A Governess for the Rakish Earl (Preview)

Chapter One

May 1817

Buckinghamshire

There were no happier rakes in England that night than the half-sprung Earl of Hartwell and his equally boozy best mate, the Baron of Woodhaven. Both men were in their prime, were healthy and wealthy, and hadn’t yet been yoked to wives.

They’d also been merrily drinking the finest port at The Holly Inn for hours, laughing too loudly and making private wagers about every tavern wench that dared pass by their table.

“I’ll bet you can’t get that one to ride you ’til dawn, Lord Heartless. I mean Hartwell!” The Baron, Marcus Westwood, spoke with a drink-slurred Scottish trill, then threw his head back and howled like a wolf as other tavern patrons sneered at him.

“She’d be lucky to survive such a grinding, mate!” The Earl, Blake Barrett, clinked his glass to Marcus’s and then emptied it down his throat in one large gulp. “But I’m all for finding a good rut with a scandalous woman. I have no use for virtuous ladies sewn into their shifts by their protective mothers!”

Blake and Marcus cackled together at their corner table in the back of the tavern and hollered for another round. The friends frequented The Holly Inn when Marcus was in town but rarely made more of a scene than any of the other joyfully foxed patrons.

“You’re all talk tonight, Hartwell. You’d never proposition any of these barmaids, much less a virtuous lady. Regardless of the rumours about your carousing ways, deep down, you’re too much of a gentleman for your own good.” 

Marcus winked at the pretty blonde woman who refilled his glass. He untied his already loosened white silk cravat and draped it over the barmaid’s neck as she leaned over the table to collect the coins. “A gift for you, m’lady. Maybe you’ll think of me in your dreams?” 

The barmaid rolled her eyes and smirked. “I’ve got a hundred cravats fancier than yours tied to my bedposts already, My Lord. You’ll have to wait in line.”

Blake and Marcus looked at each other with widened eyes full of shock then burst into laughter again.

“The best response to a scoundrel yet!” Blake applauded, then handed the barmaid several more coins as a reward for her sassy wit.

Though The Holly Inn was within walking distance of his country estate, Blake Barrett rarely took the time to learn the names of the barmaids who worked there. Not to be rude, but to keep some boundaries intact. He never bedded women who lived close to his family home for fear of them showing up at his doorstep after the fact. And he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to marry a woman far below his class, so why bother?

Not that the pursuit of marriage was on his mind–far from it. Lord Hartwell was very satisfied with his independent life and even with his reputation as a debaucherous rake.

However, as Marcus pointed out, Blake didn’t enjoy nearly as much debauchery as the rumours about him suggested. And though there was nothing the ton loved more than spreading gossip for pure entertainment, his family name hadn’t yet been sullied by polite society’s crass assumptions about his lifestyle.

Did he indulge in the company of discreet trollops now and then? Obviously. A man had his needs!

Did he delight in his share of port and gambling at London’s elite gentlemen’s clubs? Of course! What nobleman at the age of six and twenty didn’t?

Despite his penchant for indulgence, Blake thought of himself as a decent man who tried to balance his pleasurable activities with meaningful endeavours. Just days ago, he’d donated a large sum and his own labour to help dig a new well for a small village near Hartwell.

Yes, he was a hereditary Lord of Parliament with piercing blue eyes that turned pretty heads. But Blake Barrett was also built for physical labour and wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He was tall, sturdy, and strong, with enviable stamina in a field or a bedchamber.

In fact, Lord Hartwell was just as often seen lending a hand around Buckinghamshire as he was noticed flirting in London coffeehouses and clubs. So, Blake was fine with being labelled a rake who loved wine and women. He knew he was also a humble bloke who would dig a man’s carriage out of the mud without being asked.

Blake also took pride in the fact that he wasn’t anything like the sinister-looking rogue who just then walked through the tavern door with hate in his coal-black eyes. 

“Marcus, do you feel that chill? Look at who lowered the temperature in here by entering the room.” 

