. Her breath hastens, her pulse drumming enticingly in her veins. She curls a protective hand around her womb. The wolf sniffs and scents new life. It hesitates, checked by an unseen hand.

Then it leaps, thrilled when the girl turns and runs.

She does not get far.

Chapter One

13th June 1857

He teases me shamelessly, not knowing my secrets. My deepest shame. If he did, would he speak to me in that manner?

I should discourage him. It does not do to be overly familiar with the son.

But he makes me feel again.

15th January 1859

Dunkirk Manor, Scotland

You seem to have a fondness for this study, Miss Guthrie. Amused, Bennett Wentworth lounged against the doorframe of his study. From behind the mahogany desk, Rebecca let out a startled gasp. Standing too quickly from her crouch, she hit the back of her head on the hard edge of the desk.

Mortally embarrassed to be caught in the man’s study yet again, she did not know how he could see her in the near dark, and even through the solid wood. With a mischievous charge who seemed bent on extracting every bit of mortification from her governess, it was inevitable Rebecca would be found in Mr. Wentworth’s study, the favourite locale for the young Miss Wentworth to carry out her pranks. Knowing it to be inevitable, however, did not make up for the reality of being discovered there again.

Mr. Wentworth, sir, she said, in a thin, reedy sound she particularly despised; it displayed an alarming lack of control over her emotions when confronted with Bennett Wentworth. For a woman who had made control a cornerstone of her life, it was even more distressing to find her defenses crumbling.

Through the sheen of tears from the smart pain on the back of her head, she watched as he stepped away from the doorway and approached her. The light of the waxing gibbous moon filtered through the crack in the curtains, lending a bronze sheen to his thick brown hair. Then, he moved past the shaft of light and became a mere shadow in the dark. Rebecca shook off the fanciful notion his deep brown eyes briefly glowed amber in the transition.

As he drew nearer, her heart sped up. She hated the way she responded to this singular young man. As a woman of twenty-nine who had been through all she had, a man should elicit nothing but fear and revulsion in her. But tall, with an elegantly spare figure, Mr. Wentworth was so unlike the other…a heavy weight holding her down.

No.

She refused to allow the memories to surface. She shut her eyes.

Permit me? he asked. He touched the back of her head gently, without waiting for the permission he sought. The tips of his long fingers danced briefly in her hair, feeling the rising lump.

Rebecca bit her lip as the large hand curved around her skull. As always, he was kind. Solicitous. Gentle. Safe.

Amusement coloured his words. That was quite a bump. And, as always, he found great pleasure in teasing her.

She opened her eyes to meet his warm, brown ones. Thank you, sir, she said, a trifle tartly. I had not realized.

The memory of her past too close to the surface, she forgot her new station in life. Pleased, as he always was when she forgot herself and responded to his teasing remarks, his eyes brightened in the dim moonlight. A flush of giddy delight washed over her face. When he did that, she truly felt like herself again instead of the woman she had been forced to become.

Ah, I knew there was a woman under all that ‘sir’s and ‘master’s. A hint of his Scottish roots coloured his words. Years at Harrow and Oxford may have polished off the burr, but high amusement brought it to fore again.

She held his gaze then looked away. For a moment, a delicious moment, she could pretend they were on equal footing, that the mild flirtation in his words could lead to something else.

With reluctance, she stepped away from him. I beg your pardon, sir.

He rapped once on the table next to him impatiently, a flare of something inhuman in his eyes frightening her. Panic threatened to overwhelm in the face of potential male violence. In the uncertain light, he appeared feral, his face all sharp planes and aggression. She clenched her fists, containing her instinctive urge to cower. Then, the illusion disappeared, gone as quickly as it had come. He became his usual affable self once again.

I assume you have a reason for being here at eleven o’clock at night? I think you would rather be warmly ensconced in your bed so that you can be ready for morning service on the morrow?

A hint of mocking appeared in his smile; the Wentworth family never attended church. Much as I would like to think that you had such a great need to peek at my papers as to resort to sneaking in the dark, I do not believe you have that much of an interest in Celtic folk tales. He raised an eyebrow in question.

Rebecca flushed. I’m sorry, sir.

