Kitabı oku: «Gift-Wrapped Governesses»
ALL HE WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS …
Gift-Wrapped GOVERNESSES
Three magical dreams come true from favourite authors Sophia James, Annie Burrows and Marguerite Kaye!
Praise for the authors of GIFT-WRAPPED GOVERNESSES
SOPHIA JAMES
‘James weaves her spell, captivating readers with wit and
wisdom, and cleverly combining humour and poignancy with
a master’s touch in this feel-good love story.’
—RT Book Reviews on High Seas to High Society
‘An excellent tale of love, this book is more than a romance;
it pulls at the heartstrings and makes you wish the story
wouldn’t end.’
—RT Book Reviews on Ashblane’s Lady
ANNIE BURROWS
‘A compelling read from beginning to end. This is a
beautiful, poignant, sensual story of two lonely
hearts finding each other at last.’
—RT Book Reviews on A Countess by Christmas
‘Burrows cleverly creates winning situations and attractive
characters in this amusing romance.’
—RT Book Reviews on The Earl’s Untouched Bride
MARGUERITE KAYE
‘Kaye delights readers with a heated seduction and fiery
games that burn up the pages when her heroine takes
‘The Captain’s Wicked Wager’.’
—RT Book Reviews on The Captain’s Wicked Wager
‘[A]n innocent Englishwoman swept away by a marvellous
hero into a life and a passion she has never known’
—RT Book Reviews on Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem
Gift-Wrapped Governesses
Christmas at Blackhaven Castle
Sophia James
Governess to Christmas Bride
Annie Burrows
Duchess by Christmas
Marguerite Kaye
MILLS & BOON
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Christmas at Blackhaven Castle
Sophia James
About the Author
SOPHIA JAMES lives in Chelsea Bay on Auckland, New Zealand’s North Shore with her husband, who is an artist, and three children. She spends her mornings teaching adults English at the local migrant school and writes in the afternoons. Sophia has a degree in English and history from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed reading Georgette Heyer with her twin sister at her grandmother’s house.
Chapter One
‘Everywhere and at all times, Christmas has been the season of miracle and surprises …’
Blackhaven Castle, Essex, England
19 December, 1812
Lady Seraphina Moreton came to Blackhaven Castle on the edge of the worst storm to hit Essex in living memory. Hailstones as large as golf balls had pelted the carriage roof and the snow at each side of the winding country lane was deep.
‘Not an omen, not an omen,’ she whispered to herself, repeating it over and over again as the coach jolted violently and stopped. Before her the castle loomed, walls tall and dark. A single light was held by a figure standing on the large front portico.
Blackhaven. It suited its name, forbidding and isolated. Seraphina drew in breath. She must not be seen to be criticising. She must place a smile on her face and be unremittingly merry. Was that not what Mrs Jennings at the agency had impressed upon her? ‘No sour faces in this profession, miss. The client is always right and beggars cannot be choosers.’
Beggars like her! The panic that lay beneath her careful veneer was only just buried. She wanted to run from this place across the frigid ground and away from a world that was increasingly indecipherable to her.
Instead, she waited until the door was opened, lifted the hem of her velvet cloak and stepped out into the night, the servant with the lamp indicating the care needed on a patch of frozen ice as she followed him into the house.
Trey Linton Stanford, the sixth Duke of Blackhaven, stood against the windows in his library, turning as the woman entered, accompanied by his man Elliot. He had seen her alight from the coach, her hair the colour of the burnished angel wings that graced the stained-glass panels in the family chapel and bright in the falling dusk. He hoped like hell that she was not beautiful, was not young and was not one of those governesses who placed a false smile upon their lips and never let go of it.
When she came closer, however, and pale blue eyes met his own, he knew himself to be sorely disappointed on all three accounts. He swore soundly beneath his breath.
‘Welcome to Essex.’ He could hear the lack of charity in his words, but did nothing to alter the tone. Six governesses in three years and this one looked to be the most fainthearted of the lot. His sons would eat her up in a day. ‘I am Blackhaven.’