Blake nodded in the direction of the large man in the doorway wearing a long black coat, tall black boots, and greying copper hair tied back behind his head like a pirate. A ruthless, dishonest, and powerful pirate that nobody dared cross. 

Marcus shivered in his seat next to Blake. “What the devil is Edward Montague doing here? You’d think the Duke of Milshire would be too busy slaughtering baby animals and swindling commoners in London to retire to the country this early in the season. It’s the middle of spring!” 

Blake chuckled under his breath and watched the cunning duke slowly scan the room before talking to one of the barmaids in hushed tones. 

“Spring is no match for the darkness of Edward Montague’s soul. I can sense all the blooming flowers closing up and shuddering with fright. Did you know that Montague recently cast his cook out into the cold on Christmas Eve with no reference because she overcooked his holiday roast?” Blake folded his arms across his chest and glared at the duke, daring the rogue to look his way.

“Now I know you’ve dipped too deep in the port, Barrett, because, of course, I know that story. Every other gentleman’s kitchen rejected poor Mrs Mantle but yours.” 

Marcus patted his friend on the back and then tipped to the left in his chair. The Scottish baron’s light brown hair was humorously dishevelled, and his green eyes had the thick glaze of a man who needed either strong tea or a long nap.

Blake pulled Marcus upright again and checked the state of his own dark hair in the reflection of his spoon. He ran a hand through the wavy locks on his head and sighed. “That’s right, I took the poor cook in, and I’m glad I did! Mary Mantle is the nicest woman alive and she makes an incredible roast chicken. She indeed burns the beef, but I’d rather have fowl for dinner any day.”

The two port-giddy men chuckled together at the fact that their conversation had turned quite literally fowl.

“Speaking of birds of a feather, have you ever heard Montague hiss like a vulture at his tenants? His anger is as legendary as his under-the-table dealings.” Marcus squinted to try and see the duke more clearly across the room, then gave up and closed his eyes before leaning to rest his head on Blake’s shoulder.

“Alright, Lord Woodhaven. It’s time to get you out of here before you start to snore. Besides, I’d rather be face down in my own garden than face-to-face with Duke Milshire any day.” 

Blake stood and hoisted his friend up from his chair. He propped Marcus against the wall as he dropped more coins on the old wooden table, then wrapped his friend’s arm around his neck and headed towards the tavern door.

But it was too late. Edward Montague spotted them before they could escape into the chilly spring night.

Montague’s cold stare sent shivers down Blake’s spine, but the two men had never quarrelled or spent much time together. It was just the duke’s way with everyone–stony, curt, and suspicious. 

“Good evening, Lord Milshire.” Blake smiled at the duke only because he was brought up to be polite to even the most sinister gentlemen, especially if they outranked him. 

Marcus was barely coherent but managed a nod at Montague before he tipped to the left again and almost knocked a tray of empty glasses out of the blonde barmaid’s hands.

“Watch yourself, My Lord! Or I’ll use your cravat to tie you to a post!” The pretty young woman with deep, creamy cleavage scowled at Marcus, but her eyes quickly twinkled again above her frown. 

Marcus winked at her and grinned. “If it’s your bedpost, dear maiden, I’m game!”

“You boys are an embarrassment to the crown. Either conduct yourselves with proper decorum or be on your way.” Edward Montague pointed towards the tavern door as he glared at the stunned expressions on Blake and Marcus’s faces. 

“I beg your pardon, My Lord.” Blake raised an eyebrow and quickly scanned the room behind him as if Montague had accidentally spoken to the wrong rakes. “Perhaps you’re confused about your surroundings at present? You see, you’re in a tavern in Hartwell, where men like us can unwind with spirits in their bellies. Though I am currently three sheets to the wind, I am also the Right Honourable Earl of Hartwell, am I not? So, there’s no need for sharp tongues on such a fine night.” 

This time, Blake didn’t smile as he tipped the hat he’d placed on his head moments before. He pulled Marcus towards the door that the duke, at least twenty years his senior, was still pointing at with his bony index finger.

