Conquering an Alluring Heiress (Preview)

Chapter One

A Tragic Letter

Clara drew in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of a strange ringing sound in her ears. Though she was comfortably seated she found her fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the table to keep her from toppling to the floor. Across the polished oaken expanse, she watched as the finely-dressed pale gentleman regarded her with a dispassionate gaze.

“I…I do beg your pardon, Mr Finch,” Clara breathed. “I do believe I may have misheard you. Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

The man sniffed through his thick, bushy moustache, giving Clara a cold look up and down. Under normal circumstances she would have a fair guess what he was thinking—just like any proud middle-class fellow, he was likely either leering at her body or sizing up just how rude he currently felt like being to one of her station.

But then, these were anything but normal circumstances.

With a hearty harrumph, Mr Finch spoke again in a slightly more insistent voice. “As I previously verbalized, Miss Clara, you are the natural daughter of the late Duke Lionel St. George. As such, you stand to inherit a portion of his estate.”

Clara felt her world threaten to shrink away into blackness. Her eyes leapt about the Fitzroy family salon for something stable to alight upon. But though the room had been such a familiar sight, not two moments before—to the point of debilitating boredom, really—the ornaments and furniture that she had spent her youth dusting and polishing now seemed entirely alien to her.

Taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, she instead locked her eye back on the gentleman across from her. When he had knocked at the door of her employer and asked to speak to her, of all people, Clara had taken him first for a constable, though his appearance immediately refuted this judgment.

Dressed modern if not extravagant fashion, Mr Finch had the salt-and-pepper hair and the thin, ink-stained fingers of a secretary or banker, and a pained expression to match this assessment. Indeed, he had a severe face, if not an unkind one—a hard youth spent at Saint Julian’s had been a good education in telling the difference between the two.

Clara found herself so engrossed in the sight of the man before her, and so lost in the sheer impossibility of the news he bore, that she nearly jumped out of her chair in surprise when he cleared his throat once again.

“I see,” she managed to say at last.

Foolish girl, she chastised herself, wincing. You’ll need to say more than that, or he will take you for a simpleton!

“You…are not unwell, are you, Miss?” Mr Finch asked, though he did not move from his position with legs crossed in one of the Fitzroys’ antique wooden chairs. “If you are infirm, it is feasible for me to return at a later hour.”

“No, no, thank you, sir,” Clara stammered. “It’s just…well, this is rather a lot to take in. To suddenly find out that I had a father—a lord, you said?”

“I did not, but that may be inferred by His Grace’s mode of address.”

“And he died?”

“Indeed,” Mr Finch said, unblinking. “His Grace’s expiration was as recent as it was tragic.”

Clara reached to scratch her head in confusion, then stopped herself—Mrs Worthing, the housekeeper, had rather savagely tried to break her of this habit, calling it unclean. Their mutual employer, Mrs Fitzroy, tended to agree and had a tendency to look at Clara out of the side of her eye as if she were covered in filth.

Clearing her throat instead, she asked in a shaky voice, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand the last part. I am his ‘natural daughter’?”

The slim man stole a glance at his pocket watch, then snapped it shut with a purposeful twitch of his moustache. “Perhaps it would be suitable for you to read the letter with which I have presented you. I understand His Grace explains the circumstances a bit more fully therein.”

With another shock, Clara suddenly remembered the sealed envelope on the table before her. She had been so addled by the situation that she had forgotten it entirely. With shaking hands, she picked it up and examined it once more. On the front was written “Clara,” and on the back, it was sealed with a dried blob of dark blue wax.

I’ve never opened a letter addressed to me before, she thought, fingers brushing against the stiff, brilliantly white paper. Much less one sealed by a Duke!

Casting nervous glances to Mr Finch, who continued to be most unhelpful in his dedicated apathy, Clara carefully opened the envelope and withdrew a single folded page covered in looped, flowing handwriting.

“To My Dearest Daughter:

“I imagine this letter must come as something of a surprise. I can only beg your patience as I relate this story that by all rights you should have known all your life.

“Twenty-four years ago, I engaged in a secret liaison with a maid in my employ named Sara Barstow. She was a wonderful young woman, and apart from the impropriety and the tragedy that followed our entanglement, I do not regret or recant one ounce of the affection she and I shared.

