The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  Halting, the team snorted and stamped as the post boys stared straight ahead. The tall, dark-haired man walked down the steps, dressed in casual breeches and blue waistcoat, a silk cravat encircling his neck. He wore no coat nor hat.

  He approached her, his face devoid of emotion. No smile of greeting, nor a scowl of annoyance, he seemed cold and aloof. Exactly what she imagined a Duke to express on his face.

  Only then, through her fear, did she notice he was strikingly handsome. And far younger than she had expected. Brilliant green eyes flashed in his dark face, his strong jaw held long, clean lines. His full lips twitched as though he wanted to smile and then stifled the impulse. Thick, black hair fell untidily to his collar, yet the hand he extended to her to assist her down felt warm in hers.

  Her body suddenly felt hot, as though she had walked too close to a fire.

  Those eyes.

  She could not look away, despite the fact she stared rudely at a Duke.

  “Miss Lucretia Brent?”

  His voice, deep with a fascinating timbre, entranced her, and broke the spell. Some of her fears melted away. The instant her feet touched the gravel of the drive, she spread her skirts and sank into a low curtsey.

  “Your Grace.”

  “Welcome to Breckenridge,” he said, putting his hand in hers to raise her up. “Come. I wish you to meet my sister.”

  His hand in hers made her heart beat faster.Walking beside him, she felt his masculine power, and discovered herself slightly breathless. Forcing herself to pay attention, she remembered his words.

  His sister?

  All this time, Lucretia assumed she would be caring for his offspring. Walking with him, his hand still holding hers, she climbed the steps to the veranda. The girl, about ten years old, regarded her coldly through hazel-green eyes. Quite pretty, with silken blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, she wore a white gown trimmed in lace, a small necklace of pearls gracing her throat. She offered Lucretia a small, stony curtsey as the Duke formally introduced them.

  “Miss Brent, this is my sister, Lady Henrietta Claridge. Lady Henrietta, please say hello to your new governess, Miss Lucretia Brent.”

  However, Lady Henrietta remained silent, her face frozen as though afraid to release any emotion.

  “My Lady.”Lucretia offered the child a proper curtsey, wondering why the little girl appeared so antagonistic. Hoping that speaking to her directly would break some of the tension, she said, “I am happy to meet you at last, Lady Henrietta. I am looking forward to being your governess.”

  Instantly, the small pale face scrunched up into the visage of an evil imp. “I hate you,” she screeched. “You will never be my governess. Never.”

  Chapter 4

  Embarrassed by Henrietta’s behavior, Sampson watched as she stormed into the house, weeping and slamming the doors behind her. He glanced at the new governess, observing the quick biting of her lip, and rapid there and gone flash of fear, before the same mild neutrality of before shut down her expression.

  “I must apologize, Miss Brent,” he said, gesturing toward the door in invitation. “My sister recently lost her mother, the Duchess of Breckenridge. She keenly feels that loss, and fears you will take her mother’s place.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.”

  “Do you?” He stopped short of the doors, gazing down at her. “Lady Henrietta is, by nature, a normally a happy and well-mannered child. But watching her mother, our mother, fall into hopelessness and despair has turned her inward, her usually sunny disposition closed off. I hope you can help her overcome that.”

  “I will do my best, Your Grace.”

  “I expect nothing less.”

  Permitting her to precede him into the house, Sampson watched her expression as the girl took in her new home. Awe and wonder spread over the mask of neutrality.

  He glanced at one of the serving women, then back to her. “Edwina will show you to your quarters,” he said, “then, after you have refreshed yourself, I would have you join me in my study. While I realize you have had a long journey and are no doubt weary, I do wish to converse with you for a time.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  She swept low in a curtsey, her skirts spread, her face lowered. Turning, he left her to walk to his study. The post boys took her boxes of possessions down from the chaise and put them into the care of a servant, who then took them upstairs to the governess’ new room. Recalling her expression, a mixture of delight, amazement, and awe when she entered his home, Sampson wondered at her history. He knew she was an orphan, but little else.

  Smiling inwardly, he wondered what Oliver and George would make of her. They had yet to meet her, as they had returned to their estates for a few days, but planned to join him when he rode to meet the Earl of Eckert to complete a sale of two prize stallions and eight mares, the following day. Sampson had not truly wanted to part with them, but the earl convinced him otherwise and would pay handsomely for them.

  Walking down the corridor toward Henrietta’s apartments, he considered speaking to her about her behavior. Instead, he continued on past and walked down the stairs to his study. His butler, Thomas, stood ready to serve him, but Sampson dismissed him after Thomas poured his brandy. Bowing low, the butler shut the doors behind him as he departed on silent feet.

  Lord have mercy, that woman is stunningly beautiful. Hair of flame. Never before have I seen its like.