“You’re a useless boy with a useless title, Barrett. And you’re as worthless to society as my good-for-nothing son. It’s careless young men like you who make the rest of us look bad!” Lord Milshire lowered his arm and cracked the knuckles of both his hands one by one while keeping his eyes locked on Blake’s.

But Blake was so stunned by Edward Montague’s baseless and confusing statements that he clamped his mouth shut. At that moment, Blake could hear his own father’s cruel words in his head. All the times the elder Lord Hartwell had expressed disappointment in Blake blurred into one thundering sound he was certain the entire tavern could hear.

Blake grimaced with the physical pain those crashing memories caused inside his skull, then turned away from Duke Milshire to ease it.

And to keep from punching that arrogant arse in his chiselled jaw. 

The harshness of Montague’s voice roused Marcus Westwood from his drunken stupor just long enough to have the last word. 

“How dare you turn an ageing widow out into the cold, you brute! I hope your new cook puts horse droppings in your cottage pie!” Marcus attempted to reach out and poke Montague in the chest, but Blake tugged him out of the tavern door just in time to avoid the rest of the duke’s rageful rant.

“Are you trying to get us killed, mate?” Blake continued to keep his friend from falling over as they walked the main road in the dark towards Hartwell Manor. The air was crisp and still except for the high-pitched warble of the robins awakened by the men’s rustling and chatter as they went.

“Montague is a ruthless rogue, but he’s no murderer. At least not yet. And what was he going on about regarding his son? To my knowledge, Robert Montague is an upstanding gentleman with qualities much more bearable than his father’s,” Marcus said.

“You might be surprised by how many noblemen dislike their sons,” Blake said under his breath, then cleared his throat. There was no point in opening old wounds about his upbringing with his parents many miles away. “Besides, Montague hates everybody, so it’s no wonder his own offspring is the target of his wrath. The duke isn’t a fan of young people, in general. Or older people, either, if my new cook is any proof.” 

Marcus nodded in agreement, oblivious to his friend’s inner demons. Then the jug-bitten Scot broke into song as he and Blake rounded the corner where Lord Hartwell’s expansive country home was almost visible due to the row of lit torches out front.

The baron had a pleasing voice, but his repertoire of folk songs all had the same bawdy themes.

 

There once was a lady who wanted my heart

But I was no husband to be

She was a sweet little thing at the start

Until she was taken by me

 

Now she’s a virtuous lady no more

And hungry for savoury sin

But she is still sweeter than pie at her core

Where I dip my tongue deep within

 

Blake laughed and gave his singing friend a playful shove through the front gate of Hartwell Manor. “You’re lucky my parents are no longer alive to hear that. My mother would cut out your tongue for singing such scandalous tunes!” 

Marcus grinned and followed Blake through the front door into the grand entrance hall where Lord Hartwell’s valet, Will Bradford, was holding a flickering candlestick. But Bradford’s face was pale as a ghost’s. 

“Bradford, what troubles you?” Blake released Marcus’s arm from around his neck and dropped his friend into one of the burgundy velvet lounge chairs along the wall.

“It’s a child, My Lord. An abandoned child.” Bradford swallowed hard, placed the candle on a fireplace mantle, and helped Lord Hartwell out of his thin, dark coat.

Blake whirled around with one of his arms still in the sleeve and narrowed his eyes at his valet. “A what? Who has abandoned their child? Or am I so full of juice that I’ve heard you incorrectly?” 

Bradford swallowed again. “You heard it right, My Lord. We don’t know who, but someone left a young child on Hartwell Manor’s doorstep. The child was discovered about two hours ago. It’s a boy.”

Lord Hartwell blinked through his bewilderment as Marcus broke into laughter. 

“I’ve never known you for your humour, Bradford, but that is a colossal jest worthy of respect! A child left on Blake’s doorstep, ha! Can you imagine? Good one, mate!” Marcus clutched his gut and leaned forward in the chair as his laughter echoed through the dimly-lit hall.

“I am not joking!” Bradford glared at Marcus, then turned back to Blake. “My Lord, this is very serious. A child of merely two or three years old was left outside in the dark at your home, and we have no information about who he belongs to yet. We found him only because of his pitiful wails, which continued for a long spell until Mrs Stalk managed to soothe him with warm milk and a bath.” 