“As Fate would have it, Sara and I conceived a child. Tragically, I did not become aware of this fact until after she had died in childbirth and given her baby—our baby—to St. Julian’s. That baby was you, Clara.

“I know that a better man would have taken you in to raise as his own rightful progeny. But I had a growing family of my own, and I knew my wife would never agree to taking you in. And as my integrity proved to be as low as my station was high, I ultimately chose to leave you in the care of the Sisters of the orphanage.

“I know no words can excuse my neglect, but I want you to know that I have regretted my decision for these many long years since your birth. I can only hope that sharing some small piece of my family’s fortune—our family’s fortune, Clara—can in some way make up for leaving you alone for all these long years. For you to be well taken care of and no longer alone is my final wish on my deathbed, and my most fervent.

“—Your Loving Father, Lionel St. George”

This final word was marred by a tear that rolled down Clara’s face and splashed across the page. With a frustrated bite on her lip, Clara blotted away this tear and rubbed her eyes on the sleeve of her maid’s uniform. She took a shaky breath, then stared once more at the words, uncomprehending.

This cannot be right, Clara breathed. I am an orphan, a child of the London streets. All this time I had a mother and father—a true mother and father?

Though she had but three-and-twenty years, Clara had always felt the years passed her by with a cruel slowness. She had spent so many long, long months and years under the cruel care of the Sisters of St. Julian, and her deprivation and misuse at their hands were replaced with deprivation and misuse on the streets of the city when she turned fifteen. Clara had been a strong, canny young woman to evade the pimps and robbers, but that feat had cost her almost every last piece of innocence and goodness that the nuns had not beaten out of her. Even her previous six or seven years’ employment at the Fitzroy household, which had seemed positively blissful by comparison, now soured in her mind.

All my life I have worked and fought and toiled. And now I find all of it was needless? Had one man been kinder, one woman less callous, I might have been spared every last lash and curse?

Hot tears of anger rushed to her eyes once more. All at once, she was furiously angry, though she could not quite determine at whom her anger was directed.

This strange Duke, her true father who had loved her mother and claimed to love her, yet had abandoned her to the cold streets all these years?

His noble wife—a cruel, sinister woman, Clara was instantly sure—who had prevented her from growing up in a loving family?

This strange lawyer named Mr Finch, who in less than ten minutes had upended everything she thought she had known about herself?

Of course, she had long carried a burning brand of anger in the name of the Sisters of St. Julian, but now it burned hotter still, furious at the sheer purposelessness of her years of struggle.

Clara started as another harrumph reverberated through the room like a tennis ball bouncing across the table.

Face calm and collected despite his obvious impatience, Mr Finch moved to rise as he said, “As I said, I would not be opposed to revisiting your domicile if you need any additional time, Miss, or require any assistance reading the words in—”

“No!” she blurted, clutching the paper more tightly. Seeing Mr Finch’s eyebrow arch at this outburst, she sat back in her chair and paused to consider her next words carefully.

Trust your instincts, Clara, said the small voice in her head that had always kept her company on her lonely nights and threatening days. They’ve kept you alive. This man may be rich and intelligent, but he’s no different than all the sharps and swindlers in Camden Town.

“No…no, thank you, Mr Finch,” Clara said in a more measured tone, folding her hands in her lap with a renewed sense of confidence. “But I do have some questions, sir, begging your pardon.”

Mr Finch hesitated for only a moment before he settled back in his chair and tented his fingers expectantly, still and quiet as a corpse.

“What can you tell me of His Grace—my father?” she asked, trying to ignore how loudly her heartbeat thundered in her ears. “You said he died recently?”

“Indubitably. His Grace perished after a sudden illness, I fear. Typhus, if you must know,” Finch said with a bloodless frown on his face. “He scarcely had sufficient time to sort out his affairs—including those that pertain to you, Miss—before he succumbed.”

“And what of his family? The letter mentions a wife, and…?” Clara trailed off.

The lawyer waited a long moment for her to finish her thought before, with a slight twitch under his right eye, he answered, “Lady Mary passed away three years ago, I fear. Their children still live, however, including the new Duke.”

