Ann Lethbridge - The Governess and the Earl

ANN LETHBRIDGEhas 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.

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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

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.’