Bradford waved towards the housekeeper, Agnes Stalk, who stood wringing her hands in a shadowy corner of the entrance hall. She also looked ghostly white and frightened but stayed silent and bit her lip.

As Marcus’s chuckling subsided into coughs, Blake scrubbed a hand over his chin and took a deep breath. 

This cannot be happening.

“Where is the child now?” Lord Hartwell asked as he untied his cravat, then wiped his sweaty brow with it.

“He’s in the nursery with one of the maids.” Bradford led the way to the main marble stairwell as Blake followed. Marcus leapt from his chair and stumbled along behind them.

“You’ve left him among the cobwebs in my childhood nursery?” Blake’s tone grew more irritated the closer they got to where a small child was waiting to turn the earl’s life upside down.

“Mrs Stalk would never allow a room to fill with cobwebs, My Lord. Rest assured that the nursery still gets as much care as any other room in your home.” 

Bradford’s stern and stoic manner was typical, but the flustered expression on his face was not. The sight of Bradford’s deep concern caused a knot to form in Blake’s stomach. Before he even saw the child, he felt a disheartening heaviness weighing him down. 

With Blake being an only child and his parents dead, all of the responsibility for an abandoned boy would fall to him. As they approached the nursery among the bedrooms on the second floor, Blake sent up a prayer that the child’s family could be found as quickly as when the sun came up again. 

Marcus bumped into Blake’s back as the earl suddenly stopped in the doorway and stared at the young boy sitting in a maid’s lap, sucking his thumb. The child’s hair had soft brown curls, and his big blue eyes were still wet with tears.

Blake froze. His throat squeezed shut, and his heart pounded like the loudest of drums in his chest. He stared at the sniffling child as if he were looking at himself at the same age, back when all he’d needed to feel safe was affection from his strict and distant parents. But affection and expressions of love had never been part of Lord and Lady Hartwell’s parenting style. 

His parents were lucky that their first attempt at producing an heir had worked because having more children in the Barrett household would have been an even bigger inconvenience for them, Blake was certain. And an even bigger brood to ignore.

Truth be told, if it weren’t for the kind women hired to care for him, Blake might not have known any love as a child at all.

As he gazed into the eyes of the frightened toddler, Blake had the strangest feeling that they were the only two people in the room who fully understood each other. Who both knew what it was like to feel abandoned, alone, and forgotten.

Long-buried emotions swirled so strongly inside Blake’s gut that he suddenly felt sick. He pressed a hand to his stomach and swallowed hard.

“Bloody hell, Barrett. The boy looks exactly like you!” Marcus giggled, then hiccupped as Blake snapped out of his brief trance and elbowed his friend behind him. 

“Nonsense! Don’t you dare put such ideas in everyone’s heads, Westwood. Trust that I have never sired a child, so it is a mystery why this one was brought to our home. Bradford, did this boy come with anything but the clothes on his back?” Blake’s agitation was heightened greatly by the insinuation that the child belonged to him, but he had to admit that Marcus was right. The boy did resemble him and the Barrett line. 

But the child’s looks were coincidental; Blake was sure of it. Perhaps whoever dropped the boy on his doorstep was hoping Blake and the rest of society would assume he had planted his seed in a maiden who couldn’t care for the youngster on her own.

“He was wrapped in a blanket, My Lord. Here it is.” A maid named Grace handed the blanket to Bradford who passed it to Blake. “The name George is embroidered at the corner, but there is no surname.” 

Blake smoothed a finger over the embroidered letters in navy thread and released another long sigh. “Let’s keep him as comfortable as possible tonight and we’ll find his family in the morning. Grace, you will stay with the boy and consult with Mrs Stalk for anything you or he needs. Thank you for your help in this matter as we resolve it. Bradford, I would appreciate your assistance tomorrow in finding this child’s home. Marcus, I need another drink. Immediately.”

