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

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!

Brand stripped off his shirt and he splashed cold water on his face.

Why had he hired her sight unseen?

Just because his aunt had said Mrs Chivers’s school produced the best governesses, it didn’t mean he had to take the first one she’d offered. Except he couldn’t spend all his time keeping his son happy, and no one else had applied. He was lucky she had such an impeccable reference, but why someone of her calibre would want to work for him was certainly suspicious.

He dried his face and stared into the glass. The letter from Iris Chivers hadn’t said a word about her being more than passably handsome. He glared at his reflection. Oh, she looked modest enough, in her drab grey pelisse and brown skirts, but with her sapphire eyes and wheat-blonde hair she was far too young and attractive for a man sworn to celibacy.

Hell.

Wister, his ancient valet, barged in. He picked up the shirt and gazed at the stains with raised eyebrows.

‘Plum jam,’ Brand said.

Wister cocked his head and tugged at his thinning forelock with a pointed nod. ‘Ye’ve something …’

Brand put a hand to his head. It came away sticky. He touched it to his tongue. ‘Blancmange.’

No wonder Mrs Drake had looked at him with pursed lips. She must have thought him a veritable pig at the trough. He caught the wet towel tossed by Wister and rubbed at his hair.

‘Master Jonathon still not eating?’ Wister asked.

Brand let go a sigh. ‘No. He misses Maddy, damn her.’ The recollection of the nurse’s betrayal sent a surge of red-hot fury to his brain. Maddy was lucky he hadn’t strangled her on the spot.

He didn’t need another death added to his list of crimes. He pulled on a clean shirt and shrugged into his waistcoat.

‘Miles says she’s pretty,’ Wister said, brushing lint from Brand’s coat.

Brand looked up from the buttons.

‘The governess,’ Wister added.

‘Hmph.’ He’d expected a woman of experience, one with a gimlet eye and a large bosom who would make Jonathon listen. Not that Mrs Drake was lacking in bosom endowment. It wasn’t large, but it swelled above her small waist in a very … He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his body under control. ‘Miles needs to concentrate on his work.’

Wister grinned. ‘He said she seems like a nice lass.’

God, yes. A nice, calm, practical woman. Deliciously soft in all the right places. The kind of female who would be happy in the country teaching a child. The kind of woman he should have married. Would have, if he’d known.

‘He needs a mother,’ Wister added.

Bile rose in Brand’s throat. ‘One more word and you’ll find yourself following Maddy down the road.’

The craggy old Yorkshireman grinned. ‘Temper, temper, lad.’

Somehow Brand stopped himself from throwing his hairbrush at his valet’s head and used it on his hair. ‘She’s a governess. She will occupy Jonathon’s mind until his tutor arrives in two months’ time and then she will leave. In the meantime, perhaps she can teach him some blasted table manners.’ He snatched his coat and resisted Wister’s efforts to help him into it.

‘Cook wants to know if Mrs Drake is to take supper in her room?’ Wister said.

Lord, he should have remembered she’d had a long journey from York and would need feeding. ‘She can dine with me.’

The words were out of his mouth before he thought. To change his mind now would give Wister more grist for his mill, so he merely glowered.

‘Will there be anything else then, my lord?’

‘No, thank you.’

Not unless the valet could find a way to put things back the way they were, make life feel normal again.

Unfortunately Brand had destroyed any hope of that.

A stone-cold silence weighed heavily in the air as Sarah descended the winding stone steps. The thick walls absorbed all sound except for her footsteps and her breathing. Peter, standing outside her charge’s door, had directed her to the Earl’s study on the first floor by way of the tower at the other end of the hallway. There she found a wider set of steps, true, but just as circular.

A gothic arch led off the landing; this must be it. She stepped into a gallery-like corridor. Doorways ran along its length on one side and windows on the other. Second door on the left, Peter had said.

Feeling breathless, as if she’d climbed up those twisting stairs instead of descending, she knocked.

‘Come.’

A quick breath, a smoothing of her hair and she breezed in, the perfectly confident governess. Not too confident, though. Not arrogant or proud; competent.

A fire blazed cheerfully at one end of the comfortable and very male room. The upholstery on the heavy chairs each side of the hearth showed signs of wear. The linenfold oak wainscoting shone with the quiet pride of antiquity.