Clara leaned forward in her chair, feeling her breath come more quickly once again. “My brothers and sisters? Or—no, half-brothers and half-sisters?”

Mr Finch sniffed, “Young Master Christopher, your younger brother, has inherited his father’s title and lands, though due to his juvenescence he remains under the guardianship of a certain friend of the family named Mr Morton. Ladies Helena and Judith are about your age and married shortly after growing to womanhood. They naturally live with their husbands, but still reside in the vicinity.”

Clara shook her head, trying to puzzle out the man’s impenetrable language. I have a brother, then. And sisters! So many nights she had lain awake in the orphanage dreaming of such a revelation. She used to wonder if she had parents or siblings alive somewhere in the world, and what sort of people they might be. Now that the reality was staring her in the face, she felt positively overwhelmed by all the sudden reversals in her circumstances.

A chilling thought came to her mind: her father claimed it was his wife who prevented him from taking in his bastard daughter, yet that wife died three years ago? Was he more worried about his own reputation in life than he let on in his letter, then?

Remembering another detail that had jumped out at her, Clara pointed at the letter and gave Mr Finch her most earnest expression, the one she reserved for pleading with landladies and moneylenders. “Father wrote something about a fortune in his letter. Er, His Grace, I mean.”

The man nodded ever so slightly. “As I said, His Grace the current Duke of St. George naturally inherited his father’s house and the largest portion of his estate. But yes, in addition to being granted the surname St. George, some portion of the St. George inheritance has been reserved for you, Miss Clara. Pursuant to the late Duke’s final wishes, I have been charged to maintain this money in an account at the bank on your behalf, and to make myself available to discuss all matters fiduciary and…”

But Clara’s mind had flown her too far to hear the continuation of Mr Finch’s oration. Instead, it cast her back once more through her hardscrabble upbringing.

Every apple I filched when I could bear my hunger no longer, every miser and slumlord who tried to squeeze my last penny from my exhausted fingers… she thought, eyes growing wide with wonder. I wonder if I shall ever go hungry again, now?

“Now, if you will excuse me, Miss,” said Mr Finch, rising from the chair and straightening his jacket. “I have a considerable amount of other business today. If our affairs here are concluded, I would prefer to make our egress post haste.”

“Wait!” she cried, rising from her chair on trembling legs. Mr Finch looked at her expectantly.

“What…what is to become of me now?” she asked as her arms fell helplessly to her sides. “I don’t…am I…?”

The slightest crack formed in the lawyer’s stern façade. “Did His Grace not include that information in his letter…?” he muttered to himself with a small glare crossing his brow.

Then he shook his head and looked Clara in the eye once more. “Until such time as you are wedded, the Duke wished for you to reside at the St. George residence. I am to conduct you there anon, if you are ready.”

Clara blinked. Surely I am misunderstanding this strange gentleman once again…?

“Unless of course, you wish to remain here in the employment of this family, I suppose,” Mr Finch said with rising impatience. “In which case I shall make my departure to inform His Grace, amend the terms of the previous Duke’s will, and proceed—”

“No!” she interjected with a suddenness that surprised her. “I…I would very much like to come to the…to my family’s…er…”

Mr Finch gave a tiny sigh before he straightened and bowed shallowly. “Very good, Miss. As soon as you are ready, then.”

“Why, I’m ready now!” Clara said with a touch more steel in her spine than she felt.

He raised his eyebrow at her once more. “You do not need to have your possessions packed, or bid farewell to your employers? Or,” he harrumphed again as he gave her another quick up-and-down, “perhaps change your clothing?

Clara glanced down. With a rush of red coming to her cheeks, she realized she felt a surge of embarrassment at the maid’s uniform she had worn throughout her last several years of employment.

“Yes. Er, of course,” she mumbled, smoothing her skirt with one hand. “I will…tend to those affairs, then. Quick-like, sir.”

Mr Finch clicked his heels together and gave her another bow, then walked out the door, leaving her alone in the salon.