The earl turned on his heel and made haste towards the stairwell. When he reached the ground floor, he strode determinedly to the basement stairs. 

If God were in the heavens, Blake’s cook, kind Mrs Mantle, would have left two plates of roast chicken and potatoes waiting for the happiest earl and baron in England, who both had grown far less happy than when their night began. 

Blake and Marcus often ate alone in the quiet kitchen after a night at the tavern. Doing so avoided drawing attention to themselves on the main floor of the house at such a late hour.

“I hate to worsen your mood, Barrett, but I doubt you’ll find the boy’s family soon. Whoever dropped him here had no intention of taking him home again, and we all know it.” 

Marcus followed Blake into the kitchen and pulled a stool up to the large wooden table in the middle of the room, where their covered dinner plates waited as expected. “You should immediately hire a nanny and a governess for the child. That way, he will at least be better off when he leaves your home than when he arrived.”

“That’s insane, Marcus. First, I am not claiming this child as a ward and hiring it a full staff within a day of its arrival.” Blake sat next to Marcus and took a large bite of a drumstick, then washed it down with the flask from his waistcoat pocket. “Second, a child that young doesn’t need a governess yet, you fool.”

Marcus smiled, somehow still finding all of it amusing due to the port swimming through his bloodstream. “The child is a him, not an it. You clearly don’t know a thing about raising a child if you refer to one as an object, Blake!” 

The baron laughed at his joke, but the earl did not find it funny.

Blake stood abruptly, threw his linen napkin on the table, and kicked the stool away from his body. He hadn’t even noticed he’d referred to the child in such a cold way, and the knowledge of it felt like a blade piercing his heart. 

Had he become as cold and unfeeling as his parents? Unloving and incapable of empathy or genuine connection with a child?

He clenched his fists and faced the wall for a moment so Marcus couldn’t see the distress on his face. Then, a surprising rage replaced Blake’s fear. Though he had made peace with his childhood and his parents’ failings years ago, he wished he could confront them at that moment. They had left him woefully unprepared to care for a child, even temporarily. So, he would have to do it the only way he had ever learned how–to steel himself from growing attached or just stay away.

 Blake turned back to face Marcus with the same frosty glare his father had aimed at him countless times.

“Point taken, Westwood. I know very little about children, that is true. But I’ve never heard you sing sentimental songs of fathers and sons. You are just as in the dark about child rearing as I am.”

“Ah, but I have trustworthy contacts, My Lord, who can help. Let me make the arrangements for you. You’ll have a nanny and a governess within days if you cannot track down the child’s family by then. I’ll bet I find the best servants for the job, or I’ll owe you my life!” Marcus held a chunk of potato on his upturned fork and raised it like a sword. 

Blake scowled at his friend, then grabbed a potato from his own plate and lobbed it playfully at Marcus’s head. 

“You’ll owe me more than your life, mate. If you send me a couple of chits with no brains in their heads, you’ll take that child as your own!” 

Marcus’s smile slid into a frown as Blake allowed himself to laugh for the first time since receiving the shocking news of his unfortunate tiny guest.

But as the two friends finished their meal while lost in thought, the sobering voice of his valet kept repeating in Lord Hartwell’s head. 

It’s a boy.

It’s a boy.

It’s a boy.

 

 Chapter Two

The parsonage house of St Eamon’s Parish stood among the gentle slopes of the Chiltern Hills as it always had since Clara Whitaker was born two and twenty years ago. Yet watching it come into view after so many months away made Clara gasp as if seeing her childhood home for the first time.

“Why does such a simple house in the country still fill me with delight?” Clara said aloud, but she was alone inside the carriage that rolled towards the garden gate at the top of the hill.

It was a meaningful question to ask after living in one of the grandest homes in London as a governess for the past 14 months. She’d loved living with the Reynolds and enjoyed all the comforts their wealth afforded. Alas, her charge and friend, Victoria Reynolds, had come of age and no longer needed Clara’s tutoring.

So, back to the parsonage house Clara went, where her parents were no doubt waiting to greet their daughter with open arms and perhaps some warmed scones with tea.