Ralston sat at a polished mahogany desk. He’d exchanged his mired clothes for a pristine shirt, a cravat and a navy coat over an ivory waistcoat. With his chiselled jaw freshly shaved and his hair neat he looked every inch a proud nobleman. And darkly handsome, if somewhat jaded by life.

Indeed, his air of world-weariness made him far too attractive for Sarah’s peace of mind. She tried not to see the bleakness in his gaze, or the lines of worry bracketing his mouth, which tempted her to offer help.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated the chair in front of the desk, straight-backed, wooden and businesslike.

She sat. Or rather she perched on its edge and folded her hands in her lap, hoping she gave no sign of her fast-beating heart. To show weakness with this man might well be her undoing.

Leaning back, he regarded her intently, making a long, slow perusal with dark unreadable eyes. Prickles ran across her shoulders. She had the feeling he could see right through her skin to the blood pulsing in her veins. His gaze said he knew her secrets, her desires.

He couldn’t. No one could.

‘You have instructions for me, my lord?’

His gaze dropped to the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Ah, yes. Your reference from Mrs Chivers is glowing. Your last position was with a family by the name of Blackstone in Gloucestershire, I understand?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘The ages of the children?’

‘Eight, six and five, my lord.’

He looked at the letter and nodded, clearly matching her answers with the information provided by Iris. For a man, he was being far more careful than she’d expected. After all, Iris had said he was desperate.

Worry that he might turn her away shivered down her spine, but somehow she managed to keep her expression politely attentive.

‘You attended Mrs Chivers’s Academy for Young Ladies for several years?’ he continued.

‘Yes. I also helped as an assistant teacher during those years.’ To help pay the fees that her relatives had found such a burden. She forced calmness into her voice. ‘I assume you want Lord Jonathon to learn all the usual subjects? Arithmetic, reading, writing?’

He huffed out a breath. ‘Manners, also. His nurse indulged him too much.’

‘A nurse can’t replace the guidance of a mother.’

A bleak expression flashed in his eyes, quickly hidden by cool remoteness. ‘Nor can a governess.’

Her cheeks stung. How awkward—and what ridiculous comments—hers and his. ‘No, my lord.’

He glanced down at the letter. ‘I am not sure you have enough experience.’

Her stomach gave a horrid twist. Dismissed after one hour. How mortifying—and devastating. She clenched her hands in her lap so hard she felt the bite of nails in her palms. A trickle of cold sweat ran down between her shoulderblades. ‘I am as well trained in the social niceties a young gentleman must learn as I am in academic subjects.’

His dark gaze rested on her face. A slight tightening of his mouth hinted at a lack of confidence in her assurances.

Because she was young, or because her thoughtless words belied her mental capacity? If he would just come out and say what was on his mind she might have a chance to argue her case.

She returned his gaze silently.

He sighed. ‘I suppose I don’t have much choice in the matter, since yours was the only application I received.’

A huge sigh of relief gathered in her chest. She kept it contained, along with her smile. He didn’t need to know how much she needed this position.

‘You have one week to prove you are up to snuff.’ His dark glance held a challenge.

Only a week. She winced inwardly, but didn’t dare ask for longer in case he changed his mind altogether. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said as meekly as she could manage. She rose to her feet.

‘I have additional instructions, Mrs Drake.’

She sat down again.

‘Lord Jonathon is to remain within doors at all times.’

She felt her jaw drop. ‘Young children need fresh air and exercise. Your son should learn about the natural world around him. Any governess worth her salt would say the same.’

His jaw flexed. The hand at rest on the table clenched and the sinews in his neck corded. At any moment he would strike the desk the way he had struck his son’s bed. Apparently the man really did have a dangerous temper.

He slowly uncurled his fingers—strong, long fingers. He stared down at his hands for a very long moment, his broad chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Finally, he looked up. ‘Very well, but my son must be accompanied by a footman outside the house. He is not to go beyond Merrivale’s boundary or converse with strangers. Do I make myself clear?’

What made him so protective of his son? His stern command prevented her from asking. ‘Perfectly clear.’

He rose to his feet, looming above her. The coldness of his face chilled her like a north wind in winter. She resisted the urge to shrink into her chair.