‘I thank you for the kindness of the offer of a position here, my lord. My name is Miss Sarah Moorland, and I hail from London.’ She curtsied with grace, her voice holding the cadence of a genteel upbringing as she went on. ‘I shall, of course, do my very upmost to be the sort of teacher you desire for your children, sir, as this post has arrived at a most opportune time for me.’
Trey almost smiled at that. Almost. He could see desperation in her eyes. ‘You have experience, then, in the role of a governess?’
The flush in her cheeks told him she had not, though to give her her due she did try to dredge up something. ‘I have often minded the children of friends, my lord, and found the experience most rewarding.’
‘Indeed.’
Silence followed the word, though a frown deepened on the delicate lines of her forehead as he came into the circle of bright light thrown from the lamp on his desk. Damn, he kept forgetting about his appearance in the company of strangers until he saw the reaction on their faces.
‘I was hurt in Corunna under Moore, and I apologise for any fear such a visage might engender.’ The explanation was the one he gave to all who looked at him in the way she did, word for word rolling off his tongue like a remembered poem.
‘Oh, it is not your countenance I frown over, my lord. My brother was killed in Rueda in the same campaign you mention and such an injury reminded me of him. You were lucky to at least be able to come home.’
A surprise. He seldom enjoyed them any more. To be called lucky was a new experience, too. For the first time in a long while he laughed. The sound was rusty and broken.
‘You say this post arrived at an opportune time. Why?’
‘My father has recently passed away and my only remaining brother found he had not the space to house me.’
‘Marriage was not an option, then?’
Her face reddened from top to bottom, fear in the quiet blueness of her eyes. Deciding now was not the time to pursue such a topic, Trey switched subjects altogether.
‘My boys are nine, seven and five. They need tight control and good discipline. They wake at six and go to bed at eight. If you can teach them something of literature, mathematics and science, I should be well satisfied.’
The uncertain nod of her head told him such subjects were probably as much a mystery to her as they were to his sons, though under the circumstances he could ill afford to be strident. Someone to watch over chaos was the most he could ask for. Eton should see to the rest. ‘Your room will be on the same floor as the children’s though a night nurse is employed. Breakfast will be served in the downstairs salon at seven and the hours of schooling are between nine and six. Weekends, apart from Saturday morning, shall be your own; if you wish a ride to the nearest village you only need ask. Are there any questions?’
He watched while Miss Moorland mulled the rules around in her head and was surprised when she nodded. None of the other governesses interviewed had ever asked anything more of him.
‘Do you travel back to London much, sir?’
‘Never.’
Waiting for chagrin, he got relief instead and as she pulled at the front of the cloak he noticed that her fingernails were short.
His leg ached from standing and he longed to sit, the cold gnawing into his bones as pain. All he wanted was some solitude and a stiff brandy, but she did not look as though she were finished.
‘I would also like to ask if you would allow me to bring a small dog into your house, my lord? She has nowhere else to go, you see, and …’
‘How small?’
The cloak fell back and the russet head of a mongrel came out from between balding velvet.
‘It seems one is already in my house, Miss Moorland.’
‘I know and I am terribly sorry, sir.’ Her cheekbones were hollowed in anxiety, eyes beacons of absolute entreaty as she stared at him. ‘But I promise she is the quietest dog in the whole world and she loves children.’
‘A paragon, then.’ The disordered world of his house was becoming even more disorderly. Miss Moorland’s bare hands were white knuckled and shaking, but short of throwing the small animal out into the cold there was very little else that he could do. God, the dog looked as frightened as its mistress with its timid stare and down-turned mouth. The only hound he had ever owned was his father’s cast-off mastiff and that canine had been both surly and dangerous.
He did not like dogs. He did not like surprises. He did not like forced joviality or the further promise of future chaos.
However, the newcomer was not quite finished. ‘Would there be any chance, sir, of a tit-bit from the kitchen for Melusine? I know it is late, but she is hungry and it has been a very long journey.’
Two things hit Trey simultaneously at her request and both interested him. She was as hungry as her dog but had not asked for her own succour, and she knew the obscure legends from the house of de Lusignan.
