The beauty who tamed the beast...
New governess Grace Bertram will do anything to get to know her young daughter, Clara. Even if it means working for Clara’s guardian, the reclusive and scarred Nathaniel, Marquess of Ravenwell!
Nathaniel believes no woman could ever love a monster like him, until Grace seems to look past his scars to the man beneath... But when he discovers Grace is Clara’s mother, Nathaniel questions his place in this torn-apart family. Could there be a Christmas happy-ever-after for this beauty and the beast?
The Governess Tales
Sweeping romances with fairy-tale endings!
Meet Joanna Radcliff, Rachel Talbot,
Isabel Morton and Grace Bertram.
These four friends grew up together in Madame Dubois’s school for young ladies, where they indulged in midnight feasts, broke the rules and shared their innermost secrets!
But now they are thrust into the real world, and each must adapt to her new life as a governess.
One will rise, one will travel, one will run and one will find her real home...
And each will meet her soul mate, who’ll give her the happy-ever-after she’s always dreamed of!
Read Joanna’s story in
The Cinderella Governess
Read Rachel’s story in
Governess to the Sheikh
Read Isabel’s story in
The Runaway Governess
And read Grace’s story in
The Governess’s Secret Baby
All available now!
Author Note
The Governess’s Secret Baby is book four in The Governess Tales series, but it is a stand-alone story and can be enjoyed even if you haven’t read the previous three. If you have read the others, however, you will be pleased to know that the epilogue—an absolute joy to write—brings back all three couples from the other linked books to find out what has happened since the end of their stories.
I loved bringing to life the gothic Shiverstone Hall, nestled below Shiver Crag in the Yorkshire Dales, and Nathaniel, its reclusive, scarred and taciturn owner. Only a feisty heroine would do for Nathaniel, and Grace is certainly that: bold, impulsive and determined but also rootless and plagued with hidden self-doubt.
Enjoy the emotional ups and downs as Grace helps Nathaniel find the courage to embrace life again, and Nathaniel proves to Grace she is capable of being loved.
Janice Preston
The Governess’s
Secret Baby
Janice Preston grew up in Wembley, North London, with a love of reading, writing stories and animals. In the past she has worked as a farmer, a police call-handler and a university administrator. She now lives in the West Midlands with her husband and two cats and has a part-time job with a weight-management counselor (vainly trying to control her own weight despite her love of chocolate!).
Books by Janice Preston
Harlequin Historical
The Governess Tales
The Governess’s Secret Baby
Men About Town
Return of Scandal’s Son
Saved by Scandal’s Heir
Linked by Character
to Men About Town duet
Mary and the Marquis
From Wallflower to Countess
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To my fellow authors Georgie Lee, Laura Martin and Liz Tyner: it’s been a pleasure collaborating with you, ladies, and I hope I’ve done justice to your characters in the epilogue.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge by Elisabeth Hobbes
Prologue
Early October 1811
Nathaniel Pembroke, Marquess of Ravenwell, threw a saddle on Zephyr’s back, mounted up, and pointed the black stallion’s head towards the fell, the words of the letter searing his brain and his heart. As Zephyr’s hooves flashed across the ground the tears spilling from Nathaniel’s eyes evaporated in the wind and his roar of rage was heard by no man. The fells above Shiverstone Hall were avoided by local villagers and farmers alike, and that was precisely how Nathaniel liked it.
The great black’s pace flagged and, reluctantly, Nathaniel steadied him to a trot. The anger and the grief burning his chest had not eased—the hollow place where his shrivelled heart had struggled to survive this past nine years was still there, only now it was cavernous...a vast, stygian void. He should know by now grief could never be outrun. It cleaved to you like lichen clung to the rocks that strewed the dale below.
Hannah. Tears again clouded his vision and he blinked furiously, gazing hopelessly at the gunmetal grey of the sky. Dead. Never again to see his beloved sister’s face, or to hear her laugh, or to feel the rare human contact of her arms around him, hugging, reassuring. And David, Hannah’s husband of eight years and Nathaniel’s loyal and steadfast friend...his only friend. Also gone.
The raw lump in Nathaniel’s throat ached unbearably as the words of his mother’s letter—delivered as he had broken his fast that morning—reverberated through his brain: a carriage accident; Hannah and David both killed outright; little Clara, their two-year-old daughter, the only survivor.
You are named as Guardian to the child, my son. If I can help you, you know that I will, but I cannot, at my age, shoulder all responsibility for her upbringing. Neither will I live in that Godforsaken place you please to call home in order to help you with the task.
I urge you to come home to Ravenwell and we shall raise Clara together. It is time you took your place in the world again.
