Michelle Styles - Compromising Miss Milton

‘The doctor informs me that I will need a nurse for a few months while I recuperate. I can think of no one better,’ Lord Ravensworth said, and his voice became like heavy silk sliding over her skin.

‘You know of my faults, and your conversation is more amusing than most. Should you wish the position, it is yours. I will pay half as much again as your present employer.’

‘Lord Ravensworth!’ Daisy stared at him in astonishment. If she went to work for him, she might as well forget about ever being a governess in England again. She could well imagine how the interviews would go if he gave her a reference. The slight tutting, and then the news that the post had been filled. ‘You are unmarried!’

‘Double what Mrs Blandish is paying you. You drive a hard bargain.’

His eyes were molten gold with flecks of amber—eyes that Daisy knew she’d dream about for months to come—eyes which silently urged her to say yes.

‘It should be more than sufficient to make you swallow your principles about being employed by an unmarried man.’

‘Without my principles I am nothing. I am a governess, not a nurse. Therefore I must refuse, Lord Ravensworth, and urge you to seek a suitable person for your needs.’

This book came about because of the gleam in my senior editor’s eye when I mentioned governesses, and the image of a half-naked man lying in Irthing River which haunted my brain for several nights running. And, as I had recently finished reading Alex Von Tunzelmann’s Indian Summer, as well as Kipling Sahib by Charles Allen, I knew the story had to have an Indian connection. India remains high on places I want to visit. And some day I will.

I found The Victorian Governess by Kathryn Hughes and Other People’s Daughters—The Lives and Times of the Governess by Ruth Brandon really useful for background information about governesses—plus their front covers are endlessly inspiring.

Because Daisy’s friend Louisa Sibson came up and tapped on my shoulder, demanding her story be told, and thankfully my editor agreed, her story will be appearing soon.

As ever, I love getting reader feedback—either via post to Mills & Boon, on my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com

All the best.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’ S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’ S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight)

VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE

AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE

A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY

IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE

To Pauline Tomlinson;

because everyone needs a Pauline in their life!

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

July 1837—Gilsland, Cumberland

The carriage’s abrupt stop jolted Adam Ravensworth, the third Viscount Ravensworth, from a fitful sleep, and sent his cane clattering to the floor of the carriage. Adam gripped the horsehair seat with his long fingers, narrowly preventing his body from tumbling after it.

‘In the name of all that is holy, what sort of driving is that? You are paid to avoid potholes, not drive through them!’ Adam banged on the roof.

Silence filled the unmoving carriage, only to be broken by the tramp of heavy feet and muffled voices. Adam froze, listening. Not poor driving but something far more sinister.

With a practised hand, he reached towards where his pistol was stored and encountered—air. A loud oath dropped from his lips.

Adam forced the remains of sleep from his mind. The pistol was there. It had to be. He had carefully placed it alongside the necklace before they had left the coaching inn this morning, an integral part of his ritual. His hand groped for the ruby necklace. His shoulders relaxed slightly. That at least was there.

Adam reached out again, fumbling in the dark with the latch of a hidden compartment, but despite his frantic groping the space and indeed the carriage remained empty of all weapons. Gone. Vanished.

What else had they done? And when? The fog of sleep clawed at his mind, making it difficult to think. Adam shook his head, noting the vile taste in his mouth. Drugged. He swore at his own stupidity. Meticulous planning had gone into this unscheduled stop, but this was where it would end. It would not reach the desired conclusion. He would see to it. Personally.

‘Down from the carriage!’

‘Here, what is this all about?’ His new driver Hawkins’s protest was a heartbeat too slow, too certain.

‘We mean business. Stand aside.’

A single shot rang out.

Adam grabbed the ruby necklace and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. Everything else was replaceable, but not the necklace—his talisman, a reminder of who he was and what he had done. If he lost the necklace, he might as well be dead.

‘Step out, my lord,’ Hawkins said.

Adam’s neck muscles relaxed slightly. Hawkins lived. But how loyal was he? His words held the barest veneer of civility.

Rapidly Adam searched on the floor for the pistol, hoping that in some mad moment of sleep, he had dislodged the weapon. Nothing. His hand closed about his cane, a weapon of sorts, something to even the odds.

‘Get out, I say!’ The door rattled again and Hawkins’s voice became harsher. ‘Get out or I will drag your lordship’s carcass from the coach.’

‘When I am ready.’

Adam tugged at the sleeves of his frock coat and straightened his stock. He tucked his cane under his arm and knew he looked the perfect gentleman, perhaps a bit foppish and overly concerned with clothes, but not someone who waited for an opportunity to strike.