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The Governess and the Earl
Ann Lethbridge
About the Author
ANN LETHBRIDGE has been reading Regency novels for as long as she can remember. She always imagined herself as Lizzie Bennet or one of Georgette Heyer’s heroines, and would often recreate the stories in her head with different outcomes or scenes. When she sat down to write her own novel, it was no wonder that she returned to her first love: the Regency.
Ann grew up roaming England with her military father. Her family lived in many towns and villages across the country, from the Outer Hebrides to Hampshire. She spent many memorable family holidays in the West Country and in Dover, where her father was born. She now lives in Canada, with her husband, two beautiful daughters and a Maltese terrier named Teaser, who spends his days on a chair beside the computer, making sure she doesn’t slack off.
Ann visits Britain every year, to undertake research and also to visit family members, who are very understanding about her need to poke around old buildings and visit every antiquity within a hundred miles. If you would like to know more about Ann and her research, or to contact her, visit her website at www.annlethbridge.com. She loves to hear from readers.
The Governess
and the Earl
Ann Lethbridge
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader,
I am so lucky that my imagination is allowed to wander wherever it will. I get to visit all kinds of different places with my characters, and I hope you enjoy visiting them with me. This time Sarah and Brand took me to Yorkshire, where the moors stretch as far as the eye can see. I had so much fun exploring the house and the local countryside, but I had to find very special people to inhabit my world.
As a single father raising a child in the Regency period, Brand required a very particular sort of lady to help him out. A governess. Although he definitely wasn’t looking for one as tempting as Sarah. And of course she would be the first to deny any kind of attraction to her employer. I do hope Sarah and Brand’s story takes you on a pleasant journey, too.
If you want to learn more about me and where flight of fancy might take me next, please visit me at www.annlethbridge.com or write me a note at ann@annlethbridge.com. I would love to hear from you.
Best wishes,
Ann Lethbridge
CHAPTER ONE
Yorkshire 1813
THIS HARSH AND FORBIDDING place was her last chance. Sarah Drake peered through the carriage window at stone crenulated towers stabbing the purple velvet of dusk. Fail this time and her family’s gleefully dire prediction of a bad end for her would likely come true. From here Merrivale Hall didn’t look the slightest bit merry. Not even the ivy hanging over the doorway in the slate-grey wall between the two towers softened its fortress-like appearance. Definitely gloomy. No other word would do.
In that respect it matched her mood, since this position might well be her biggest mistake yet. Governess to the son of a murderer. Was she really so desperate?
The silent answer came back a ringing yes.
The carriage slowed and Sarah reached for the door handle. A jolt flung her back against the plush squabs of the Ralston carriage’s interior as it turned into the courtyard at the back of the house. A hot flush scalded her face. Stupid. Only guests and family entered by the front door. Governesses used the back door, like the rest of the servants.
When the horses halted outside low-slung stable buildings she picked up her valise, opened the door and jumped down. The coachman might let down the steps, but if he did not it would be far too embarrassing. And besides, she proved herself quite capable of leaping a foot or so to the ground.
The coachman, Miles, touched his forelock from the box. ‘If you’d care to go inside, Mrs Drake, I’ll see your trunks are brought up.’ He gestured to a low arched doorway. ‘You are expected.’
‘Thank you, Mr Miles.’ Sarah stepped smartly across the cobbles. The heavy iron-studded door swung back as she raised a hand to the black iron knocker, and a large male figure blocked the light from the passage behind him. ‘You are late.’
How rude. She gave him a glare. ‘The stagecoach was held up at—’
He waved an impatient hand. ‘Well, you are here now.’ He had a deep timbred voice with a cultured drawl.
The man stepped back into the light, revealing the face of a fallen angel beneath tousled black hair. He wore no coats. Reddish-brown stains that looked suspiciously like blood splattered his open-necked shirt and a day’s worth of stubble shadowed his jaw. His expression was as dark and forbidding as the house, his features starkly beautiful.