‘There is one final thing I require,’ he said softly, with a bitter twist to his lips. ‘You have no doubt heard rumours about my wife’s death.’ The words reverberated around the room like thunderclaps.

Her gasp of shock refused to be suppressed. She stared up at him, her heart pounding against her ribs.

He nodded grimly. ‘I can see you have. They are not to be repeated in my son’s hearing. Do I have your word?’ An unspoken threat of dismissal hung in the air.

‘You do,’ she whispered from a throat too tight to swallow, though she very much felt the need.

‘Then you have a position, Mrs Drake.’

‘May I address something with you, my lord?’ For pity’s sake, did she really want to do this now? But she already had his attention.

His dark cold eyes observed her from beneath lowered brows as he sat down. ‘Well?’

No help for it but to speak her mind. She kept her gaze deliberately steady. ‘I do not believe in rewarding children for bad behaviour … bribing them.’

He stiffened, his glower deeper and fiercer. ‘I’ll not tolerate corporal punishment, Mrs Drake.’ His voice was a deep growl.

She flushed hot. ‘Oh, no, certainly not. I believe it is better to explain things to children than buy their obedience or indeed use force to gain compliance. They learn bad habits as quickly as they learn good ones.’

A dark eyebrow shot up and his fierce expression turned quizzical. ‘I will watch your methods with interest, then.’ Amber lights flickered in his eyes.

Was he laughing at her? Did he think she could not manage a small boy? Though she’d regretfully given up thoughts of a family of her own, she loved the idea of helping other people’s children through the pitfalls of growing up. She’d made enough stumbles of her own to give her an understanding of the pangs of youth.

Fine, let him laugh. She’d make him eat his opinion, and she’d do it in a week. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She rose.

‘You will dine with me,’ he said.

The command jolted every nerve in her body. Attraction or fear? If she had any sense, it was fear. Men of the Earl of Ralston’s ilk did not dine with governesses—not unless they had ignoble intentions.

Had he somehow guessed the unruly flutters excited in her body? If he had, she’d need to be on her guard. Against him. And more importantly against her own inclinations.

‘A tray in my room will suffice.’

He curled his lip. ‘Don’t the servants have enough to do without running trays upstairs as well as attending me in the dining room?’

‘Oh.’ She sounded quite as stupid as she felt, and the heat rushing to her cheeks didn’t help. Here she was thinking he had wicked designs, and he was thinking about his staff. Surely the dip in her stomach was not disappointment? ‘Thank you, then, my lord.’

He rose and held out his arm.

Wordless for once, she rested her fingers on his sleeve. Lightly. The knowledge of muscle and bone beneath the fine cloth of his coat scorched the tips of her fingers. Fires sparked in her blood. Breathing seemed out of the question with her heart hammering so hard against her ribs. Inside, far below her skin, her body shook, fear battling with joy.

She tried not to feel his heat or notice the faint scent of brandy and lemon-oil soap teasing her senses. Five years ago, walking into dinner with a man like Ralston would have been the pinnacle of her hopes. A foolish young girl’s dream, long dead. Until this man crossed her path with his fallen-angel looks and aura of sorrow.

How would she ever keep her distance?

CHAPTER TWO

HER stiff demeanour reproved him. Perhaps greeting her half-dressed had been a bad idea, but he’d been in the middle of convincing Jonathon to eat.

The real puzzle was why, when she’d walked into his study, had he experienced a rampant surge of desire?

Hair the colour of wheat in late summer and eyes of celestial blue were common enough. Nor was she exceptionally pretty. Her sharp little nose gave her face an inquisitive bent. A you-can’t-hide-anything-from-me face.

Yet all the time she talked he couldn’t stop looking at her full lower lip. A mouth that spouted practical governess things had no right to make a man think of kisses. The tilt of her head when she pronounced her opinion—a very decided opinion for a woman who could not yet have reached her thirtieth birthday—made her oddly fascinating.

But it was her eyes that drew his gaze over and over again. Intelligent, far-seeing eyes. When untroubled, they deepened to the blue of a calm sea. Disturb the surface and they glittered like sapphires in sunlight.

She intrigued him. Such interest hadn’t been fired by any woman for years. It was not a good thing. He should give her a month’s wages and let her go. Women had caused nothing but trouble in his life … misery.