If you choose not to, however, then you must come and collect your ward. It is your duty and you owe it to your poor, dear sister to take charge of and care for the child she loved more than life itself.
Your loving
Mother
Nathaniel turned Zephyr for home, the realities of his dilemma bearing down on him. He could not deny the truth of Mother’s words—she was getting no younger and she would never be happy living at Shiverstone Hall—his cadet estate near the border between the North Riding of Yorkshire and Westmorland—nor would it be healthy for her. She lived most of the year at Ravenwell Manor, his main estate in the far more civilised countryside that surrounded the town of Harrogate, on the far side of the Dales.
But...he considered those alternatives, neither of which appealed. Go home to Ravenwell? He shook his head in dumb de
nial. Never. He could tolerate neither the memories nor the looks of sympathy from those who had known him before. Still less could he stomach the recoil of strangers at the sight of him.
By the time he rode into the yard behind Shiverstone Hall, his decision was made. He had one choice, and one choice only. He must fetch Clara and bring her to Shiverstone to live with him. His courage almost failed at the thought—what did he know about children, particularly one as young as Clara?
* * *
‘You have responsibilities, Nathaniel. You cannot continue to hide away. How are you ever to produce an heir otherwise? Not every woman will react like Miss Havers.’
Nathaniel bit back a growl at the reminder of Miss Havers. He had suspected how that would end as soon as his mother had told him of the woman who had agreed to a marriage of convenience. Even the lure of his wealth and title was not enough to compensate for his scars. Miss Havers changed her mind after one meeting and Nathaniel had retreated to Shiverstone Hall, resolving to live a solitary life. She hadn’t been the first woman to react to his altered appearance with horror: Lady Sarah Reece—with whom he’d had an understanding before he was injured—had lost no time in accepting another man’s proposal.
He did not miss his former carefree life as one of society’s most eligible bachelors: such frivolous pleasures no longer held any allure for him. Nor did he miss his erstwhile friends. He would never forget the shock on their faces, nor the speed with which they had turned their backs on him after the fire.
He was happy with his life, dammit. He had his animals and his hawks—they did not judge him by how he looked.
His mother forked a morsel of roast grouse into her mouth and then placed her knife and fork on to her plate whilst she chewed, watching Nathaniel expectantly.
‘I am but thirty, Mother. There is more than enough time to produce an heir.’
‘Would you pour me another glass of wine, please, Nathaniel?’
He obliged. They were dining alone in the dining room at Ravenwell Manor, the servants having been dismissed by Lady Ravenwell as soon as the dishes had been served. That had prompted Nathaniel to suspect their conversation would prove uncomfortable and his defences were already well and truly in place.
‘Thank you.’ His mother sipped her wine, then placed her glass on the finely embroidered tablecloth. ‘Do not think I am ignorant of your plan, son,’ she said. ‘You arrive here after dark, at a time you know Clara will already be asleep. What is your intention? To snatch her from her bed before dawn and be away before you need to see anyone, or be seen?’
He hated the sympathy in her eyes but he also knew that behind that sympathy there existed a steely belief in duty. His duty: to the estate, to his family, to the memory of his father, and to the future of the marquessate. Her jibe about snatching Clara from her bed sailed too close to the truth.
‘I came as soon as I could after reading your letter, Mother. My late arrival was because I did not want to wait until tomorrow to travel, but I am afraid I must return in the morning.’
‘Must?’
‘It will not do to expect a two-year-old child to travel late into the night.’
‘Then stay for a few days. At least give the poor child a chance to remember you.’
He had last seen Clara four months before, when she had come up to Shiverstone with Hannah and David from their home in Gloucestershire. They had stayed with him for a week. Thinking of his sister and his friend brought that choking, aching lump into his throat once more. He bowed his head, staring unseeingly at the food in front of him, his appetite gone.
‘I could invite a few neighbours for dinner. Only people you already know, not strangers.’
I can’t... Bile rose, hot and bitter in his mouth.
He shoved his plate from him with a violent movement. Mother jumped, her fork clattering on to her plate and her face crumpled, the corners of her mouth jerking down as her eyes sheened. Guilt—familiar, all-encompassing—swept through him and he rounded the table to fold his mother into his arms as she sobbed.
‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ She had lost her precious daughter and he had been concerned only with his own selfish fears. ‘Of course I will stay for a few days.’ A few days would be all he could endure of his mother’s efforts to reintroduce him into local society, he was certain of that. ‘But no dinner parties, I beg of you. Do not forget we are in mourning.’
Mother’s shoulders trembled. ‘You are right,’ she whispered. ‘But...please...stay with me a short time.’
He dropped a kiss on her greying head. ‘I will.’
