Janice Preston - The Governess's Secret Baby

They retraced their steps to the head of the staircase. ‘His lordship’s rooms are along there, plus two guest bedchambers.’ Mrs Sharp pointed to the far side of the landing, her tone discouraging. ‘You will have no need to turn in that direction. Alice, Sharp, and I have our quarters in the attic rooms. I will show you the rooms on the ground floor you have not yet seen and then I must get back to my kitchen. The dinner needs my attention and Miss Clara will want supper before she goes to bed.’

Grace followed Mrs Sharp to the hall below, helping Clara to descend the stairs. She bit her lip as she saw the trail of mud from the front door to where she had left her half-boots by the only chair in the hall and was thankful the housekeeper did not mention the mess. The longcase clock in the hall struck half past four as Mrs Sharp hurried Grace around the rest of the ground floor: the drawing room—as she called it—where Ravenwell had interviewed her, a large dining room crammed with furniture shrouded in more holland covers, a small, empty sitting room and a morning parlour furnished with a dining table and six chairs where, she was told, Lord Ravenwell ate his meals.

Grace wondered, but did not like to ask, where she would dine. With Clara in the nursery suite? In the kitchen with the other servants? Clara was flagging and Grace picked her up. The house was, as her first impression had suggested, sparse and cold but clean. She itched to inject some light and warmth into the place, but realised she must tread very carefully where the prickly housekeeper was concerned.

They reached the final door off the hall, to the right of the front door. Clara had grown sleepy and heavy in Grace’s arms.

‘This,’ Mrs Sharp said, as she opened the door and ushered Grace into the room, ‘is the book room.’

Grace’s gaze swept the room, lined with glass-fronted bookcases, and arrested at the sight of Lord Ravenwell, glowering at her from behind a desk set at the far end, between the fireplace and a window.

From behind her, Mrs Sharp continued, ‘It is where—oh!’ She grabbed Grace’s arm and pulled her back. ‘Beg pardon, milord. We’ll leave you in peace.’

‘Wait!’

Grace jumped at Ravenwell’s barked command and Clara roused with a whimpered protest. Grace hugged her closer, rubbing her back to soothe her, and she glared at the Marquess.

‘Clara is tired and hungry, my lord,’ she said. ‘Allow me to—’

‘Mrs Sharp. Take Clara and feed her. I need to speak to Miss Bertram.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Grace gave her child up with reluctance, her arms already missing the warmth of that solid little body. She eyed Ravenwell anxiously as the door closed behind Mrs Sharp and Clara. His head was bowed, his attention on a sheet of paper before him.

Has he found me out? Will he send me away?

Her knees trembled with the realisation of just how much she wanted...needed...to stay.

‘Sit!’

Grace gasped. She might be only a governess, but surely there was no need to speak to her quite so brusquely. He had not even the courtesy to look at her when he snapped his order, but was directing his attention down and away, to his right. Was he still attempting to hide his disfigurement? Grace stalked over to the desk and perched on the chair opposite his.

He lifted a brow. She tilted her chin, fighting not to relinquish eye contact, determined not to reveal her apprehension. After what seemed like an hour, one corner of his mouth quirked up.

‘Did you think I meant you?’

‘I...I beg your pardon?’

‘I was talking to the dog.’ He jerked his head to his right.

Grace followed the movement, half-standing to see over the side of his desk. There, sitting by his side, was the rough-coated dog that had jumped up at her when she first arrived at Shiverstone Hall.

‘Oh.’ She swallowed, feeling decidedly foolish and even more nervous; the dog was very big and she had little experience of animals.

‘Now, to business.’ Any vestige of humour melted from Ravenwell’s expression as if it had never been and Grace recalled, with a thump of her heart, that she might have a great deal more to worry about than a dog. ‘I cannot understand how your letter applying for the post can have gone astray but, now you are here, we must make the most of it. You said this is your first post since finishing school, is that correct?’

Grace swallowed her instinctive urge to blurt out that she had written no letter of application. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Do you carry a reference or—?’

‘I have a letter of recommendation from my teacher, Miss Fanworth,’ Grace said, eagerly. Mayhap she was worrying about nothing. He did not sound as though he planned to send her away. ‘It is in my bag upstairs.’

‘Go and get it now, please. I shall also require the name of the principal of the school and the address.’

‘The...the principal?’ Grace’s heart sank. ‘Wh-why do you want that when I already have a letter from Miss Fanworth?’

Out of the four friends, she had been Madame Dubois’s least favourite pupil, always the centre of any devilment. You are the bane of my life, the Frenchwoman had once told Grace after a particularly naughty prank. Of course, that was before Grace had Clara—thank goodness Madame Dubois had never found out about that escapade—and Grace’s behaviour had improved considerably since then. Perhaps Madame would not write too damning a report about Grace’s conduct at school.

The Marquess continued to regard her steadily. ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he said, ‘and it is not for you to question my decision.’

‘No, my lord.’

Grace rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the dog as she did so. His feathery tail swished from side to side in response and she quickly averted her eyes.

‘Are you scared of him? Brack, come here, sir.’

Ravenwell walked around the desk to stand next to Grace and she quelled her impulse to shrink away. She had forgotten quite how tall and intimidating he was, with his wide shoulders and broad chest. He carried with him the smells she had previously noted: leather, the outdoors, and soap. Now, though, he was so close, she caught the underlying scent of warm male and she felt some long-neglected hunger within her stretch and stir. His long hair had swung forward to partially obscure the ravaged skin of his right cheek and jaw, but he did not appear to be deliberately concealing his scars now and Grace darted a glance, taking in the rough surface, before turning her wary attention once again to Brack. The dog had moved closer to her than she anticipated and now she could not prevent her involuntary retreat.

‘It is quite all right. You must not be scared of him.’

There was a hint of impatience in Ravenwell’s tone. Grace peeped up at him again, meeting his gaze. He might be intimidating in size, and brusque, but she fancied there was again a hint of humour in his dark brown eyes.

‘Try to relax. Hold out your hand. Here.’

He engulfed her hand in his, eliciting a strange little jolt deep in her core. Her pulse quickened. Ravenwell called to Brack, who came up eagerly, sniffed and then pushed the top of his head under their joined hands, his black-and-tan coat wiry under Grace’s fingers. The dog had a disreputable look about him, one ear flopping almost over his eye whilst the other was a ragged stump. Grace swallowed. Ravenwell wouldn’t keep a dangerous animal indoors. Would he?

‘All he wants is some attention,’ Ravenwell said, his warm voice rumbling through her.

Grace’s chest grew tight, her lungs labouring to draw air.

‘Where are the other dogs?’

‘Brack’s the only one who is allowed inside.’ Ravenwell released Grace’s hand and moved away, and Grace found she could breathe easily again. ‘I reared him from a pup after his mother died.’