A Governess for the Grieving Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

Charlotte Westbrook sat in her father’s office and tried to breathe.

The room still smelled faintly of sealing wax and old paper, of ink and leather and the lemon oil her mother had favored for the shelves. Everything was exactly as it had been a week ago. That was the cruelest part. The world had not altered its shape to match her grief.

Her hands were folded in her lap; fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles ached. The black sleeves of her mourning gown fell neatly to her wrists, concealing the long, pale scar that ran along her right forearm. The skin beneath the fabric throbbed anyway, a dull reminder of splintered wood and overturned wreckage, and the moment she had been pulled free while her parents were not.

Across the desk, the solicitor cleared his throat.

“I am sorry, Miss Westbrook,” he said, for what must have been the third or fourth time. His voice was steady, practiced. “But I am bound by duty to be precise.”

Duty. The word landed like a stone.

Charlotte lifted her gaze. Mr. Halcombe sat stiffly in her father’s chair, his papers laid out in orderly stacks, his spectacles balanced low upon his nose. He had attended the funeral. He had shaken her hand. He had told her, kindly, that there would be matters to discuss once arrangements were complete.

She had not expected this.

“The estate,” he continued, tapping one page with his finger, “is insolvent.”

The word echoed in her ears. Insolvent. She had heard her father use it once, years ago, when speaking of another man’s misfortune. She had not thought it could ever belong to them.

“I do not understand,” she said, though she feared she already did. “My father’s accounts—”

“Were extended well beyond prudence,” Mr. Halcombe replied. “Several ventures failed to recover their initial investment. Chief among them”—he paused, just briefly—“the arrangement with Lord Wyndham.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Charlotte’s breath caught painfully in her chest. “William,” she said before she could stop herself.

The solicitor’s mouth tightened. “Yes. Lord Wyndham.”

Viscount of Wyndham, she thought dimly. The title she had once spoken with pride. With anticipation.

The papers before him blurred together—figures marching in cruel lines, sums circled in red ink. Losses. Debts. Liabilities. The words pressed in until she could no longer distinguish one from another.

“The creditors have been patient,” Mr. Halcombe said. “But patience has its limits. The house will be seized to settle outstanding accounts. The contents auctioned. You will be permitted to retain personal effects, of course, but—”

“When?” Charlotte asked.

He hesitated. Just long enough.

“Three days,” he said.

Three days.

Her childhood home. Gone. The place where she had learned her letters at the breakfast table, where her mother had sung while arranging flowers, where her father had kissed her brow each night before retiring to this very room.

Three days.

Beside her, Beatrice’s hand tightened around hers. Charlotte had not realized she was trembling until her cousin’s grip steadied her.

They had kept vigil together once before, years ago, when Beatrice’s mother died unexpectedly. Charlotte had been the one to stay awake through the nights then, holding Beatrice’s hand while grief passed in waves. Now the roles had been reversed, and Beatrice bore it with quiet strength.

“And … has there been any word?” Charlotte asked quietly. “From him?”

Mr. Halcombe did not pretend to misunderstand.

“No,” he said, too quickly. “There has been no letter. Nor any reply to correspondence made on your behalf.”

William had once filled her days with letters—clever notes folded just so, promises written in a confident hand. He had spoken of their future with ease, as though it were already assured. He had taken her on walks, introduced her proudly, and assured her parents of his intentions.

He had not written once since the accident.

Not a word of condolence. Not a single inquiry.

Her throat burned.

“I see,” she said, though the room felt suddenly very far away.

The solicitor gathered his papers, the scrape of parchment against wood jarringly loud. “I will return tomorrow to oversee arrangements,” he said, rising. “If you have questions, Miss Westbrook, you may direct them to my office.”

He bowed, polite and distant, and took his leave.

The door closed with a soft, final click.

The silence left behind was immense.

Charlotte remained where she was, staring at the empty chair across the desk. The familiar objects around her—the brass inkwell, the framed miniature of her parents on their wedding day—no longer felt like anchors. They were already relics. Already belonging to someone else.