Poor Mother, left with only him out of her family. He was no substitute for Hannah. Why couldn’t it have been he who died? Hannah had so much to live for, whereas he... He batted that wicked thought away. No matter how black his future had seemed, he had never been tempted to take his own life. He was content enough with the life he led. The villagers avoided him and he had his dogs and his horses and his hawks: they provided all the company he needed.
Nathaniel resumed his seat, but did not draw his plate towards him again.
‘What about Clara’s nanny?’ He remembered the woman from Hannah’s last visit to Shiverstone. At least she was not a complete stranger. ‘I assume she is here and will stay with Clara?’
His mother’s gaze skittered past him. ‘I am afraid not. She has family in Gloucester and does not want to move so far away. You will need to appoint a new nanny and then, later, she will need a governess.’
He battled to hide his dismay, but some must have shown, for she continued, ‘You must put Clara’s needs first. She is two years old. What do you know about taking care of such a young child? Of any child? And Mrs Sharp has enough to do with running the Hall. You cannot expect her to take on more responsibility.’
She’s right. I know she’s right...and yet every fibre of his being rebelled against the notion of not one, but two, strangers coming into his home. He eyed his mother. Perhaps...
‘And do not think I shall yield if you try to persuade me to raise Clara on your behalf.’
His mother—one step ahead as usual. He must accept that, once again, he had no choice.
‘I will advertise for a governess,’ he said. One person—surely he could cope with one person. Once she was used to his appearance, all would be well. He need not see much of her. ‘Then Clara will not have to adapt to another person in her life later on. She needs consistency after losing her parents.’
Poor little soul. Unwanted by her own mother—an unfortunate girl in trouble—and now losing her adoptive parents. And she was a sweet little poppet. Too young to react with horror to his scars as other children had done in the past, Clara had accepted her uncle and she, in turn, had delighted him with her gurgles and her first attempts at speech. An unaccustomed tingle warmed his chest. She would be his. She might only be two, but she would provide some human contact apart from his servants.
‘You must do as you deem right for Clara.’ Mother’s sceptical expression, however, suggested that she was completely aware of his real reason for choosing a governess rather than a nanny. ‘And for darling Hannah.’
A lone tear spilled over and tracked down her lined cheek. How had he never been aware of those wrinkles before? His mother had aged. Grief, he thought, did that to a person and poor Mother had faced more grief than most.
‘I will,’ he vowed.
He owed it to his sister, who had tackled her own heartbreak of trying and failing to give birth to a healthy baby with such dignity and grace. She had been besotted by Clara from the very first moment she held her in her arms and impotent anger raged through Nathaniel that she would now miss the joy of seeing her adopted daughter grow and mature. Hannah had been one of the few constants in his life since the fire that had taken his father and changed Nathaniel’s life for ever. He would not let her down now. He
would write to the editor of the York Herald, with instructions to run an advertisement for a trained governess who was willing to come and live at the Hall.
For the first time he felt a sliver of doubt—what sort of woman would agree to bury herself in such an isolated place?
Chapter One
Early November 1811
Grace Bertram breathed easier as she reached the edge of the dense woodland, with its mossy-trunked trees and its unfamiliar rustles and groans, and the barely glimpsed scurrying of invisible creatures through the undergrowth. The track she had followed from the village of Shivercombe—past the church, across a meadow and a river, and then through that spooky wood—emerged on to the edge of bleak moorland and she stopped to catch her breath, and look around.
Moorland—or, more correctly, fells according to the local villagers who had tried so hard to dissuade her from venturing to Shiverstone Hall—rose ahead of her before merging mistily with the overcast sky. She could just about make out the slate roof and tall chimneys of a house squatting in a fold of land ahead, the only sign of human habitation in that forbidding landscape.
Grace’s pulse accelerated in a fusion of anticipation and fear. That must be it. Shiverstone Hall. And there, beneath those glistening black slates, was Clara. Her baby, who now lived in this isolated place with—according to those same villagers—a man who was fearful to behold and who breathed fire and brimstone on any who ventured on to his land: the Marquess of Ravenwell. Grace would not...could not...allow those warnings to deter her. She had survived that creepy forest and she would survive Lord Ravenwell’s wrath. She would not turn back from the task she had set herself two years ago.
She owed that much to the daughter she had given away at birth.
Grace swapped her portmanteau into her left hand and glanced down at her muddied half-boots in disgust. Her left foot already squelched in her boot and the right felt suspiciously damp too. What sort of lord lived out here in the middle of nowhere and did not even take the trouble to build a bridge over the river between the village and his house? An uncivilised sort, that was who, in Grace’s opinion. There was a ford for horses and vehicles, but the only place for a person to cross the river was by using huge, wet, slippery rocks set in the riverbed as stepping stones. She was fortunate it was only her left foot that had been submerged.
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