Melusine. The dragon princess. A beautiful woman by daylight and a serpent by night. Beautiful and secretive. The same might be said of Miss Sarah Moorland.
‘You will both be fed in a few moments and your duties tomorrow shall only be light ones whilst you recover from the trip.’
Lord, what had made him say that—the tip-tilted nose or the dimples deepening in her cheeks every time he did her a small kindness? Her hair in the light of his lamp was shining spun gold, a few of the pins loosened and allowing strands to fall unbound to her waist. He wondered what his wife might have made of her and then dismissed the thought completely. Catherine Stanford had been a woman who seldom thought of anyone else, her death mirroring her selfishness in life.
She had caught pneumonia in a gown that would have been better suited to a London whorehouse. She had gone to a party, riding home on horseback afterwards through the darkness with a neighbouring lord. Trey had arrived at Blackhaven three days later, war-shocked and sickened from the storms the British sea transports had endured across the Bay of Biscay, his left cheek red, raw and infected.
He might have taken her to task for such inappropriate actions had she lived beyond the following week. But she had not and the rumours of her faithlessness had swirled about the chapel even as he had buried her, the neighbouring earl inconsolable in the front pew.
On the day before the coming of the Twelfth Night, no less. He had always hated the Christmas season since.
Seraphina turned away from him, trying to regroup. Do not cry, she told herself firmly. All men hate tears and this one will be no exception. But she was tired and hungry and scared and the bravado she had worn like a shield all the way from London was beginning to crumble at an alarming rate. Melusine’s warm body next to her own was shaking, a result, she suspected, of too little food and too much travelling. If her dog should be sick on the expensive Aubusson rug beneath her feet, they would both be tossed out. The thought made her swallow as the duke watched her intently.
He was beautiful, though the scar across his cheek gave the comeliness an edge of menace and threat. No small wound that, no easy recuperation either. His wife had died three years before at Christmas, the woman at the agency had impressed upon her, so this time of year would hold hard memories.
Yet he had not bade her gone, even with her dog, and had also promised them both some supper. She swallowed again and felt some small hope return. He did not travel to London at all, and this place was as isolated as they came. Perhaps she would be safe for a little while until she could devise a better plan and escape England altogether.
No. She could think of none of it until she ate something for the dizziness was back, whirling around her head in a cloud.
The door had opened, too, three small children peering through behind it, their eyes as dark as their father’s.
Reaching for the back of the sofa to steady herself, Seraphina’s fingers felt too strange to grip and then she was falling down and down and down, the room spinning as she went.
Trey caught her, scowling at the knowledge that she was hardly even the weight of his oldest son. The threadbare velvet in her cloak enveloped him and her animal had made a last-moment leap for safety and sat panting in one corner of the library, the whites in her eyes brushed with fear. Her tail had a strange bend to it.
‘A dog?’ Gareth, his youngest son, rushed over to sit before it, his hand reaching out with care whilst his brother David tossed a variety of cushions from the old sofa, leaving a bed on which to place this unexpected visitor. Terence, his middle child, did nothing but stand and stare and Trey’s heart tumbled in recognition of the familiar lack of response.
Already Miss Moorland was coming around, the colour in her cheeks pale. A thin beading of sweat covered the skin above her top lip and plastered her fringe to her forehead. She looked younger and more vulnerable than she had done awake, the darkness of her lashes a contrast to her hair. When Trey untied the fastening on her cloak to try to give her more air, he saw that the white dress she wore was at least two sizes too big. The pieces of the puzzle of Miss Moorland were not adding up somehow, for the leather in her boots was fine and skilfully fashioned—as fine as her voice and the one pearl she had on a silver chain hanging around her neck.
‘I fainted?’ Her query was laced with horror as she tried to sit up.
‘I would stay lying down for a moment if I was you.’
She ignored him. ‘Melusine?’
‘Is in the corner looking about as alarmed as you are. My son is tending to her.’
‘Thank you.’ The pulse at her wrist raced and Trey thought she might very well faint again. Placing her hand down, he stood.
