Kitabı oku: «The Governess's Secret Baby»
The beauty who tamed the beast...
New governess Grace Bertram will do anything to get to know her young daughter, Clara. Even if it means working for Clara’s guardian, the reclusive and scarred Nathaniel, Marquess of Ravenwell!
Nathaniel believes no woman could ever love a monster like him, until Grace seems to look past his scars to the man beneath... But when he discovers Grace is Clara’s mother, Nathaniel questions his place in this torn-apart family. Could there be a Christmas happy-ever-after for this beauty and the beast?
The Governess Tales
Sweeping romances with fairytale endings!
Meet Joanna Radcliff, Rachel Talbot,
Isabel Morton and Grace Bertram.
These four friends grew up together in Madame Dubois’s school for young ladies, where they indulged in midnight feasts, broke the rules and shared their innermost secrets!
But now they are thrust into the real world, and each must adapt to her new life as a governess.
One will rise, one will travel, one will run and one will find her real home…
And each will meet her soulmate, who’ll give her the happy-ever-after she’s always dreamt of!
Read Joanna’s story in
The Cinderella Governess
Read Rachel’s story in
Governess to the Sheikh
Read Isabel’s story in
The Runaway Governess
And read Grace’s story in
The Governess’s Secret Baby
All available now!
Author Note
The Governess’s Secret Baby is book four in The Governess Tales series, but it is a stand-alone story and can be enjoyed even if you haven’t read the previous three. If you have read the others, however, you will be pleased to know that the epilogue—an absolute joy to write—brings back all three couples from the other linked books to find out what has happened since the end of their stories.
I loved bringing to life the gothic Shiverstone Hall, nestled below Shiver Crag in the Yorkshire Dales, and Nathaniel, its reclusive, scarred and taciturn owner. Only a feisty heroine will do for Nathaniel, and Grace is certainly that: bold, impulsive and determined, but also rootless and plagued with hidden self-doubt.
Enjoy the emotional ups and downs as Grace helps Nathaniel find the courage to embrace life again, and Nathaniel proves to Grace that she is capable of being loved.
The Governess’s Secret Baby
Janice Preston
JANICE PRESTON grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight management counsellor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).
Books by Janice Preston
Mills & Boon Historical Romance
The Governess Tales
The Governess’s Secret Baby
Men About Town
Return of Scandal’s Son
Saved by Scandal’s Heir
Linked by Character
to Men About Town duet
Mary and the Marquis
From Wallflower to Countess
Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.
To my fellow authors
Georgie Lee, Laura Martin and Liz Tyner:
it’s been a pleasure collaborating with you, ladies, and I hope I’ve done justice to your characters in the epilogue.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Author Note
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Extract
Copyright
Prologue
Early October 1811
Nathaniel Pembroke, Marquess of Ravenwell, threw a saddle on Zephyr’s back, mounted up, and pointed the black stallion’s head towards the fell, the words of the letter searing his brain and his heart. As Zephyr’s hooves flashed across the ground the tears spilling from Nathaniel’s eyes evaporated in the wind and his roar of rage was heard by no man. The fells above Shiverstone Hall were avoided by local villagers and farmers alike, and that was precisely how Nathaniel liked it.
The great black’s pace flagged and, reluctantly, Nathaniel steadied him to a trot. The anger and the grief burning his chest had not eased—the hollow place where his shrivelled heart had struggled to survive this past nine years was still there, only now it was cavernous...a vast, stygian void. He should know by now grief could never be outrun. It cleaved to you like lichen clung to the rocks that strewed the dale below.
Hannah. Tears again clouded his vision and he blinked furiously, gazing hopelessly at the gunmetal grey of the sky. Dead. Never again to see his beloved sister’s face, or to hear her laugh, or to feel the rare human contact of her arms around him, hugging, reassuring. And David, Hannah’s husband of eight years and Nathaniel’s loyal and steadfast friend...his only friend. Also gone.