  Sitting in his comfortable armchair, sipping the brandy, Sampson had no idea his sister’s new governess would be so strikingly beautiful. He hadn’t expected someone like her. Slender, yet full-breasted, her smile was warm with pleasant white teeth; a wealth of reddish-gold hair and, of course, those fascinating and unique eyes. Her courtesies and speech could have come from the Prince Regent himself. Knowing Oliver and George as he did, he knew they would gape at Miss Brent’s beauty like schoolboys. The thought made him smile.

  Knowing she came highly recommended by the Foundling Hospital, he had little doubt of her skills as a governess. But whether Henrietta would or could grow to accept her became his new problem. Sampson sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands; he knew that overcoming that obstacle might be more difficult than he had envisioned.

  A discreet knock at the door heralded his new employee. “Come.”

  His butler, Thomas, opened the door and bowed low, ushering in Miss Brent. She stepped across the threshold, then dipped into another low curtsey. “Your Grace.”

  Thomas closed the door behind her as he raised his fingers and beckoned her in. “Please sit, Miss Brent. May I offer you something? Wine? Brandy?”

  Miss Brent sat, folding her skirts under her, smiling. “A little wine would be nice. Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Rising, he poured thick red wine from a decanter into a cut crystal glass, then handed it to her. “I must apologize again for my sister’s behavior.”

  “Please, Your Grace,” she began, holding her glass of wine, yet not drinking it. “I have much experience with children. Many came to the Hospital with anger and resentment, yet learned to overcome their stronger, base emotions, if given enough love and patience.”

  Sampson allowed himself a tiny smile. “I believe that is exactly what Lady Henrietta needs.”

  “I assure you, Your Grace,” she went on. “Lady Henrietta is seeking the love and attention the late Duchess gave her in full. Lacking that, she withdrew into her own world, and naturally resents anyone coming in from the outside. While I cannot guarantee that I will bring her from her shell, I can guarantee I will do my best.”

  “I do believe you will, Miss Brent. On both of those counts.”

  Sampson spent an hour or so questioning her on her knowledge of various subjects, and he grew more and more impressed with her. She appeared well-versed in teaching children mathematics, grammar, history, needlecraft, proper ethics, dancing, oratory, and even spoke some French, Latin, and a smattering of Italian.

  “May I ask, Miss Brent,” Sampson as
ked, leaning forward in his chair, “how did you come to learn foreign languages in the Foundling Hospital?”

  Lucretia smiled, glancing down at her half-drunk wineglass. “The Hospital takes in many orphans, Your Grace. A child born of French parents came to us after her parents died from cholera aboard their ship. I had to learn her language in order to help her.”

  “And Latin? Italian?”

  “Latin is taught in the school among other subjects, Your Grace,” she answered. “The Italian I picked up from an Italian worker who rebuilt a section of broken wall at the Hospital.”

  “I see. And I must say, I am altogether impressed.”

  “Please do not be, Your Grace,” she said, smiling. “If I were to go to France or Italy, no doubt I’d be scorned for my lack of language ability.”

  “And a self-deprecating sense of humor.” Sampson sipped from his glass. “I like that as well. But, forgive my lack of polite manners. I did not ask if you had eaten.”

  “Do not concern yourself, Your Grace,” she said. “I had plenty to eat on the journey.”

  “Tell me about it, if you will.”

  He sat back, watching her face as she described her first journey out of London, her impression of the sights she’d witnessed. Unable to stop staring at her, despite the fact that his fascination was ill-mannered, he could not help himself.

  He had had flings with mistresses in his past, yet none of them held a candle to Miss Brent’s incredible beauty. Against his will, he envisioned her hair spread upon a pillow, her pale eyes luminous in firelight.Embarrassed by his ill-timed and randy thought while she sat in front of him, Sampson cleared his throat and glanced away.

  She cast her eyes demurely down, a faint flush of embarrassment tinting her pale cheeks pink.“If you do not mind, Your Grace,” she began, “are there truly man-killing monsters out on the moors?”

  The question struck him unexpectedly, and Sampson almost choked on his mouthful of brandy. Covering his shock, he swallowed, and gave the question the weight it possibly merited. “Monsters, Miss Brent? No, those are tales to frighten children into behaving. Wolves are mostly gone from the moors these days, and nothing larger than wild lynx roam the nights.”

  “What of highwaymen and robbers?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, there are those who prey upon travelers, I will admit. However, they are not as many as there used to be. Our England is quite safe from evil-doers.”

  She smiled. “I am right glad to know my person is safe, Your Grace.”

  “Miss Brent, I fear the streets of London are far more dangerous than the moors in Gloucestershire.”

  “You may be quite right, Your Grace,” she said. “But I never roamed the streets of London.”

  “Nor should you. Come, I can see you grow weary.”

  Sampson rose, offering his hand to her. “My butler, Thomas, will escort you to your rooms where you may rest the night in safety and peace.”