‘Gareth, bring the hound to Miss Moorland, please. Pick her up. I am assured by this lady that she is the kindest of dogs.’
His youngest son pulled the small animal towards him by the collar, making his best attempt at lifting it, but just as he was about to secure it in his arms, the thing bounded straight out of them and on to the circular table next to the sofa, tipping both it and the ancient urn of Great-Uncle Tobias, with the ornate porcelain-twisted handles and painted woodland scenes, and sending them headlong to the floor.
A thousand pieces shattered around the room in a single loud explosion, causing the hound to simply draw into itself and urinate all over the rug, her whines of apprehension becoming more insistent as a hush fell in the library.
Then Terence began to laugh, a sound Trey had not heard him make in three long years and so foreign that he could not believe he was hearing it. The dog, understanding that one member of the human population in the room was not about to kill it, sidled immediately up to his middle son and waited patiently to be lifted into a careful embrace.
A miracle.
A wonder.
The answer to his prayers.
Though Miss Sarah Moorland, newly arrived from London and now sitting open mouthed on his burgundy-velour chaise-longue, looked very much as if she was going to be violently sick.
Chapter Two
‘Is she a Christmas fairy, Papa? Is that how she mended Terry’s voice?’
The smallest boy stood in front of her, dark eyes watching warily. The oldest child joined him.
‘Did she bring us the dog as a present?’ His voice was imbued with the hope that only children knew how to engender. Even the one who held Melusine looked interested in her answer, though the spell was broken as the Duke of Blackhaven shepherded them away to a further distance.
‘This is your new governess, Miss Moorland, and her dog, Melusine.’
‘How old is she?’ The finger pointed at her puppy looked decidedly grubby, a large and untended cut across the skin above the thumb and Seraphina sat forwards, her mind clearer and the dizziness in her head lessened now, though nausea still roiled in her stomach.
‘A year old. She was born in late November and I found her on my bed on Christmas Day.’
‘Who put her there?’
She had never quite understood how Melusine had come to be asleep in her chamber with a spotted ribbon tied beneath her chin as the sun had come up. Certainly it would not have been her father’s or her brother’s doing and her mama had been a long time dead.
‘Someone who knew I needed her, I think,’ she replied, and left it at that. She suspected it to be the cook at Moreton Manor, for the woman had always been a faithful servant.
Blackhaven was watching her carefully, measuring her person, weighing her up. After such a start, Seraphina was afraid that she would be thrown out on her head before the night fell properly, the darkened freezing landscape of Essex completely foreign. If this was to be the case, then it had all been for nothing, this flight, this subterfuge, this foolish dash into the countryside with terror on her heels and freedom on the horizon. The wet patch on the rug seemed to be growing before her eyes.
She had failed. Miserably.
‘Did you come down the chimney, then?’ The oldest child observed her person as though she might disappear, and looking at her smudged white gown Seraphina could see how such a thought could occur. The part of her personality that found a story in everything resurfaced, surprising her, for it had been a long while since the joy of fantasy had taken her in its grip, and she could not understand how, in the middle of one of her darkest hours, such a trait might flourish.
‘No, for I would have been much dirtier if I had, of course. Real fairies would make themselves so tiny so that not a single spot of grime might spoil their dresses because everyone knows that fairy wings are very accurate in the art of flying.’ Trey Stanford looked away, though not before she saw the waning hopes of her teaching the exact sciences to his sons written on his face in a heavy frown. But she could not care. Imagination had a place, too, in the minds of small boys such as these ones.
‘Miss Moorland will be here until you go up to Eton after the Yuletide season and I expect the best of manners from each of you.’
Lord Stanford sounded as if he had had enough of conjecture, a man who dealt only in facts and reason, and when an old woman came to the door he instructed her to take his children along to their room despite all amount of protest. As the portal shut the silence lengthened.
Melusine had gone with them, trailing behind the boys with a decided interest. Seraphina hoped her dog would be safe, but under the circumstances thought it unwise to voice her worries. Finally, the duke spoke.