Dissolution personified.
This must be Brandon Talbot, Earl of Ralston, her employer. It felt as if a flock of pigeons were looping over and around in her stomach. Parts of her she’d thought were long dormant warmed and stirred at the sight of his cold male beauty. A frisson of awareness rippled across her shoulders.
Attraction of the worst sort. Great heavens, what was the matter with her? This man was rumoured to have killed his wife and, according to Iris, in his youth he’d been a well-known rake!
A man to be wary of at all cost.
But why on earth was he answering the door?
Putting a hand to her throat, she swallowed. An urge to run tensed her shoulders, but she couldn’t. She had nowhere to go. She endured his sweeping gaze in silent indignation.
‘I was expecting someone older,’ he said in disgruntled tones.
Then they were both disappointed. She’d been hoping for something more welcoming. She mustered a calm voice. ‘I can assure you—’
‘Come in.’ He pointed down the passage. ‘Up the stairs on the right.’
Rude, and autocratic to boot.
It didn’t matter, she told herself, hefting her valise. She’d long become accustomed to her place in the world. She could endure this disreputable man and his offspring for two months. She didn’t have a choice.
She swept past him without a word.
As she marched along the stone passageway, his presence behind her had the hairs on her nape standing on end. The skin across her shoulders felt tight and her ears strained to hear his footsteps. Was he drawing closer?
Stupid. He wasn’t going to harm her! He needed her to educate his son, and for that she had to be living and breathing. She took a deep steadying breath and stopped at the foot of a stone stairway that wound upwards. From an open door further along the passageway pots clattered in an oddly cheerful manner. That must be the kitchen. She glanced back for instructions.
The broad-shouldered Earl manoeuvred around her with a whiff of lemon soap and something fruity—an odd, if pleasant, combination.
‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘Watch your footing and keep to the right, where the steps are widest.’
Good Lord, the place was as medieval inside as it was outside. Fortunately, sconces placed at intervals on the high stone wall lit the uneven stone steps. After one flight her calves burned with fatigue. She pitied the poor maids and footmen who ran up and down these stairs.
On the second landing he ducked beneath an arch and strode down the corridor leading off it.
Expecting to be shown her room, she followed him into a chamber halfway along. She blinked at the sudden dazzle of candles, staring at the four-poster bed where a small blond child was propped up on its pillows. The boy stared back with large blue eyes.
A liveried footman, aged about sixteen and nigh as tall as the Earl, stood stiff and straight just inside the door.
‘Wait outside, please, Peter,’ Ralston said.
The young man slipped out silently.
The Earl crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside the bed. He clasped the boy’s small pink hand with a worried frown. For the first time since she’d met him Ralston looked approachable, and the concern in his gaze caused a softening in her chest.
She stiffened against such foolish female sentiment. Her weakness, Iris called it.
‘Jonathon,’ Ralston murmured, patting the boy’s hand, ‘here is Mrs Drake, your governess. She doesn’t look so very bad, does she?’
Both Earl and child regarded her gravely.
Candlelight glinted gold in the Earl’s brown eyes and shone onto a sticky substance amid his hair’s dark waves. Blood on his shirt and something nasty in his hair. What had he been doing when she arrived?
Inwardly Sarah shuddered. She didn’t dare imagine!
Dash it, she was a governess. Here to teach a small boy his letters. The Earl was her employer and what he did with his time was none of her business.
She smiled at the little boy, who looked like an absolute angel—the kind one found painted on church ceilings. ‘Good evening, Jonathon. I have been looking forward to our meeting.’
The little boy’s gaze swivelled to his father. ‘I don’t want a governess. I want Maddy.’
The crease between Ralston’s jet brows deepened. He shook his head wearily. ‘You are too old for a nurse.’
The little boy stuck out his bottom lip and dragged his hand free of his father’s. ‘Want Maddy. Want Maddy. Want Maddy!’ He kicked his feet in time to his chant.