After the coachman dropped her and her large bag at the gate, Clara ran her hands down her plain white muslin dress to smooth out the travel wrinkles. Then she tucked a loose curl of long chestnut hair into her white bonnet and opened the parsonage’s wooden front door.

“Hello! Father? Mama? I’m home!” 

Clara waited in the tiny entryway below the stairs for the sounds of her parents running to meet her, but the house was empty and quiet. She dropped her heavy bag at her feet and slowly walked through the main floor, suddenly feeling more out of place than she’d expected.

“Mama? Where is everybody?”

 Then, the familiar sound of a dog barking outside made Clara smile and run for the back door off the kitchen and throw it open. She knew the voice of Sadie, her beloved Skye Terrier, anywhere. 

“Sadie, is that you girl? Where are you?” Clara listened again and heard the barking coming from inside the large barn near the house. She dashed through the barn doors and almost fainted upon seeing not only Sadie and her parents but also about twenty other people from the parish waiting inside. 

“Welcome home, Clara!” They all shouted the greeting at once, then took turns pulling Clara in for a hug.

“My goodness, what a surprise! I have missed you all so much!” Clara’s eyes filled with happy tears as she stood back after all those hugs and scanned the rosy faces of people she hadn’t seen in so long.

Her father, Reverend Henry Whitaker, was smiling wide and had his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Liza Whitaker leaned against Henry and wiped her misty eyes, that were the same shade of pale green as her daughter’s.

“We’re thrilled to have you home, Clara, for as long as possible. Aren’t we Henry?” Mrs Whitaker gritted her teeth and avoided Clara’s eyes as if she were hiding something.

“Yes, of course! We’re excited to celebrate your return all day! And then I have another surprise for you. I have accepted another noble family’s request for your services on your behalf.” The vicar smiled at Clara and paused as if waiting for her to thank him. 

But Clara was too stunned to speak. Her father had promised her to a new employer so quickly and without asking her input first? She felt deeply buried rage threaten to burst like a fragile bubble inside her chest. Would she ever be able to make even one of her own decisions? 

Clara gave her father a tight-lipped smile until her coping mechanisms activated.

All her life, Clara was a pious and dutiful vicar’s daughter. She was meek and studious. She was proper and stayed in the background. She’d never spoken out of turn or refused her father’s wishes, like when he’d wanted her to study languages instead of becoming a skilled pianist.

Every single year since early childhood, Clara had managed to keep her true nature hidden. Her fiery personality, her desire for more independence and spontaneity, and her passion for the arts had all been stifled countless times by her father’s strict rules of conduct and her mother’s unwillingness to speak against him. 

Thus, Clara swallowed back the anger that rose in her throat at her father’s announcement. As had become her habit over the years, Clara counted slowly from one to ten in her head and tapped her fingers against her thighs as her father kept talking.

“It’s another highly regarded placement, my dear. I will tell you and your mother more about it at dinner. It’s exciting to have new employment so soon, is it not?” Reverend Whitaker’s smile started to dim when Clara didn’t answer him immediately, but she knew not to make him wait for long. 

“Yes, Father. Thank you. You know what’s best.” Clara managed to unclench her teeth but tapped more quickly against her thighs until her mother offered her a glass of lemonade with a knowing look on her face. 

“I believe Clara is tired from her journey, aren’t you, darling? But she is very happy with your gift, Mr Whitaker. We’re both very happy indeed.” Mrs Whitaker smiled at her husband until he nodded and joined the other parishioners in the barn, enjoying the small table of refreshments. 

“Mama …” Clara almost slipped and spoke her mind, but her mother squeezed her hand and gently pulled her over to join two young women who were members of the church.

“Enjoy some time with your friends, Clara. It is a party, after all.” Mrs Whitaker winked at her daughter, then joined her husband on the other side of the barn.

“Clara, tell us all about London! My father says only harlots and men with no morals go to the city, but I am desperate to visit Mayfair even for a day! Did you meet any gentlemen? Soldiers? Street performers? Oh, it’s all so exciting!” Lilith Peabody waved her homemade paper fan in front of her flushed face and could barely contain her envy.