‘My son Terence has been mute since his mother died. A laugh was a good start, I think.’
Seraphina was left speechless at the enormity of this confession.
‘I had not thought of a pet, you see, but your dog seems to have broken through his reserve. My children have had a great loss and their reactions to it have all been different.’
Given the tone of his voice, she thought that the loss had been his as well, a man left now struggling with the remains of life. Lord, and how well she understood that difficulty, the tattered remnants of her own torn into shreds.
Trey Stanford was tall, much taller than she had first thought him to be; as the light scent of spice filled the air between them she breathed in, a feeling of safety garnered in the action. His library was filled to brimming with books and a piano stood to one end of the room, ivory keys well used and worn—a home that was not just a showpiece. Did he play? He did not give the impression of a man who spent a lot of time indoors, his body hewn into the hardness of much exercise. She looked away quickly as she noticed he watched her.
Shards of porcelain beneath her boot brought her back to reality. Would wages be docked for the breakage of such an expensive treasure and should she as ‘help’ be offering to clear away this mess?
The rules had changed around her as well and she chastised herself for not taking more notice of the hierarchy of service in her father’s house. The place of a governess was undoubtedly strictly observed in a ducal mansion such as this one. Another problem to overcome. She had not foreseen the enormity or the complexity of her change in station when she had decided upon it. Sitting here, she wondered if she should have run for the port of London instead and jumped on the first ship on an outgoing tide.
A trolley heavily laden with food arrived, the aroma of chicken and coffee and newly baked bread making her mouth water.
‘I can take it from here, Mrs Thomas.’
The servant’s eyes flicked across to her own, curiosity and regard written within them, the ghost of a smile on her lips before she bobbed and turned towards the door. Another younger maid came to quickly tidy the broken urn and mop up the unfortunate puddle, finishing the task in less than a moment and following the older woman out.
Lord Blackhaven indicated the fare on the table. ‘After you help yourself we will talk, Miss Moorland. Your dog shall be fed in the kitchen.’
Relieved that Melusine was to be given a meal, Seraphina piled her plate with food as high as she deemed polite and sat down.
‘What was your brother’s name?’ His lack of small talk made caution surface, his presence filling the room to bursting.
‘Andrew.’
‘Andrew Moorland? Which regiment did he serve with?’
‘The 18th Light Dragoons, sir.’ Lord, pray that the duke was not a soldier within those ranks as well or her ruse would be up.
When he shrugged his shoulders and leant back against the chair, she relaxed. In another life she might have asked what regiment he marched with and what the conditions had been like on the Peninsula at that particular time, just to give herself a better idea of the place where her beloved brother had fallen. But that life was long lost to her and a servant who had come to care for children would have no place in the asking of it. So instead she stayed silent. She was aware that he was observing her most closely.
‘Have we met before? You look … somewhat familiar.’
She reddened again, the curse of her fair skin and blonde hair. She remembered him, of course, for she had seen him once a good seven years ago, before he was injured and when his wife Catherine had conquered the ton with her beauty. Seraphina had been thirteen and gauche when he had stopped her wayward mount from bolting across a newly laid garden off the Row in Hyde Park. She had thought then that he was like the princes in her storybooks, handsome, kind, brave and wonderful.
He would not remember. It was her mother he would have some recall of. Elizabeth Moreton. A rival of his wife. An Original. Every man who had ever laid his eyes upon her was entranced by her beauty and kindness, except for her husband, Seth Moreton.
But she wouldn’t think of this now, here in a room full of books and music and the smell of spice, here in a castle far from London and the dangerous jealousies of men. Swallowing, she took a drink of lemonade.
‘There are probably many others who look like me, sir.’
She had the feeling he wanted to say something else, but did not. The clock at one end of the room ticked loudly into the silence and farther away in the house there was the sound of a crying child. She saw how he tilted his head to listen until the noise stopped.
A watchful father. In this light the scar on his cheek was wide and reddened—the mark of fire, perhaps, or a wound that had festered and been left untended. She did not dare to ask him of it.