Clara stood there in the silent room for a moment longer. She knew she needed to make her preparations, or at the very least determine what those preparations might be so she could begin making them. Dimly she was aware of just how little time it would take to change into her only other dress, bid farewell to Sophia and Glenys, and arrange her meagre possessions—assuming she wished to keep them at all, of course—but surely she should take care of it regardless, so as not to keep Mr Finch waiting.

Instead, Clara found she was unable to restrain one last flight of her imagination. Once she stepped out that door, the world would be forever transformed for her.

I awoke this morning to just another day as a maid, she reflected with awe. Now it is scarcely noon, and not only do I have the family I have so desperately wished for all my life, but I may never need to work another day in my life.

A smile came to Clara’s face, the first in what felt like a very long time.

Chapter Two
Introductions

The carriage jostled and jangled down unfamiliar streets. The plush, comfortable seat beneath Clara lurched to and fro wildly, to the point where she was sure she would be thrown out the door onto the cobblestones. Or worse—be ill all over the interior of the carriage.

Keep breathing, girl. Steady your nerves lest you embarrass yourself further.

Trying to moderate her reaction to this most unfamiliar method of travel, Clara found herself watching Mr Finch carefully. His beaver felt hat lay in his lap, hands easily at his sides, and his eyes were closed in a mysterious sleep or repose of some sort.

Clara closed her own eyes, but felt her gorge rise as her dizziness suddenly became much worse. Fluttering her eyes open, she thought to distract herself with conversation.

“Thank you for accompanying me, Mr Finch,” she said quietly. “I appreciate your…help today.”

“Hmm,” Mr Finch replied without opening his eyes.

Clara peered out the window and watched the scenery pass them by. The carriage had passed through the wealthy neighbourhood of the Fitzroys through the sooty, crowded areas that Clara knew first-hand. Soon enough those sights had vanished, replaced by increasingly large and ornate houses with ever-widening grassy spaces between them.

“Do…er, do all these houses have Dukes living in them, sir?” she asked, allowing a hint of wonder to creep back into her voice.

“No.”

Having passed the sack containing her few possessions to the colourfully dressed coachman, the interior of the carriage was empty save for Clara and Mr Finch. And, of course, for the silence that grew larger and more oppressive each time it fell over the pair.

“Oh,” she said at last. This syllable drew no response at all from Mr Finch, as Clara had come to expect.

Though Clara had never owned a watch, by now she guessed they must have been travelling for more than an hour. The last familiar landmark had passed them by some time ago.

By now we must be well out of London, she thought, mystified by the strange, extravagant estates that surrounded them. Or even England itself!

Confounded by the sights out the small carriage window and stymied in her attempts at conversation, Clara fled back into her imagination to distract her from her queasiness.

I wonder what shall happen after we arrive at the Duke’s house? Surely I will be given somewhere to sleep, and hopefully a meal. And then…well…

With an anxious twist in her stomach, Clara found she was entirely unable to begin to imagine what the noble classes spent their time doing. She had spent her short adulthood following them, serving them, and tidying after them, but apart from ordering servants about, she was at a complete loss as to how they passed their days.

“I wonder if my brother and sisters will be glad to see me?”

Mr Finch’s eyelids shot open, revealing his dark brown eyes focused right on Clara.

Did I say that out loud?

His moustache twitched in preparation for a more thorough answer. Or scolding, Clara thought with worry.

“Miss Clara,” the lawyer spoke in a serious tone—by now, Clara had begun to wonder if he had any other tone at all. “I recognize that we have not known one another for very long. However, being an excellent judge of character if I might be allowed to flatter myself, I believe I have deduced what sort of person you are. Do I have your permission to dispense an unsolicited piece of advice?”

Clara nodded limply, a motion facilitated by the rapid back-and-forth jerking of the carriage.

Mr Finch drew in a breath through his teeth, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “You appear to be a young woman most learned in the etiquette of the station in which you have been brought up. As near as I am able to determine, you are polite, deferent but not mindless, unobtrusive, and obedient to an appropriate degree. And unless I miss my guess, I suspect you are also a fundamentally sincere individual at heart.”

She found herself blushing at this characterization, being quite unused to praise of any kind. Hesitantly, she managed to say, “Th—thank you, Mr Finch. I—”

“Nearly all of these qualities will serve you very poorly in your new situation,” he interrupted, face stony as ever. “I suggest you expunge them from your character, ideally within the next few minutes before we reach our destination.”