Her chest ached as though something vital had been removed.

Beatrice moved closer, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Lottie,” she murmured. “I am so sorry.”

Charlotte swallowed. “It seems I am ruined,” she said, the words sounding strange in her mouth. As though they belonged to someone else.

Beatrice shook her head fiercely. “No. No, you are not. This is not the end.”

Charlotte almost laughed. She had lost her parents, her home, her future—all within a single week. If this was not an ending, she did not know what was.

That night, long after the house had fallen quiet, they sat together by candlelight in Charlotte’s bedchamber. The trunks stood open at the foot of the bed, half-filled with dresses she no longer knew where to take.

“There is something,” Beatrice said cautiously, as though testing the weight of the words before setting them down. “A position.” Beatrice had always been the one to speak first when the world tilted—when Charlotte hesitated, when her courage wavered.

Charlotte looked up from the book she had been pretending to read. “A position?”

“My husband heard of it through one of his acquaintances,” Beatrice continued. “Ashford Manor. In the country. The housekeeper is seeking a governess.”

Charlotte frowned. “A governess? But I have never—”

“I know,” Beatrice said gently. “But you are educated. You are capable. And the family is … particular. They require discretion.”

It had been Beatrice who insisted Charlotte continue her studies long after such diligence was deemed unnecessary. Who had lent her books and declared—with unshakable certainty—that a woman’s mind was never wasted.

Charlotte closed the book. “Who?”

“The Duke of Averleigh,” Beatrice said.

The name carried weight. Distance. Cold respectability.

“He is a widower,” Beatrice went on. “Reclusive. His son is said to be difficult. They have dismissed several governesses already.”

Charlotte’s stomach twisted. “You make it sound most inviting.”

Beatrice gave a small, sad smile. “It is a place. And it is immediate. Mrs. Channing wishes to fill the position at once.”

Charlotte stared at the flickering candle. She had never worked. Never been in service. She had been raised to marry, to host, to manage a household of her own—not to earn her bread beneath another’s roof.

But she had no dowry. No home. No time.

Three days.

She drew a slow breath. “Write to her,” she said at last.

Beatrice’s eyes softened. “Are you certain?”

Charlotte nodded, though her hands shook. “There is nothing left for me here.”

And with that, the last door closed behind her.

***

Charlotte woke with the uneasy sensation that she had been called back into her body too soon.

For a moment, she did not know where she was. The room was dim and cold, the pale light of early morning barely touching the edges of the bed. Her chest felt hollow, as though something vital had been scooped out during the night and not yet returned. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, waiting for grief to crash over her again.

It did not.

Instead, there was only numbness.

Her limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, as if she were moving through water. The warmth she remembered—her natural cheer, her quick smile, her instinct to meet the world head-on—seemed distant, belonging to another version of herself. A Charlotte who had existed before funerals, ledgers, and words like ruin.

She pushed herself upright and drew the covers closer, though she could not feel the chill that crept along the floorboards. The house was too quiet. Even the familiar creaks and groans felt subdued, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Charlotte crossed the room and paused before the looking glass.

The reflection that stared back unsettled her. Her face was pale, her eyes too large, her hair loose and unbrushed around her shoulders. She looked—she thought with a dull sort of surprise—like a ghost. Someone half-present, already fading.

Perhaps that would be easier, she thought. To vanish.

A knock sounded on the door.

Charlotte startled, her heart giving an unnecessary leap. A moment later, Mrs. Ellison’s voice floated through the wood, apologetic and subdued.

“There is a letter for you, miss.”

A letter.

Charlotte turned slowly. Letters had once filled her days. They had been a promise. A certainty.

She opened the door and accepted the envelope with numb fingers, murmuring her thanks before closing herself back inside. The paper was heavier than she expected, the seal unbroken. Her name was written in a precise, unfamiliar hand.