The raw lump in Nathaniel’s throat ached unbearably as the words of his mother’s letter—delivered as he had broken his fast that morning—reverberated through his brain: a carriage accident; Hannah and David both killed outright; little Clara, their two-year-old daughter, the only survivor.
You are named as Guardian to the child, my son. If I can help you, you know that I will, but I cannot, at my age, shoulder all responsibility for her upbringing. Neither will I live in that Godforsaken place you please to call home in order to help you with the task.
I urge you to come home to Ravenwell and we shall raise Clara together. It is time you took your place in the world again.
If you choose not to, however, then you must come and collect your ward. It is your duty and you owe it to your poor, dear sister to take charge of and care for the child she loved more than life itself.
Your loving
Mother
Nathaniel turned Zephyr for home, the realities of his dilemma bearing down on him. He could not deny the truth of Mother’s words—she was getting no younger and she would never be happy living at Shiverstone Hall—his cadet estate near the border between the North Riding of Yorkshire and Westmorland—nor would it be healthy for her. She lived most of the year at Ravenwell Manor, his main estate in the far more civilised countryside that surrounded the town of Harrogate, on the far side of the Dales.
But...he considered those alternatives, neither of which appealed. Go home to Ravenwell? He shook his head in dumb denial. Never. He could tolerate neither the memories nor the looks of sympathy from those who had known him before. Still less could he stomach the recoil of strangers at the sight of him.
By the time he rode into the yard behind Shiverstone Hall, his decision was made. He had one choice, and one choice only. He must fetch Clara and bring her to Shiverstone to live with him. His courage almost failed at the thought—what did he know about children, particularly one as young as Clara?
* * *
‘You have responsibilities, Nathaniel. You cannot continue to hide away. How are you ever to produce an heir otherwise? Not every woman will react like Miss Havers.’
Nathaniel bit back a growl at the reminder of Miss Havers. He had suspected how that would end as soon as his mother had told him of the woman who had agreed to a marriage of convenience. Even the lure of his wealth and title was not enough to compensate for his scars. Miss Havers changed her mind after one meeting and Nathaniel had retreated to Shiverstone Hall, resolving to live a solitary life. She hadn’t been the first woman to react to his altered appearance with horror: Lady Sarah Reece—with whom he’d had an understanding before he was injured—had lost no time in accepting another man’s proposal.
He did not miss his former carefree life as one of society’s most eligible bachelors: such frivolous pleasures no longer held any allure for him. Nor did he miss his erstwhile friends. He would never forget the shock on their faces, nor the speed with which they had turned their backs on him after the fire.
He was happy with his life, dammit. He had his animals and his hawks—they did not judge him by how he looked.
His mother forked a morsel of roast grouse into her mouth and then placed her knife and fork on to her plate whilst she chewed, watching Nathaniel expectantly.
‘I am but thirty, Mother. There is more than enough time to produce an heir.’
‘Would you pour me another glass of wine, please, Nathaniel?’
He obliged. They were dining alone in the dining room at Ravenwell Manor, the servants having been dismissed by Lady Ravenwell as soon as the dishes had been served. That had prompted Nathaniel to suspect their conversation would prove uncomfortable and his defences were already well and truly in place.
‘Thank you.’ His mother sipped her wine, then placed her glass on the finely embroidered tablecloth. ‘Do not think I am ignorant of your plan, son,’ she said. ‘You arrive here after dark, at a time you know Clara will already be asleep. What is your intention? To snatch her from her bed before dawn and be away before you need to see anyone, or be seen?’
He hated the sympathy in her eyes but he also knew that behind that sympathy there existed a steely belief in duty. His duty: to the estate, to his family, to the memory of his father, and to the future of the marquessate. Her jibe about snatching Clara from her bed sailed too close to the truth.
‘I came as soon as I could after reading your letter, Mother. My late arrival was because I did not want to wait until tomorrow to travel, but I am afraid I must return in the morning.’
‘Must?’
‘It will not do to expect a two-year-old child to travel late into the night.’
‘Then stay for a few days. At least give the poor child a chance to remember you.’
