Marguerite Kaye: Gift-Wrapped Governesses: Christmas at Blackhaven Castle / Governess to Christmas Bride / Duchess by Christmas

ALL HE WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS …

Three magical dreams come true from favourite authors Sophia James, Annie Burrows and Marguerite Kaye!

Praise for the authors ofGIFT-WRAPPED GOVERNESSES

SOPHIA JAMES

‘James weaves her spell, captivating readers with wit and

wisdom, and cleverly combining humour and poignancy with

a master’s touch in this feel-good love story.’

—RT Book Reviews on High Seas to High Society

‘An excellent tale of love, this book is more than a romance;

it pulls at the heartstrings and makes you wish the story

wouldn’t end.’

—RT Book Reviews on Ashblane’s Lady

ANNIE BURROWS

‘A compelling read from beginning to end. This is a

beautiful, poignant, sensual story of two lonely

hearts finding each other at last.’

—RT Book Reviews on A Countess by Christmas

‘Burrows cleverly creates winning situations and attractive

characters in this amusing romance.’

—RT Book Reviews on The Earl’s Untouched Bride

MARGUERITE KAYE

‘Kaye delights readers with a heated seduction and fiery

games that burn up the pages when her heroine takes

‘The Captain’s Wicked Wager’.’

—RT Book Reviews on The Captain’s Wicked Wager

‘[A]n innocent Englishwoman swept away by a marvellous

hero into a life and a passion she has never known’

—RT Book Reviews on Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem

Sophia James

Annie Burrows

Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Sophia James

SOPHIA JAMESlives in Chelsea Bay on Auckland, New Zealand’s North Shore with her husband, who is an artist, and three children. She spends her mornings teaching adults English at the local migrant school and writes in the afternoons. Sophia has a degree in English and history from Auckland University and believes her love of writing was formed reading Georgette Heyer with her twin sister at her grandmother’s house.

‘Everywhere and at all times, Christmas has been the season of miracle and surprises …’

Blackhaven Castle, Essex, England

19 December, 1812

Lady Seraphina Moreton came to Blackhaven Castle on the edge of the worst storm to hit Essex in living memory. Hailstones as large as golf balls had pelted the carriage roof and the snow at each side of the winding country lane was deep.

‘Not an omen, not an omen,’ she whispered to herself, repeating it over and over again as the coach jolted violently and stopped. Before her the castle loomed, walls tall and dark. A single light was held by a figure standing on the large front portico.

Blackhaven. It suited its name, forbidding and isolated. Seraphina drew in breath. She must not be seen to be criticising. She must place a smile on her face and be unremittingly merry. Was that not what Mrs Jennings at the agency had impressed upon her? ‘No sour faces in this profession, miss. The client is always right and beggars cannot be choosers.’

Beggars like her! The panic that lay beneath her careful veneer was only just buried. She wanted to run from this place across the frigid ground and away from a world that was increasingly indecipherable to her.

Instead, she waited until the door was opened, lifted the hem of her velvet cloak and stepped out into the night, the servant with the lamp indicating the care needed on a patch of frozen ice as she followed him into the house.

Trey Linton Stanford, the sixth Duke of Blackhaven, stood against the windows in his library, turning as the woman entered, accompanied by his man Elliot. He had seen her alight from the coach, her hair the colour of the burnished angel wings that graced the stained-glass panels in the family chapel and bright in the falling dusk. He hoped like hell that she was not beautiful, was not young and was not one of those governesses who placed a false smile upon their lips and never let go of it.

When she came closer, however, and pale blue eyes met his own, he knew himself to be sorely disappointed on all three accounts. He swore soundly beneath his breath.

‘Welcome to Essex.’ He could hear the lack of charity in his words, but did nothing to alter the tone. Six governesses in three years and this one looked to be the most fainthearted of the lot. His sons would eat her up in a day. ‘I am Blackhaven.’

‘I thank you for the kindness of the offer of a position here, my lord. My name is Miss Sarah Moorland, and I hail from London.’ She curtsied with grace, her voice holding the cadence of a genteel upbringing as she went on. ‘I shall, of course, do my very upmost to be the sort of teacher you desire for your children, sir, as this post has arrived at a most opportune time for me.’

Trey almost smiled at that. Almost. He could see desperation in her eyes. ‘You have experience, then, in the role of a governess?’

The flush in her cheeks told him she had not, though to give her her due she did try to dredge up something. ‘I have often minded the children of friends, my lord, and found the experience most rewarding.’

‘Indeed.’

Silence followed the word, though a frown deepened on the delicate lines of her forehead as he came into the circle of bright light thrown from the lamp on his desk. Damn, he kept forgetting about his appearance in the company of strangers until he saw the reaction on their faces.

‘I was hurt in Corunna under Moore, and I apologise for any fear such a visage might engender.’ The explanation was the one he gave to all who looked at him in the way she did, word for word rolling off his tongue like a remembered poem.

‘Oh, it is not your countenance I frown over, my lord. My brother was killed in Rueda in the same campaign you mention and such an injury reminded me of him. You were lucky to at least be able to come home.’

A surprise. He seldom enjoyed them any more. To be called lucky was a new experience, too. For the first time in a long while he laughed. The sound was rusty and broken.

‘You say this post arrived at an opportune time. Why?’

‘My father has recently passed away and my only remaining brother found he had not the space to house me.’

‘Marriage was not an option, then?’

Her face reddened from top to bottom, fear in the quiet blueness of her eyes. Deciding now was not the time to pursue such a topic, Trey switched subjects altogether.

‘My boys are nine, seven and five. They need tight control and good discipline. They wake at six and go to bed at eight. If you can teach them something of literature, mathematics and science, I should be well satisfied.’