Clara felt her heart sink as Mr Finch continued his grim counsel.

“There is very little place for the illegitimate daughter of a Duke within the circles of English high society. You will by turns need to be polite, deferent, obedient, and unobtrusive, yes, but at very different moments than you were expected to during your time as a servant, and to different degrees and toward different people than before. What’s worse, the mistakes you will assuredly make will be seized upon by your enemies at every opportunity.”

“Enemies?” Clara asked in a shocked voice. “What…who would be my enemy? I have not even met anyone of this circle you are talking about. What cause have I given anyone to bear ill will toward me?”

“Your very presence as an illegitimate daughter will be sufficient cause. You will have a chaperone, of course—a distant cousin named Miss Forsythe, who was chaperone to your sisters before their marriages—but she will not be able to protect you from everything. Some people will be offended by you no matter what you do. And remember,” he added in an ominous tone, “you are inheriting a piece of the Duke’s fortune. A piece that might have gone to others had you not been recognized as His Grace’s daughter.”

A pall of silence fell over the carriage. The world outside the carriage window suddenly looked a much grimmer and less wondrous place to Clara. Her stomach grew restless once again.

“And…what about being sincere?” Clara asked in a small voice, remembering the last in Mr Finch’s list of her perceived traits.

An unfamiliar expression came to Finch’s pinched face. “In the ton? That may be your greatest weakness of all.”

Clara rose an inch in her seat as the carriage lurched violently to a stop. “What’s happening?” she asked, hearing the coachman descend from his bench above them.

Mr Finch gave a brief glance out the window, then donned his hat with a smooth movement of his gloved hand. “We have arrived.”

* * *

Clara had worked as a maid in the homes of a handful of London’s wealthy families and had always been stunned by the plenty within each house. But if the Fitzroys’ home was a palace compared to the tiny rooms where she had lived, the St. George estate was like a city unto itself.

The mammoth edifice was like a work of art on its own, with intricate stone decorations and ornaments that covered its façade down both wings, which stretched nearly as far as Clara could see in either direction. Looking around them, she saw that the grounds of the manor were dotted with carefully groomed flowers and hedges of all kinds, alight in the colours of springtime. Even the air itself felt better—cleaner, or richer in some strange way—and Clara felt herself drinking it into her lungs deeply.

Though she desperately wished to explore this remarkable house, her curiosity outweighing her fear, a thin man with wrinkled skin and an old-fashioned wig led them toward the doors of the vast house. Mr Finch gestured for her to follow, and she did so, fearing her feet would sully the beautiful rugs of the magnificent estate.

The interior of the manor was even grander than the grounds. Following the soft tap-tap-tap of the butler’s shoes across the polished marble, they passed at least a dozen salons and rooms, each large enough to contain an entire house and each decorated in gold, velvet, mahogany, and precious objects that she could not identify. Clara could scarcely imagine the difficulty involved in tending to such an enormous house—it must take an entire day just to dust all of the artefacts in one of these rooms!

No, Clara, stop it, she chided herself. You are not here to clean. This is your family’s house, and you will be living here, not working.

As difficult as this thought was to even contemplate, Clara hoped she would begin to believe it before too long.

“Oops,” she cried as she stumbled into Mr Finch, who had stopped alongside the butler at a closed set of double doors. “Excuse me, sir, I apologize,” she babbled.

The lawyer smoothed his suit jacket and murmured, “Quite all right.” Then, as he gave a nod, the butler opened the doors before them, revealing the grandest room yet.

“Mr James Finch and Miss Clara St. George,” called the butler in a loud voice, clear as a bell, before stepping aside gracefully.

Eyes cast downward, Clara shuffled into the room behind Mr Finch. At a quiet harrumph and a subtle motion of his head, she stepped forward so she was beside him, then lifted her skirts to curtsy as deeply as she dared.

Their entrance was greeted by a stony silence more complete and suffocating than any Clara had found in her life. No household noises, no sounds of the city street. She could not even hear anyone breathing, everything was so muffled by the plush red carpet beneath her feet.