Sarah Brennan tugged hard on the long braid behind Lilith’s head and frowned. “Mind your outbursts, Lilith! It isn’t proper!”

Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the two silly girls, but she understood their behaviour. Living a sheltered life under their father’s thumb was a challenging lifestyle for any young person trying to discover who they truly wanted to be. Yet Clara’s time in London had shown her another way of life she wished every young lady in her father’s parish could be allowed to experience at least once. A life where a woman had more opportunities to pursue her interests and speak for herself.

“It was exciting in London, Lilith. The ladies are dressed in the boldest colours and the latest fashions. The gentlemen are regal and refined. And the city’s wonderful mix of art and culture was magnifique!”

Lilith froze and stared at Clara as if she’d uttered a distasteful word. “I … I don’t know what that means …” 

Sarah Brennan tugged on Lilith’s braid again and clucked her tongue. “It’s French, you chit. It’s a fancy word for magnifying glass.”

Clara giggled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lilith. I didn’t mean to confuse you. Magnifique is indeed French, and it means magnificent. London was magnificent, and I hope you get to visit there someday.”

When her fingers started twitching again in response to more questions from her old friends, Clara knew it was time to walk away to take a breath. She chatted with a few more guests, ate a delicious slice of rout cake, and then slipped out of the barn when her parents’ backs were turned.

In all the commotion of the surprise party, she’d hardly noticed that her dog Sadie had fallen asleep at the front of the barn. When Clara walked past, Sadie roused and quietly followed her into the garden, where Clara nestled on her back in the grass below a blooming hydrangea bush.

“Sadie, I can’t believe I’m about to leave you again when I just got home. Will you write to me?” The little dog licked Clara’s nose and curled up beside her. “I wonder where the new governess position will take me this time. Do you suppose I’ll be in London again? Don’t tell anyone I said so, but there are some wonderful benefits to being far from home. Like flirtatious gentlemen and elegant balls!” 

Clara sighed and closed her eyes. She felt sleepiness overcome her as she imagined dancing under a sparkling chandelier in a grand ballroom with a handsome lord, his hands pressed against her waist and his gaze full of passion for only her.

When Clara opened her eyes again, she could hear some of her party guests saying their goodbyes by the barn. She sat up and took a moment to breathe through her grogginess, then giggled. 

“I’ll tell you one thing, Sadie. You won’t catch anyone from Mayfair having a party in a barn!” Clara stood, scooped her sweet pup into her arms, and rejoined the party feeling stronger and happier from her brief nap in the garden.

And, as she’d always done since she was a child, she tried to convince herself that her father might be right about what was best for her. Maybe she was moving on to work with a family that would be her favourite yet.

Later at dinner, Reverend Whitaker said the meal’s prayer, then cleared his throat as his wife, Liza, filled his plate. 

“Ladies, in two days’ time, Clara will become the governess for an earl who lives only 15 miles from our home. Is that not wonderful?” Mr Whitaker clapped his hands and smiled widely. He could hardly contain his happiness for their good fortune as he continued with more details. “Clara, you will care for a new ward taken in by Earl Hartwell and stay at Hartwell Manor. It is meant to be a temporary position, but the income is high, and we are so grateful for the support of our parish your earnings will bring.” 

Mrs Whitaker gasped and sunk into her chair at the small dining table as Clara tried to process that surprising news. But she didn’t dare admit to being disappointed that she wouldn’t be working far from home in her next post after all. 

“Earl Hartwell? Henry, are you unaware of Blake Barrett’s reputation? We cannot send our unmarried daughter into the home of a rake!” Liza pressed a hand over her heart to try and steady it.

The reverend’s smile faded, and his greenish-grey eyes darkened as if clouds had just blocked the sun from his face. “My dear, do not tell me what I can or cannot do on behalf of our child. I have heard no such rumours about the Barrett son, but Lord and Lady Hartwell are highly respected members of society.” 