He had last seen Clara four months before, when she had come up to Shiverstone with Hannah and David from their home in Gloucestershire. They had stayed with him for a week. Thinking of his sister and his friend brought that choking, aching lump into his throat once more. He bowed his head, staring unseeingly at the food in front of him, his appetite gone.
‘I could invite a few neighbours for dinner. Only people you already know, not strangers.’
I can’t... Bile rose, hot and bitter in his mouth.
He shoved his plate from him with a violent movement. Mother jumped, her fork clattering on to her plate and her face crumpled, the corners of her mouth jerking down as her eyes sheened. Guilt—familiar, all-encompassing—swept through him and he rounded the table to fold his mother into his arms as she sobbed.
‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ She had lost her precious daughter and he had been concerned only with his own selfish fears. ‘Of course I will stay for a few days.’ A few days would be all he could endure of his mother’s efforts to reintroduce him into local society, he was certain of that. ‘But no dinner parties, I beg of you. Do not forget we are in mourning.’
Mother’s shoulders trembled. ‘You are right,’ she whispered. ‘But...please...stay with me a short time.’
He dropped a kiss on her greying head. ‘I will.’
Poor Mother, left with only him out of her family. He was no substitute for Hannah. Why couldn’t it have been he who died? Hannah had so much to live for, whereas he... He batted that wicked thought away. No matter how black his future had seemed, he had never been tempted to take his own life. He was content enough with the life he led. The villagers avoided him and he had his dogs and his horses and his hawks: they provided all the company he needed.
Nathaniel resumed his seat, but did not draw his plate towards him again.
‘What about Clara’s nanny?’ He remembered the woman from Hannah’s last visit to Shiverstone. At least she was not a complete stranger. ‘I assume she is here and will stay with Clara?’
His mother’s gaze skittered past him. ‘I am afraid not. She has family in Gloucester and does not want to move so far away. You will need to appoint a new nanny and then, later, she will need a governess.’
He battled to hide his dismay, but some must have shown, for she continued, ‘You must put Clara’s needs first. She is two years old. What do you know about taking care of such a young child? Of any child? And Mrs Sharp has enough to do with running the Hall. You cannot expect her to take on more responsibility.’
She’s right. I know she’s right...and yet every fibre of his being rebelled against the notion of not one, but two, strangers coming into his home. He eyed his mother. Perhaps...
‘And do not think I shall yield if you try to persuade me to raise Clara on your behalf.’
His mother—one step ahead as usual. He must accept that, once again, he had no choice.
‘I will advertise for a governess,’ he said. One person—surely he could cope with one person. Once she was used to his appearance, all would be well. He need not see much of her. ‘Then Clara will not have to adapt to another person in her life later on. She needs consistency after losing her parents.’
Poor little soul. Unwanted by her own mother—an unfortunate girl in trouble—and now losing her adoptive parents. And she was a sweet little poppet. Too young to react with horror to his scars as other children had done in the past, Clara had accepted her uncle and she, in turn, had delighted him with her gurgles and her first attempts at speech. An unaccustomed tingle warmed his chest. She would be his. She might only be two, but she would provide some human contact apart from his servants.
‘You must do as you deem right for Clara.’ Mother’s sceptical expression, however, suggested that she was completely aware of his real reason for choosing a governess rather than a nanny. ‘And for darling Hannah.’
A lone tear spilled over and tracked down her lined cheek. How had he never been aware of those wrinkles before? His mother had aged. Grief, he thought, did that to a person and poor Mother had faced more grief than most.
‘I will,’ he vowed.
He owed it to his sister, who had tackled her own heartbreak of trying and failing to give birth to a healthy baby with such dignity and grace. She had been besotted by Clara from the very first moment she held her in her arms and impotent anger raged through Nathaniel that she would now miss the joy of seeing her adopted daughter grow and mature. Hannah had been one of the few constants in his life since the fire that had taken his father and changed Nathaniel’s life for ever. He would not let her down now. He would write to the editor of the York Herald, with instructions to run an advertisement for a trained governess who was willing to come and live at the Hall.