‘Did the agency tell you that you are number six in a long line of governesses?’
‘They did, sir.’
‘And did they tell you of the reason many left without notice?’
‘No.’ Seraphina shook her head. The woman at the agency had cited unresolved differences when she had asked and made it clear that she would divulge nothing further.
‘The Castle is haunted, it seems. The science of such a possibility belies any rational thought, but belief is injudicious and once an idea is seeded …’ She saw resignation on his face, a man who spoke of the supernatural with no true belief in any of it, but she could not leave it just at that.
‘I have always been interested in the metaphysical, my lord, and there is much in life that cannot be simply explained away.’
‘Such as?’
‘Six governesses, perhaps?’
His brows rose alarmingly and she fancied the dent of a dimple in his chin. ‘Your dog, of course, is named after the Phantom Lady of the de Lusignan family.’
‘I am surprised you should know of this, sir, without having the need to revert to a book. Usually I have to explain the connection.’
‘Melusine, one of three sisters cursed with an undisclosed flaw.’ He shifted on the seat and looked directly at her. ‘I think I comprehend the secret nature of your dog already, Miss Moorland.’
‘And what is that, my lord?’
His answer was quick and firm. ‘Chaos.’
Her laughter was like music, soft and real, as joy lit her face. Where had he seen her? How had he known her? Trey’s mind sifted back through the years, but he could make no placement whatsoever. Moorland? The name was without memory. He would ask around, of course, though he had no wish to return to the crush of the city.
Catherine had dragged him down to London a number of times and it had always been the same. She had loved it and he had loathed it. He wondered how he had ever been foolish enough to ask such a woman to be his wife. Granted, she had given him heirs to inherit the Blackhaven fortune and titles, but little else in joy or comfort—a woman whose looks belied a nature that was selfish and cold.
He had vowed to stay well away from beautiful women ever since and yet here was one now laughing in his library, her dirtied white gown many sizes too big and an honest, self-confessed belief in the truth of ghosts.
Sarah Moorland had worn rings on her fingers until quite recently, the sun-touched skin on the first joints of her third and little digits showing white. Both hands now pulled at the fabric in her skirt. Nerves, he supposed. Every fingernail was bitten to the quick.
It was the small details that gave a person away, he ruminated, the experience he had gained during his time with Wellesley as an intelligence officer brought into play. Sometimes he wished it was not there, this innate distrust of human nature that kept him isolated from the sort of discourse that others favoured.
‘You seem well schooled in the classics, Miss Moorland. What brought you into the profession of governess?’
‘Necessity, sir.’ The truth of such an answer was written all over her face.
‘Where was it your brother lived?’
There was a slight hesitation before she offered up the name of Oxford.
‘My sister is from those parts. Once I knew the area well.’
Worry filled blue eyes and the same wash of redness that he had come to expect when she gave him any personal information whatsoever made her face flame.
Another thought chased the first one as memory clicked into recognition: Lady Elizabeth Moreton!
That was the woman she reminded him of; her colour of hair and eyes were exactly the same. But it was more in the way she looked at him, chin tilted upwards with regard. Almost regal.
Sarah Moorland’s mother? Moreton and Moorland. Anderley Moreton, a young man shot through the head under the push forwards by General Stewart at Rueda, when the 18th Light Dragoons had surrounded the village after dark. Her brother? Andrew? Lord, it all fitted save for one thing.
Why was this Moreton daughter here posing as a governess of no means and little substance when clearly she was a lady of the very first water?
Necessity, she had said and looked as if she meant it. Tipping up his glass, he swallowed the remains of his fine brandy as his housekeeper came into the room and announced that the new governess’s sleeping quarters were ready and that she was there to show the way.
The chamber Seraphina was led into was beautiful, large and airy with tall windows looking out onto the hills, the view reminding her a little of Moreton Manor, the Moreton country seat.
The housekeeper continued to fuss about, plumping cushions and picking up non-existent lint from the scrupulously clean waxed floorboards. When the woman turned towards her there was curiosity in her dark brown eyes.
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