The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston
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‘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.
She placed her boots neatly side by side next to the chair and stood up, shivers spreading up her legs and across her back as the chill of the flagstones penetrated her woollen stockings.
Ravenwell gestured to a door that led off the hall.
‘Wait in there.’
Grace entered a large sitting room. Like the entrance hall, it was sparsely furnished. There were matching fireplaces at each end of the room—one lit, one not—and the walls were papered in dark green and ivory stripes above the same dark wood panelling as lined the hall. On either side of the lit fireplace stood a wing-back chair and next to each chair stood a highly polished side table. A larger table, with two ladder-back wooden chairs, was set in front of the middle of three tall windows. At the far end of the room, near the unlit fireplace, were two large shapes draped in holland covers. Her overall impression of the room was of darkness and disuse, despite the fire burning in the grate.
This was a house. A dwelling. Well cared for, but not loved. It was not cold in the room and she stood upon polished floorboards rather than flagstones, but she nevertheless suppressed another shiver.
Lord Ravenwell soon returned, alone and carrying a letter.
‘Sit down.’
He gestured at the chair to the right of the hearth and Grace crossed in front of the fire to sit in it. Ravenwell sat in the opposite chair, angling it away from the fire, thus ensuring, Grace realised, that the damaged side of his face would be neither highlighted by firelight nor facing her. His actions prompted a desire in her to see his scarred skin properly. Was it really as horrific as he seemed to believe?
‘Why did the other woman—’ Ravenwell consulted the letter ‘—Miss Browne, not come? I expected her three days ago.’
His comment sparked a memory. ‘I believe she found the area too isolated.’
The villagers had regaled her with gleeful tales of the other young lady who had listened to their stories, headed out from the village, taken one look at the dark, ancient woodland through which she must walk to reach Shiverstone Hall and fled.
‘And did our isolation not deter you?’
‘I would not be here if it did.’
His head turned and he looked directly at her. His eyes were dark, deep-set, brooding. His mouth a firm line. On the right side of his face, in a broad slash from jaw to temple, his skin was white and puckered, in stark contrast to the tan that coloured the rest of his face. Grace tried not to stare. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift over his wide shoulders and chest and down to his muscular thighs, encased in buckskin breeches and boots. His sheer size intimidated her. How furious would he be if he discovered her deception? Her heartbeat accelerated, thumping in her chest, and she sought to distract herself.
‘Will Mrs Sharp not scold you for wearing boots indoors?’ she said, before she could curb her tongue.
His shoulders flexed and a muffled snort escaped him. ‘As I said, I am the master. And my boots,’ he added pointedly, ‘are clean.’
Chastised, Grace tucked her stockinged feet out of sight under her chair. She was in an unknown place with a strange man she hoped would employ her. This was not school. Or even her uncle’s house, where she had grown up. She was no longer a child and she ought to pick her words with more care. She was a responsible adult now, with her own way to make in the world. Ravenwell had already commented on her youthfulness. She must not give him a reason to think her unsuitable to take care of Clara.
She peeped at him again and saw that the back of his right hand, in which he held the letter, was also scarred.
Like Caroline’s. One of her fellow pupils had similar ravaged skin on her legs, caused when her dress had gone up in flames when she had wandered too close to an open fire as a young child. She was lucky she had survived.
Is that what happened to Ravenwell? Was he burned in a fire?
As if he felt her interest, the Marquess placed the letter on a side table and folded his arms, his right hand tucked out of sight, before bombarding Grace with questions.
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen, my lord.’
‘Where did you train?’
‘At Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies in Salisbury.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I grew up in my uncle’s house in Wiltshire.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘They died when I was a baby. My uncle and aunt took me in.’
Ravenwell unfolded