“Your Grace,” Mr Finch said with a stiff, formal bow. “Lady Helena, Lady Judith. Mr Morton,” he added with progressively shallower bows to each of the other occupants of the opulent room.

With a smooth step to one side, Mr Finch reached an outstretched toward her. “This is Miss Clara, of whom we have spoken.”

When she felt she could remain in her curtsy no longer, Clara dared to lift her eyes into the room and was nearly thrown to the floor by the scene before her.

Whether the room was a sitting room, a salon, a lounge, or library or something grander than she had ever heard of Clara could not be sure, but it was a long, wide room filled with light streaming through the tall glass windows and twinkling from the two great crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. All about the enormous Oriental rug that covered the floor were antique chairs and tables of all sorts, and the walls were bedecked with ancient-looking tapestries and enormous oil portraits.

But in truth, Clara paid barely any attention at all to the room itself—her eyes were fixed instead on the four people who stared back at her.

First, she saw the two women sitting on ornate armchairs by the fireside, which burned merrily though it was a warm spring day outside. One was tall and thin, with pale skin and dark brown hair much like Clara’s own, while the other was shorter and had ashy blonde hair worn in an extravagant style. For a moment Clara was dazzled by the glamour of their dresses and the jewellery they wore, and by their striking hazel-coloured eyes so like hers, but then she detected the air of spite that emanated from both of them.

Both women turned their eyes elsewhere as soon as Clara’s vision fell upon them, but from the glares they fixed on the air in the room, she could tell how displeased they were with her presence.

That, or they are the sort of people who look so very displeased at all times and in all situations, Clara thought. Or perhaps both. I wonder which is Helena and which is Judith?

On the other side of the room, sitting in a chair too large for his gangly frame and wearing a jacket and vest of royal quality was a stripling boy with sandy-blonde hair. For all his finery, the boy—young man, really, for he looked to be only a handful of years of growth from adulthood—looked positively frightened, and had dark circles around his eyes that belied his apparently luxurious upbringing.

Standing beside the boy was a tall young man, perhaps only slightly older than Clara, with a mop of thick, curly black hair hanging over his face. The man was elegantly dressed and stood with a hand resting gently on the back of the boy’s chair. He was the only occupant of the room who did not look away when Clara looked to him, and though she thought she might be imagining it, he wore what could generously be called a smile on his thin lips.

What sort of place have I been brought to? Clara thought to herself with a sinking feeling in her stomach. And what manner of people are these?

The gentleman who was called “Mr Morton” bowed to her from where he stood. “It is a pleasure, Miss Clara,” he said in a deep voice. Head still spinning, she curtsied again dumbly.

Then Clara spied Mr Morton tapping the boy on the back of his shoulder. With a start, the boy—the young Duke, Christopher St. George Clara assumed—looked in her direction with as steely a gaze as a child could muster and spoke in a clear, loud voice, “Thank you for coming, Miss Clara. We are most pleased to have you here among our family, and…”

He paused, scrunching up his face in concentration. Clara felt a twinge of sympathy as young Christopher seemed to grow frustrated with himself, mouthing words as he looked at the ground in thought. Glancing up to Mr Morton, he asked in a loud whisper, “What was it, Edward?”

The young gentleman leaned down and covered his mouth to whisper into the Duke’s ear. Then Mr Morton straightened and gave Clara a knowing smile.

“And…look forward to welcoming you into the St. George household, as the late Duke wished,” the Duke completed. He winced, a sour expression coming to his face as he slumped back in his chair. Christopher looked up to Mr Morton for affirmation and received a small smile and pat on the shoulder in response.

What a curious boy, Clara thought as she gave a closer look to the young Duke. He seems far too serious for his age, that much is certain.

Unsure of just what to say to this display, Clara curtsied once more, as politely and silently as she had a thousand times in her role as a maid. Her eyes were lowered in deference, so she did not see if her wordless answer was thought of as satisfactory by any of the room’s occupants, but her ear detected an exchange by the fireside. A sound of sniffing, then of women stifling laughter.

Clara’s eyes shot to the two women, who now had their eyes fixed directly on her, the pale skin on their faces pulled taut.