Clara watched her parents’ tense exchange about her future in silence, but her fingers tapped wildly against her thighs under the table. “Rake” was not a word she’d ever heard used in her childhood home before, though she had an inkling of what it meant. A whole new world had begun to open up to her while living with the Reynolds in London, including a wealth of overheard language that had both shocked and excited her to learn. 

However, it was clear from her mother’s reaction that the home of Earl Hartwell, rake or not, was no place for an innocent young woman to stay. And that made Clara’s tapping fingers dance even more wildly against her thighs.

“Forgive me. I did not mean to speak so rudely, my dear.” Liza Whitaker frowned and looked defeated by her husband’s scolding but was determined to share what she knew all the same. “Perhaps some of the rumours are overblown, but I hear from the women of our parish that Blake Barrett is a notorious flirt and often seen at local taverns. Whether or not that information is true, it is a cause for concern, is it not?”

Clara gasped and stopped tapping when a brief memory suddenly slid into the forefront of her mind. A few years ago, a handsome gentleman with dark, wavy hair and the most mesmerizing sky-blue eyes had stopped his carriage to help Clara and her mother alongside a road. The women were tending to a vegetable cart at a farm’s edge that was owned by one of the parishioners who had taken ill. The cart had toppled over in a strong wind and spilled its contents in front of the man’s carriage.

The gentleman had hopped out immediately and helped them save the vegetables that rolled into the road. Then he secured the cart back in place before riding off again. 

He’d introduced himself simply as Blake, but it was clear that he was a man of nobility and means by his carriage and clothes. In most circumstances, he would have registered in her memory as only a kind stranger she’d encountered, but Blake and Clara had shared an intimate moment that she had forgotten.

Before he departed, the man named Blake had looked deeply into her eyes as if he could somehow see her true self behind the mask of a dutiful vicar’s daughter. For just a few seconds, Clara had felt a bolt of electricity full of attraction pass between them that she had never felt before and feared she would never feel again.

“Are you alright, miss?” The blue-eyed man named Blake had passed a handful of unharmed tomatoes into Clara’s hands and, in doing so, slid his strong fingers across her delicate palms. 

She remembered feeling unable to tear her eyes away from those stunning eyes as his gaze had scanned the light dusting of freckles across Clara’s face, then slid down to her lips. 

“I … we … are well. Thank you for your kindness, Lord …?” Clara curtsied, but the gentleman seemed embarrassed by the formality. 

“I’m Blake. It’s my pleasure. But you are far too young and pretty to be pushing a vegetable cart around England!” The man chuckled and hadn’t yet moved his hands away from hers.

Clara giggled and blinked shyly at him, then looked over at her mother, watching from behind the righted produce cart. Then she’d turned back to the stranger. He was standing so close that Clara’s pounding heart had to have given her attraction to him away.

But the man seemed to appreciate her obvious attraction to him without pride or arrogance. He’d smiled warmly as he gently closed Clara’s fingers around the tomatoes when they threatened to slip out of her shaking hands.

“Take care in this dry wind, miss. It can easily nudge a flame into a wild, untamable fire.”

Clara had gasped at his bold words, then felt her entire body tingle as the handsome stranger winked, slowly released her hands, and walked back to his carriage with his dark, wavy hair flying.

Could that Blake be the same man who just hired her as a governess? Would he remember her, too, or was that intense moment they shared years ago something she only imagined had taken place?

Clara pulled her hands out from under the table and folded them together in front of her plate.  “Father, I would be honoured to work for the esteemed Barrett family. I trust that you have found exactly where I am called to be.” 

As her parents continued to discuss the details, Clara barely registered the fact that she’d be helping an abandoned child who may or may not stay long at Hartwell Manor. And that it was her former employers, the Reynolds, who had written to the vicar enquiring about his daughter’s availability for the Hartwell household. 

All she could think about were the intense blue eyes of a gentleman who may or may not be the soulmate she’d wished for in her secret prayers. And how that same gentleman, if it were indeed him, might help open the sheltered bubble of her world even more until it popped and released the fiery side of her true self that was desperate to come finally to life.