He gave her a sidelong glance as they walked side by side to the dining room. She looked impassive, but her inner disquiet washed up against him like gentle surf on a shallow beach: eddies of unquiet water beneath a calm steady rhythm.

She hid her nervousness, but not well enough to fool him.

He made her afraid. And why would he care? As long as she managed Jonathon satisfactorily he had no need to see her at all. Indeed, having sworn off all female company since Maria’s death, why did he now find himself leading this one to his dinner table?

Because there was more to her than met the eye. He needed to uncover her secrets before entrusting her with his son.

They entered the dining room, where they found Trenton waiting. As instructed, the butler had set two places opposite each other at one end of the long formal table. The butler had suggested the breakfast room, a smaller, less intimidating space. Coward that he was, Brand had discarded it as too intimate, too cosy. He did not want physical closeness with this woman. He merely wanted his curiosity satisfied.

His body responded instantly to the thought of another kind of satisfaction this woman.

He really should have had a tray sent to her room.

He helped her into her seat. She accomplished the manoeuvre with grace and an ingrained pride one didn’t expect in a governess. He’d always thought them meek little things, all fluttering handkerchiefs and apologies.

When Brand was seated, Trenton poured them each a glass of wine, set the first course on the table and withdrew.

Brand raised his glass. ‘To my son’s success.’

She acknowledged the toast with an inclination of her head. ‘To Jonathon.’ She sipped the wine. The ruby liquid stained her delectable lips, making him want to lick them clean.

Years of deprivation were taking their toll, he supposed, though he had never been bothered much before. He shifted in his seat, seeking a more comfortable position.

Her lashes lifted, and he found those blue eyes studying him warily.

‘What did you want to ask me, Mrs Drake?’

Shadows clouded her gaze while she apparently considered the risk. His anticipation was heightened as she inhaled a breath, her high breasts lifting deliciously beneath the drab brown gown. His body tightened.

‘I couldn’t help but notice your son is so very fair.’

‘While I am as dark as a gipsy.’ A harsh laugh broke free at her clumsy attempt to pry. ‘He has his mother’s looks. A constant reminder, you might say.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m not.’

Shock flittered across her face, as he’d intended. She wouldn’t go there again.

He placed slices of roast beef on her plate, then added some buttered parsnips and aspic.

He passed her the gravy boat. ‘You didn’t stay with the Blackstones very long, I notice?’

A slight hesitation stilled her hand, then she poured gravy on her meat. ‘We had a difference of opinion.’ She cut the meat into small pieces. ‘About my responsibilities.’

He cocked his head on one side. ‘Is it not for the employer to choose?’

A delicate colour washed her cheekbones. She shifted slightly. ‘Not if the employer is wrong.’

‘You have strong opinions on this matter?’

‘I do.’

‘It does you credit.’ Her quick glance suggested she didn’t believe him, nor did she offer further explanation. No matter. Eventually she would be an open book.

She popped a small piece of meat in her mouth. A look of enjoyment crossed her face. No meat at Mrs Blackstone’s table? The thought of her being provided with inadequate sustenance brought forth unexpected anger. He kept his expression mild while she chewed and swallowed. He found himself watching the movement of her elegant throat, noticing the pulse-beat in its hollow—a strong beat he could almost hear.

‘I hope will find something of interest at Merrivale to occupy your free hours, Mrs Drake. The nearest town is four miles away.’

‘I have heard much about the beauty of the moors. I shall enjoy exploring them.’

‘If you value your safety, you will stay close to the house.’

‘I will consider your advice.’

‘I do not say it merely as advice.’

She bridled. ‘A command?’

‘A warning.’

Blast her, she looked unconvinced. Women like her—independent, free-thinking women—required explanations. ‘Our weather is unpredictable. When storms arise on the moors there is very little shelter. You will heed me in this. I have no wish to comb the countryside for a woman without the sense of even a peahen.’

She glared at him.

‘Nor,’ he continued, ‘will I endanger the men of my estate in undertaking a search.’

Eyes wide, she absorbed this statement. ‘As you wish.’

Was this the sort of difference of opinion she’d had with her previous employer? If so, the Blackstones had missed the fact that Mrs Drake hated to inconvenience others. A necessary attribute in a governess, he assumed.