I have seen that expression before, she thought as her heart began to hammer harder than ever in her chest. That is the look a highborn lady gives when she sees something they consider to be foul or beneath their dignity. How they look at a bit of rubbish on the street. Not so different from the ruffian on the street who tries to bluff you into being afraid of him.

A familiar sense of indignation began to rise in her chest. They will not see me cower. I have as much right to be here as they do. With this thought, she stood straighter, lifting her head to look directly at the glaring young women.

With a harrumph that Clara had by now become thoroughly familiar with, Mr Finch stepped forward once more. “Pursuant to our previous discourse, Miss Clara will be residing here at the St. George estate in accordance with your father’s wishes.”

“What of our wishes?” the taller, brown-haired woman audibly whispered behind a half-raised fan. Her blonde sister gave a toothy giggle in response.

“During the duration of her indefinite stay here,” Mr Finch continued with only a barely-visible twitch of his moustache, “she is entitled to all privileges accorded to a woman of her birth. I hope for His Grace’s sake you will make her welcome here on the property.

“Oh, we will,” laughed the blonde woman in a voice that knew neither mirth nor kindness.

“Yes,” said Mr Morton as he shot a deathly glance to the sisters. “Yes, we will.”

Mr Finch turned to Clara. “If you are ready, Miss Clara, your maid will have prepared your room for you. I would be gratified to escort you.”

Clara nodded without looking at him, instead letting her eyes roam from one curious face to the next. Giving as sweet a smile as she could muster and putting the dirty old dress she was wearing out of her mind, she gave a wide smile to her new family. “I am very pleased to be here in my father’s home with you. I am sure we shall be the best of friends before long.”

Only one way to deal with these sorts, she thought, remembering how she had gotten past a hundred more intimidating thugs in her short life.

“Dear sisters,” she said, turning her smile to the women in the corner, who shrank back in an expected mix of fear and revulsion. “I am so happy to know you both. I can just tell you are the most kind and friendly sisters a young woman could ever ask for.”

Remembering her manners, she turned to Christopher, who eyed her warily, and gave another curtsy. “Your Grace,” Clara said, then turned to follow Mr Finch out the open door.

“Did you hear that?” twittered a voice from behind her. Clara resisted the urge to turn and look, keeping her gaze fixed forward as she nervously followed the maid and Mr Finch out into the corridor.

“Yes. How horrid!” another high-pitched voice answered.

As the door was closed behind her, Clara faintly heard one of the voices say, “Don’t worry. We’ll get rid of her for good before she embarrasses us.”

---

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Clara St. George has learned how to take care of herself in the hardest possible way. Raised in an orphanage, she was resigned to spend the rest of her days toiling as a maid for wealthy families. One fateful day, a lawyer visits to inform her that she is the daughter of a Duke and the heiress of more money than she had ever seen in her life. Little did she know that along with a great fortune, she would also inherit more enemies than she could count. When she realizes that her half-sisters absolutely despise her, her only thought is to run away and leave everything behind. Just when she thinks she is ruined forever, she meets the Duke’s guardian, who will help her become part of the nobility’s world. What she never expected though, was that he would be so charming, that her desire for him would be irresistible… Will this be the beginning of a lustful journey with him or will she be entrapped in a miserable life with her new family?

Edward Morton is an attractive young man who has always taken very seriously the role of being the young Duke’s guardian. However, his life is about to change forever when he meets the captivating Clara, whose eyes will start haunting his dreams. Being completely mesmerised by her, he seizes every opportunity to teach her how to behave at the social gatherings and balls and protect her from the machinations of her malicious half-sisters. Day by day, their feelings deepen and the fiery attraction between them is impossible to deny, but one question remains… Will he finally dare to surrender his heart to the most ravishing woman he has ever known?

Fate might have written in the stars for them to find each other, but Clara’s social standing as the illegitimate daughter of the Duke keeps her from completely accepting her passion for Edward. Even though they are scared this burning affair might lead nowhere, it is beyond their powers to resist the temptation. The more time they spend together, the more they set their hearts and bodies on fire… Will Clara manage to break free of society’s norms and follow her passionate heart? Or will they both be doomed to a life of unfulfilled desire?

“Conquering an Alluring Heiress” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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