For the first time he felt a sliver of doubt—what sort of woman would agree to bury herself in such an isolated place?
Chapter One
Early November 1811
Grace Bertram breathed easier as she reached the edge of the dense woodland, with its mossy-trunked trees and its unfamiliar rustles and groans, and the barely glimpsed scurrying of invisible creatures through the undergrowth. The track she had followed from the village of Shivercombe—past the church, across a meadow and a river, and then through that spooky wood—emerged on to the edge of bleak moorland and she stopped to catch her breath, and look around.
Moorland—or, more correctly, fells according to the local villagers who had tried so hard to dissuade her from venturing to Shiverstone Hall—rose ahead of her before merging mistily with the overcast sky. She could just about make out the slate roof and tall chimneys of a house squatting in a fold of land ahead, the only sign of human habitation in that forbidding landscape.
Grace’s pulse accelerated in a fusion of anticipation and fear. That must be it. Shiverstone Hall. And there, beneath those glistening black slates, was Clara. Her baby, who now lived in this isolated place with—according to those same villagers—a man who was fearful to behold and who breathed fire and brimstone on any who ventured on to his land: the Marquess of Ravenwell. Grace would not...could not...allow those warnings to deter her. She had survived that creepy forest and she would survive Lord Ravenwell’s wrath. She would not turn back from the task she had set herself two years ago.
She owed that much to the daughter she had given away at birth.
Grace swapped her portmanteau into her left hand and glanced down at her muddied half-boots in disgust. Her left foot already squelched in her boot and the right felt suspiciously damp too. What sort of lord lived out here in the middle of nowhere and did not even take the trouble to build a bridge over the river between the village and his house? An uncivilised sort, that was who, in Grace’s opinion. There was a ford for horses and vehicles, but the only place for a person to cross the river was by using huge, wet, slippery rocks set in the riverbed as stepping stones. She was fortunate it was only her left foot that had been submerged.
Grace trudged on, muttering under her breath, still following the same track. At seventeen, and a pupil at a school for governesses, she’d had no choice but to give her baby away, but she had regretted it each and every day since then. She had promised herself that one day she would track her daughter down and make sure she was happy and loved and living the life she deserved. And now it was even more urgent that she find her daughter and make sure she was well cared for—and wanted—since her discovery that the couple who had adopted Clara as their own had perished in a carriage accident.
But doubts still plagued her as she walked, despite her resolve to see her mission through. She might be bold, but she was not stupid. What if this Marquess would not allow her to see Clara? What reason could she give him for seeking out the child? Not the truth. He would send her packing. No. She must find another reason.
And what if Clara is not happy and loved?
What on earth could she—a nineteen-year-old newly trained governess with no home and little money in her pocket—actually do? She pushed the thought aside with an impatient tut.
She would deal with that when and if it became necessary.
She plodded on, skirting the worst of the puddles that dotted the track. Finally, she crested the rise ahead of her and there it was. She paused. It was bigger than that first glimpse had suggested, but its appearance—grim and grey with creepers adorning the walls—and location were hardly that of a dwelling in which one might expect a wealthy lord to reside.
A shrill cry echoed through the air and she whirled around.
Nothing.
At least she wasn’t still in the forest—that unearthly sound would then indeed have unnerved her. She scanned the bleak landscape, but nothing moved. Another plaintive cry brought her heart into her mouth. She looked up and caught sight of a huge bird—bigger than any she had ever seen—gliding and soaring. It then circled once, before pitching into a dive: a dark blur silhouetted against the low clouds until it disappeared behind the hill that rose behind the house.
Grace swallowed, hunched her shoulders, swapped her portmanteau over again, and soldiered on. Her upbringing at her uncle’s house in Wiltshire and, since the age of nine, at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies in Salisbury had ill-prepared her for such nature in the raw.
* * *
Twenty minutes later the track passed through a gateway in a stone wall, at which point the surface was reinforced with gravel. A broad drive curved away to the left, only to then sweep around and across the front of Shiverstone Hall. A footpath, paved with stone setts, led from this point in a straight line to the house, bisecting a lawn. Grace followed the path until, directly opposite the front door, it rejoined the gravelled carriageway.