Ralston slammed his fist into the mattress. ‘Enough.’
Sarah jumped and the little boy burst into tears.
Ralston leapt to his feet and strode to the window. He gripped the curtain as if he’d like to tear it to shreds. He looked like a man pushed to the edge of his patience, a man trying to regain control. Well, she knew what that was like; children could be absolute monsters when they wished.
After a moment or two, the Earl drew a deep breath and turned back to his son, his face stern, his eyes dark with regret. ‘Enough, Jonathon. Nurse Maddy is gone. Be a gentleman and shake Mrs Drake’s hand.’
Gone where? Sarah wondered. And why, if the child loved her so much?
Tears running down his cheeks, Jonathon crossed his arms tight over his chest and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. ‘Don’t want to.’
‘I’ll take you up on my horse tomorrow,’ Ralston coaxed.
Oh, dear. No wonder the child threw tantrums. Sarah pressed her lips together: criticism of an employer only led to dismissal.
‘Promise?’ Jonathon said, looking a touch triumphant. At his father’s nod, he untangled his hands.
Ralston beamed. A ray of light shafting down between storm clouds could not have been a more awe-inspiring sight. ‘Good boy.’
Sarah couldn’t prevent a shiver of feminine appreciation as she took the boy’s outstretched hand.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Drake,’ the lad said in a small high voice.
‘Excellent.’ Ralston said. ‘Now that’s done, I will show Mrs Drake to her room.’ He leaned down and gave his son a brief kiss on the forehead. It was a mere brush of lips against delicate blue-veined skin, but it made her heart ache. Whatever his reputation, this man loved his son.
Ralston headed for the door. ‘This way, Mrs Drake.’
What an odd household, to be sure. In the absence of a wife, normally the housekeeper looked after these duties. At the very least a footman should have answered the door.
Sarah smiled at her new pupil. ‘I will see you in the morning, Lord Jonathon. We have lots to learn.’
The boy hunched his shoulder and turned on his side. Clearly the effect of the bribe hadn’t lasted more than a moment.
She followed Ralston out.
‘The candles should be extinguished before the child goes to sleep,’ Sarah said to the footman.
‘Yes, miss. I’ll see to it.’ He stepped inside and closed the door.
It was strange for so young a child not to have a nurse, but a footman would do just as well, she supposed.
An impatient-looking Ralston waited further down the hallway beside an open door. ‘This is your room,’ he said, gesturing her in.
Quelling her continuing astonishment, she squeezed past his large form. Once more the stains on his shirt caught her eye. They really did look like blood. Had he been hunting and not yet changed? Or did his wild appearance have something to do with the nurse’s disappearance? Had the woman sparked the simmering anger she’d just witnessed?
Her heart beat a little faster.
Use your head, Sarah. Only a murderer in one of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels left the evidence of his crime all over his shirtfront. And the nurse must have left weeks ago, when Ralston had contacted Iris about employing a governess.
And yet her stomach felt as if those pigeons were swooping around in there again.
Ralston made a sound in his throat.
She jumped with an audible gasp and stared at him.
‘Does it not meet with your approval?’ he asked, his voice chilly.
Oh! Busy with her runaway thoughts, she’d scarcely noticed her surroundings. He must have taken her silence as disgruntlement.
Her eyes widened. Cream and pink furnishings gave the spacious chamber an elegant look. It was far better than anything she’d been offered in years.
Her trunk sat beneath the window, and she dropped her valise next to it. ‘It is perfect. Thank you.’
‘Good. I’ll see you in my study in one hour to discuss your duties.’
She whirled around.
He’d already closed the door.
Sarah sank onto the edge of the bed. Discounting rumour as vicious gossip had been easy in London, but now, face to face with this brooding man, she wasn’t so sure.
A shudder ran down her spine.
Desperation had put her in an impossible position. And whose fault was that? Her own, mostly.
Well, she was here and she would do her best. After all, this really was her last chance.
Damn!