‘I presume there is a village nearby?’ she asked.

‘Hutton-Le-Hole. It boasts an inn and a haberdasher.’

‘And a hostelry with a carriage for hire? In case I should need to visit York?’

It was wrong to expect a young woman to live in complete isolation. Maria had hated it. But the thought of Mrs Drake coming and going at will clenched his gut.

‘If needed, you may request use of my carriage.’ A way to keep her under his eye.

Trenton removed the covers, then returned with dessert.

‘I hope you don’t mind if we have what I call a country dinner, Mrs Drake?’ Brand asked. ‘I don’t find the need for several courses.’

‘I have eaten my fill,’ she said, her plate clean, her expression contented. Her look was of the sated kind, and very sensual.

He’d like to see her expression after lovemaking if she looked this tempting after a good meal. His body hardened as his mind’s eye filled with luscious images of pale limbs and long blonde hair.

He gritted his teeth. What he had intended as pleasant conversation with an intelligent woman, and perhaps the seduction of information, was turning into a test of his control. And she had told him very little. He’d allowed her to sidestep his questions for the enjoyment of watching her eat.

‘You will try dessert or risk disappointing Cook,’ he said.

‘I shouldn’t,’ she said.

He helped her to some blancmange. ‘Why on earth not?’ He poured himself another glass of wine.

‘Will you not join me?’ She delicately swallowed a spoonful of the sweet pudding.

‘I helped Jonathon eat his earlier,’ he admitted, dragging his gaze from her throat to her watchful face. ‘He likes it with plum jam, and got more on me than he did in his mouth.’

An odd expression crossed her face. Surprise? More disapproval?

‘You think it wrong for a father to feed his child?’

‘I admire your devotion.’

Her demeanour, her uncomfortable expression, said otherwise. ‘He hasn’t been eating well since his nurse left.’ Hell. Why explain? He answered to no one.

She put her spoon down in her empty bowl. ‘Might it have been wise to keep her until he was comfortable with a replacement?’

The dry fear rising to choke him had his fingers clenching around his glass. ‘Not at all.’ The words rasped in his throat.

‘I see.’

She saw only what rumour had painted on his canvass. Let her believe what she liked. He took a deep draught of his wine and set down his glass. ‘If you are finished, we will adjourn to the drawing room.’

A crease formed between her brows. An urge to soothe it away had him reeling.

‘I thank you for dinner,’ she said, ‘but I fear I am tired from the journey. And besides …’

What new blade would her tongue wield? Fascinated, he waited.

Her gaze slid to a point over his shoulder, then came back to rest on his face. ‘In future I will either take my meals in the schoolroom, with Lord Jonathon, or in my chamber.’

A slow burn rose up his neck. A set-down, by God. ‘Then I will bid you goodnight.’

She rose and headed for the door. He leaned his head against the chair-back and watched the sway of her skirts. Sensual, enticing—and out of bounds.

He swallowed a groan of frustration.

At the door, she turned. ‘I notice a footman stands in the corridor outside Jonathon’s room. Does he stay there all night?’

The hair on the back of his neck rose. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

He straightened. Gazed at her. She looked innocent enough. ‘A simple precaution, Mrs Drake. Goodnight.’

She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Goodnight, my lord.’

She went out and closed the door.

Brand heaved a sigh. The time had passed quickly in her company. Too quickly. The rest of the night loomed long and empty.

He got up and headed for his study. Hopefully his accounts would keep his mind off the lovely but untouchable Mrs Drake.

Two rooms formed Sarah’s new domain as governess. The schoolroom, containing desks and shelves of books, and, adjacent to it, a small parlour where meals were served to student and teacher in the day. That room was also assigned as her private sitting room at lessons’ end. A typical arrangement in most noble households.

When Sarah entered the parlour at seven the next morning, she discovered not only her charge, sitting on a pile of books at the breakfast table, but also his father with a blob of porridge on his cheek and a harried look on his face.

An elderly gentleman hovered beside the sideboard.

‘Good morning,’ Sarah said. ‘Am I late?’

Lord Ralston glanced up like a drowning man hoping for rescue. ‘Not at all. Jonathon is an early riser.’ He tousled the boy’s hair. ‘Isn’t he, Wister?’

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