She paused, her heart thudding as she scanned the stone-built Hall with its blank, forbidding windows, and its massive timber door, just visible in the gloomy depths of a central, gabled porch.
There was no sound. Anywhere. Even the air was still and silent.
It is as though the house is lying in wait for me—an enchanted castle, sleeping until the fairy princess awakens it and frees the inhabitants. Or a monster’s lair, awaiting the unwary traveller.
Grace bit her lip, shivering a little, castigating herself for such fanciful thoughts, worthy of one of those Gothic novels Isabel used to smuggle into school and then pass around for her awestruck friends to read. A wave of homesickness hit Grace at the thought of Isabel, Joanna, and Rachel. Her dearest friends. What were they doing now? Were they happy? Grace shook her head free of her memories: the three friends she might never see again and her heartache when the time had come for her to leave Madame Dubois’s school. For a few years she had belonged and she had been loved, valued, and wanted—a rare feeling in her life thus far.
Resisting the urge to flee back the way she had come, Grace crossed the carriageway, wincing as the crunch of the gravel beneath her boots split the silence. She stepped through the arched entrance to the porch and hesitated, staring with trepidation at the door looming above her.
I have come this far...I cannot give up now.
She sucked in a deep breath and reached for the huge iron knocker. She would make her enquiries, set her mind at rest and return to the village. She had no wish to walk through that forest as the light began to fade, as it would do all too early at this time of year. She only had to knock. And state her business. Still she hesitated, her fingers curled around the cold metal. It felt stiff, as though it was rarely used. She released it, nerves fluttering.
Before she could gather her courage again, a loud bark, followed by a sudden rush of feet, had her spinning on the spot. A pack of dogs, all colours and sizes, leapt and woofed and panted around her. Heart in mouth, she backed against the door, her bag clutched up to her chest for protection. A pair of wet, muddy paws were planted in the region of her stomach, and a grinning mouth, full of teeth and lolling tongue, was thrust at her face, snuffling and sniffing. A whimper of terror escaped Grace despite her efforts to silence it. In desperation, she bent her leg at the knee and drummed her heel against the door behind her. Surely the human inhabitants of this Godforsaken place couldn’t be as scary as the animals?
After what felt like an hour, she heard the welcome sound of bolts being drawn and the creak of hinges as the door was opened.
‘Get down, Brack!’ The voice was deep and brooked no disobedience. ‘Get away, the lot of you.’
Grace turned slowly. She looked up...and up. And swallowed. Hard. A powerfully built man towered over her, his face averted, only the left side of it visible. His dark brown hair was unfashionably long, his shoulders and chest broad, and his expression—what she could see of it—grim.
She could not have run if she wanted to, her knees trembled so. Besides, there was nowhere to run to, not with those dogs lurking nearby.
‘You’re late,’ he growled.
Time seemed to slow. The man continued to not quite look at Grace as her brain examined and rejected all the truthful responses at her disposal.
‘I am sorry,’ was all she said.
‘You look too young to be a governess. I expected someone older.’
Governess? Are there other children here apart from Clara? The parallels with her own life sent a shiver skittering down her spine. She knew the reality of growing up with cousins who did not accept you as part of the family.
‘I am fully trained,’ Grace replied, lifting her chin.
Anticipation spiralled as the implications of the man’s words sank in. If Lord Ravenwell was expecting a governess, why should it not be her? She was trained. If his lordship thought her suitable, she could stay. She would see Clara every day and could see for herself that her daughter was happy and loved. That she was not viewed as a burden, as Grace had been.
The man’s gaze lowered, and lingered. Grace glanced down and saw the muddy streaks upon her grey cloak.
‘That was your dog’s fault,’ she pointed out, indignantly.
The man grunted and stood aside, opening the door fully, gesturing to her to come in. Gathering her courage, Grace stepped past him, catching the whiff of fresh air and leather and the tang of shaving soap. She took two steps and froze.