She broke the seal and unfolded the page.

The words swam at first, then sharpened into sense.

Miss Westbrook,

I write in response to your inquiry regarding the position of governess at Ashford Manor. Should you still be desirous of an interview, you are requested to present yourself tomorrow afternoon.

Respectfully,

Mrs. Channing
Housekeeper to His Grace, the Duke of Averleigh

Tomorrow.

Charlotte read it again, her brow creasing.

Tomorrow?

Her breath caught. She glanced toward the window, where the sky was only just beginning to pale. She had written scarcely two days ago—hardly enough time, she thought, for such a prompt reply. The speed of it set her nerves humming.

Before she could second-guess herself, she crossed the hall and knocked on Beatrice’s door.

It opened almost at once, her cousin already awake, shawl drawn close around her shoulders.

“Charlotte?” Beatrice said, alarm flickering across her face. “Is something—”

Charlotte thrust the letter toward her. “Read this.”

Beatrice took it, her eyes scanning quickly. Her brows rose.

“Tomorrow?” she echoed.

“That is what it says.”

Beatrice frowned slightly. “That was … quick.”

“Too quick,” Charlotte agreed. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the letter still trembling faintly in her hand. “It is hardly proper. They must have written back at once.”

Beatrice folded the page carefully. “Or they are in desperate need.”

Charlotte looked up. “Desperate?”

“Well,” Beatrice said, hesitating. “You know of how it is spoken.”

Charlotte stiffened. “How is it spoken?”

Beatrice sighed, settling beside her. “The duke is said to be … withdrawn. Cold. Not much given to society since his wife’s death.”

Charlotte absorbed this in silence.

“And the child?” she asked at last.

Beatrice made a face. “The rumors are less charitable there. I have heard him described as unruly. Wild. A terror to staff.”

Charlotte blinked. “How old is he?”

“Eight.”

Charlotte snorted before she could stop herself. “Eight?”

Beatrice gave her a look.

“I mean,” Charlotte said quickly, sitting straighter, “how dreadful can an eight-year-old truly be? He cannot be plotting revolutions.”

Despite herself, Beatrice smiled faintly. “You always were optimistic.”

“Realistic,” Charlotte corrected. “Children misbehave when they are lonely or bored. That is hardly monstrous.”

Beatrice studied her for a long moment. “You sound very certain for someone who has never taught.”

Charlotte’s mouth curved slightly. “Then perhaps it is time I learned.”

The room fell quiet again, the weight of the decision settling between them.

“At any rate,” Beatrice said gently, “if they are this eager, it means they need you.”

Or they will use me, Charlotte thought, but she did not say it aloud.

Instead, she stared down at her hands, at the faint white line hidden beneath the sleeve at her wrist.

“I cannot go as I am,” she said suddenly.

Beatrice tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“My name,” Charlotte said. The words came more firmly now. “I cannot present myself as Charlotte Westbrook. Not now.”

Understanding dawned slowly in Beatrice’s eyes.

“You wish to disappear,” she said softly.

Charlotte nodded. “Just a little. Long enough to breathe. Long enough not to be looked at with pity—or curiosity.” Her voice tightened. “Long enough not to be remembered as the girl who lost everything.”

Beatrice reached for her hand. “And what name would you choose?”

Charlotte considered, gazing past her cousin to the window, where fog had begun to curl against the glass. “Fenton,” she said after a moment. “Charlotte Fenton.”

Beatrice tested it aloud. “Miss Fenton.”

Charlotte closed her eyes briefly.

“Yes,” she said. “That will do.”

Outside, winter gathered its breath across the hills. The fog thickened, softening the edges of the world beyond the window until everything looked distant, unreal.

Charlotte watched it in silence.

Tomorrow, she would step into a house she had never seen, serve a man she had never met, and place her future in the hands of strangers.

She drew in a slow breath and lifted her chin.

Whatever waited for her at Ashford Manor, she would face it.

There was, after all, nothing left behind.