  Her gloved fingers light yet firm in his, he raised her up, then, for a brief moment, stood gazing down into her incredible eyes. Lost in them, his thoughts departed on swift wings, his wits stolen. She stared deep into his own, a half-smile on her beautiful features. A feeling of wonderment crept over him, something he had not felt for years.

  Her softly spoken words broke the spell. “Your Grace?”

  “Er, yes, quite,” he said, almost stuttering. “Come then. You may begin your duties tomorrow. As you are unfamiliar with this house, I will assign the housekeeper to assist you in finding your way.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Reluctantly, he released her hand, and turned her over to Thomas’ care. In the corridor, a liveried servant rushed toward them, her white cap askew, her round face flushed. “Your Grace,” she called, her tone worried. Upon reaching them, she spread her black skirts in a quick curtsey.

  “Yes? What is it, Rosemary?”

  “Your Grace,” she gasped, her head bowed. “It is Lady Henrietta.”

  Sampson stiffened. “What is wrong? Speak, woman.”

  “I cannot find her, Your Grace. She is not in her rooms, or anywhere.”

  Chapter 5

  “Please, Your Grace,” Lucretia said, turning to the tall Duke. “Permit me to help you search for her.”

  His emerald eyes stared at his sister’s abigail. “Are you certain she is not somewhere else in the house?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I have been searching everywhere.”

  “Round up the rest of the staff,” he ordered, his voice tense. “Set them all to looking for her.”

  The woman nodded, and hurried back the way she came. He glanced down at Lucretia. “Yes, Miss Brent. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”

  Following him back down the corridor past the doors to his study, Lucretia wondered where to start searching for a little girl. Thinking back to when she was much younger and needed to be alone, she would go to the barn behind the Hospital. She liked the smell of the straw and fresh hay, listening to the horses in their stalls, often stroking their soft noses. Since only the stable lad went there, she could be assured of no one finding her to drag her back into the Hospital.

  When the Duke paused to give orders to the butler, Lucretia left him. As the house was huge, and she had no idea how to find her way around, she made several wrong turns. The household staff hurried by her with few acknowledgments, thus she failed to ask anyone for directions. After many twists and turns, walking about for almost thirty minutes, at last, she found doors that led to the rear of the house.

  Darkness had fallen. Stopping to permit her eyes to adjust to the night, she eventually saw the large bulk that blotted out the stars.

  The stable.

  Enough light spilled from the house to permit her to see her path. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the gravel path, observing a faint light around the stable doors. An owl hooted from the rooftop, sending a shiver down her spine. It was so very dark in this open country, unlike London, where lamps lit the streets and offered some light through the night. Here, the only lights came from the house, and the shadows multiplied tenfold.

  Easing the wide door open, Lucretia paused to listen. The light came from a lit lantern in its sconce against the stone wall, but all else lay in complete shadow. Horses munched hay, occasionally offering peaceful snorts, their legs stirring their straw bedding. If Lady Henrietta were in there, Lucretia wondered how to find her in the dark.

  Plucking the small lantern from its sconce, she walked down the huge aisle, the faint light gleaming off the sleek horses inside the stalls. A few poked curious heads over the doors as she passed, but she did not pause to caress them. The floor, impeccably clean, was made of cobbles, with harnesses and bridles hanging from hooks along the walls. Casting the light ahead of her, Lucretia turned the corner and stopped.

  Lady Henrietta gazed up at her from a folded blanket, her face red and streaked with tears. “Go away,” she said, her voice hoarse from crying.

  Searching for a safe place to put the lantern, Lucretia found a nearby sconce and set it inside. It threw dancing shadows over the little girl, but offered enough light that she could find a spot to sit beside Lady Henrietta.

  “Go away,” the girl repeated. “I do not want you here. I do not like you.”

  “I am sorry,” Lucretia said. “I cannot do that, My Lady.”

  Drawing her knees to her small chest, Lady Henrietta tried to hide her face in her skirts. Extending a tentative hand, Lucretia stroked her soft blonde hair. The girl jerked away, sobbing.

  “Please go away.”

  “No.”

  Deciding boldness might serve her better, Lucretia gathered the small child into her arms, holding Lady Henrietta’s face against her breasts. The girl tensed as though to shove her away, but collapsed into fresh sobs, her arms creeping around Lucretia’s waist. Rocking back and forth, Lucretia did not speak, only held her tightly, letting the child’s grief and pain run its course. How well she knew what it was like t
o have someone hold her, to need someone to hold her, without offering unwanted advice or encouragement. To simply crave a shoulder to cry on, a warm body who understood what it was like to feel lost, alone, and afraid.

  She did not know how long she rocked Lady Henrietta, but at last the girl’s weeping tapered off. Raising her head from Lucretia’s bosom, she sniffled in an unladylike fashion, bringing a smile to Lucretia’s face.