The hall in which she stood was cavernous, reaching up two storeys into the arched, beamed roof. The walls were half-panelled in dark wood and, on the left-hand side, a staircase rose to a half-landing and then turned to climb across the back wall to a galleried landing that overlooked the hall on three sides. There, halfway up the second flight of stairs, a small face—eyes huge, mouth drooping—peered through the wooden balustrade. Grace’s heart lurched. She moved forward as if in a dream, her attention entirely focussed on that face.
Clara.
It must be. Love flooded every cell of Grace’s being as she crossed the hall, tears blurring her vision. She was real. A living little person. The memory—a tiny newborn baby, taken too quickly from her arms—could now be replaced by this little angel. A forlorn angel, she realised, recognising the sadness in that dear little face, the desolation in those huge eyes. Given away by her birth mother and now orphaned and condemned to be raised by—
Grace spun to face the man, who had followed her into the hall. His head jerked to one side, but not before she glimpsed the ravaged skin of his right cheek, half-concealed by the hair that hung around his face. Impatiently, she dismissed his appearance. The only thing that mattered was to ensure her daughter was properly cared for.
‘Who are you?’
A scowl lowered the man’s forehead. ‘I am the master of this house. Who are you?’
The master. Clara’s uncle. The Marquess.
Well, title or not, scarred or not, you will not frighten me.
Grace drew herself up to her full five-foot-three. ‘Grace Bertram.’
‘Bertram? I don’t... You are not who I expected—’
‘I came instead.’
‘Oh.’ Lord Ravenwell hesitated, then continued gruffly, ‘Follow me. I’ll need to know something about you if I’m to entrust my niece to your care.’
Grace’s heart skipped a beat. This was the moment she should tell him the truth, but she said nothing. Could she...dare she...follow her heart? She needed a job and it seemed, by some miracle, there might be a position for her here.
‘Clara—’ Ravenwell beckoned to the child on the stairs ‘—come with me.’
Clara bumped down the stairs on her bottom and Grace committed every second to memory, her heart swelling until it felt like it might burst from her chest. She blinked hard to disperse the moisture that stung her eyes.
‘Come, poppet.’
The Marquess held out his hand. Clara shuffled across the hall, feet dragging, her reluctance palpable. She reached her uncle and put her tiny hand into his as her other thumb crept into her mouth and she cast a shy, sideways glance at Grace. She looked so tiny and so delicate next to this huge bear of a man. Did she fear him?
‘Good girl.’
The Marquess did not sound cruel or unkind, but Grace’s heart ached for her sad little girl. At only two years old, she would not fully understand what had happened and why her life had changed so drastically, but she would still grieve and she must miss her mama and her papa. In that moment Grace knew that she would do everything in her power to stay at this place and to care for Clara, her daughter’s happiness her only concern.
She felt Ravenwell’s gaze upon her and tore her attention from Clara. She must now impress him so thoroughly he could not help but offer her the post of governess.
‘You had better take those boots off, or Mrs Sharp will throw a fit.’
Grace glanced down at her filthy boots and felt her cheeks heat as she noticed the muddy footprints she had left on previously spotless flagstones.
So much for impressing him.
‘Mrs Sharp?’ She sat on a nearby chair and unbuttoned her boots.
‘My housekeeper.’
Grace scanned the hall. Every wooden surface had been polished until it gleamed. She breathed in, smelling the unmistakable sweet scent of beeswax. Appearances could be deceptive, she mused, recalling her first view of the Hall and its unwelcoming exterior. Although...looking around again, she realised the impeccably clean hall still felt as bleak as the fells that rose behind the house. There was no fire in the massive stone fireplace and there were no homely touches: no paintings, vases, or ornaments to brighten the place. No rug to break up the cold expanse of stone floor. No furniture apart from one console table—incongruously small in that huge space—and the simple wooden chair upon which she now sat. It lacked a woman’s touch, giving it the atmosphere of an institution rather than a home. Grace darted a look at the Marquess. Was he married? She had not thought to ask that question before she had travelled the length of the country to find her daughter.
