The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston

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      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 his arms and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, focussing even more intently on her. Grace battled to meet his eyes and not to allow her gaze to drift to his scars. It was just damaged skin. She must not stare and make him uncomfortable.

      His voice gentled. ‘So you know what it is like to be orphaned?’

      ‘Yes.’

      It is lonely. It is being second-best, unimportant, overlooked. It is knowing you are different and never feeling as though you belong.

      ‘I do not remember my parents. I was still a babe in arms when they died.’

      Like Clara, when I gave her away.

      He sat back. ‘I hope Clara will remember her parents, but I am not sure she will. She is only two.’

      ‘She will if you talk to her about them and keep their memory alive,’ Grace said. ‘My uncle and aunt never spoke to me of my parents. They had quarrelled over something years before and they only took me in out of what they considered to be their Christian duty.’

      Silence reigned as Ravenwell stared, frowning, into the fire. Grace knitted the strands of her thoughts together until she realised there were gaps in her understanding.

      ‘You speak only of Clara,’ she said. ‘You said you will need to know about me if you are to entrust her to my care. Is she not rather young, or do you and Lady Ravenwell have need of a governess for your other children, perhaps?’

      Her question jerked Ravenwell from his contemplation of the flames. ‘There is no Lady Ravenwell. Clara would be your sole charge.’

      ‘Would a nanny, or a nursery maid, not be more suitable?’ The words were out before Grace could stop them. What are you trying to do? Talk him out of employing you?

      Ravenwell scowled. ‘Are you not capable of looking after such a young child? Or perhaps you think it beneath you, as a trained governess?’

      ‘Yes, I am capable and, no, it is not beneath me. I simply wondered—’

      ‘I do not want Clara to grow fond of someone and then have to adjust to a new face in a few years’ time. She has faced enough disruption. Do you want the position or not?’

      ‘Yes...yes, of course.’ Grace’s heart soared. How could life be any sweeter?

      Ravenwell was eyeing her, frowning. ‘It will be lonely out here, for such a young woman. Are you sure?’

      ‘I am sure.’

      Joy bubbled through her. Real joy. Not the forced smiles and manufactured jests behind which she had concealed her aching heart and her grief from her friends. Now, her jaw clenched in her effort to contain her beaming smile, but she knew, even without the aid of a mirror, her delight must shine from her eyes. She could not fake nonchalance, despite Madame Dubois’s constant reminders that unseemly displays of emotion by governesses were not appreciated by their employers.

      ‘I will fetch Clara and introduce you.’

      Grace’s heart swelled. She could not wait to speak to Clara. To touch her.

      Lord Ravenwell stood, then hesitated and held out his hand. ‘Give me your cloak. I will ask Mrs Sharp to СКАЧАТЬ