He took a step closer to her. Yes, I know you are, Miss Guthrie. But that does not explain why—

He stopped abruptly and crouched down to peer at the leg of his table. A pretty lace garter had hooked on to the toe of his shoe. He glanced up from his crouch and chuckled. He touched the practical woollen stocking pooled at the bottom with his index finger.

Lisbeth. Mr. Wentworth said his sister’s name by way of explanation. No one else would cover the two front legs of Mr. Wentworth’s desk with Rebecca’s stockings and then add a festive touch by tying her best garters on top of each stocking.

She crouched down beside Mr. Wentworth and resumed tugging on the defiant knot. She felt ridiculous being so attached to the piece of cloth, the last article of clothing from when she’d been the respectable Miss Rebecca Guthrie, daughter of a grandson of a baron. Well, she still was a great-granddaughter of a baron, but the family refused to acknowledge the Guthrie branch now and the rest of society had conveniently forgotten them, too.

I do not understand how she managed it, she muttered, disgruntled.

Elizabeth would have had to lift the heavy desk to slip the stockings on. Rebecca was at a loss as to how the ten-year-old could have done it. Rebecca herself could not budge the desk even an inch.

I’m sure she had her ways.

She glanced up at him and the sight of his grin took her breath away.

The warmth of Mr. Wentworth’s hand on hers forced her to stop her struggles with the garter. Acute embarrassment heated her cheeks, but she was too numbed by the brilliance of his smile to react to his touch. She remained kneeling in front of him, moving her hand only when he pushed it gently away.

Elegant, masculine fingers took hold of the delicate silk and lace.

She tried to forget it was her garter he had his fingers wrapped around. His thumb rubbed at the soft fabric hypnotically as he thought.

Then, he produced a knife from his pocket and with a movement too fast for her to see, he unfolded it.

She blinked.

Really, her mind must have wandered off. The sharp blade nicked the knotted ribbon and the ends fell away from the leg. He severed the final link to her past.

She covered the other leg, too, she said, resigned.

Ah. I am quite foolish.

He stood. She stared up at him in question.

I should have just lifted the desk and you could slip it right out. I am sorry for destroying your garter.

She glanced at the desk with a doubtful expression. It is rather heavy, sir.

A gleam of fun entered his expressive eyes. A challenge, eh? You should know that a gentleman never refuses a challenge.

Only a fool accepts a challenge that he could not possibly meet, Rebecca said.

Men are fools. His reply made her smile. Surely you have learnt that by now, my dear girl.

Rebecca’s mouth remained curved in a smile, as amused by the quip as by the way he condescendingly called her a girl, when he was four years the younger.

Ready?

At her slight nod, he lifted the corner of the desk with ease, the strength in his slender frame surprising her.

Impressive. Laughter caught in her voice as she retrieved the stocking. I will not doubt you again.

He chuckled softly. They went to the other side and repeated the procedure. This time, he lifted the desk with one hand, a cheeky grin on his face. She laughed aloud as she gathered her stockings.

There, Miss Guthrie. He helped her up, and ushered her gently towards the door of his study, his hand light on her arm. I’ll have a word with Father, if you wish, about Lisbeth.

No, sir. Please don’t. I don’t want him to think I cannot control her. She cast her eyes down. Even if it is obvious that I cannot. She sighed. Glad to have found a generous and kind employer such as Mr. Wentworth since there was Nicholas to feed, she need not fear dismissal over something trivial. She did wonder, however, if her inability to instill discipline in Miss Wentworth could be viewed as a failure to fulfil her duties.

She glanced up again to watch the play of emotion on Mr. Wentworth’s mobile face. He appeared amused rather than outraged. No one can control Lisbeth. He gestured vaguely, the motion economical and elegant. I am sure Father did not mean for you to leash her. As far as I can tell, he is greatly pleased with the progress you have made with her. Her French accent is less atrocious, I have heard.

Rebecca smiled a little, rather proud of her success in teaching her young pupil, especially since this was her first teaching position. If only she could cure Elizabeth of her propensity for pranks and high-spiritedness, Rebecca’s success would be complete. Thank you, sir.