The Duke's Proposal for the Governess, page 1
“But, Dolph—”
He was startled at her use of his first name. “Yes?”
“I recognize that you do not feel a need to love your wife but surely it would be better to choose a suitable wife. Good heavens, I’d likely insult everyone by seating someone in the wrong place at the table.”
“I do not believe I have any great social aspirations. Besides, like I said, that stuff is easy to learn. My sister will teach you.”
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed but she is not my greatest advocate.”
“It is a game, like chess. She overplayed her hand but will reevaluate. She won’t want the family name tarnished.”
Abby went to the window. “And if I wanted to start a charity?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. Ladies have charities all the time. They usually involve knitting.”
“I am not a big knitter.”
“No need.”
“Very well,” Abby said. “I suppose I will marry you.”
Author Note
Change is a constant within our lives. I am at an age when it becomes increasingly hard to embrace the new. One is more cognizant of the negative and less open to the positives inherent in every innovation.
But, as with everything, the challenge is not about the technology but how we use the technology.
This made me think about human invention and the reactions of those first witnesses as they watched the inaugural moments of life-changing ingenuity.
Inspired by this thought, I decided to incorporate the history of steam locomotion in The Duke’s Proposal for the Governess.
The Catch Me Who Can is based on fact. Richard Trevithick built the locomotive, setting it up on a circular rail track. Rides were offered for one shilling. However, the Catch Me Who Can never got beyond the experimental stage, due to its heaviness that broke the track.
Despite this, Trevithick earns a place in history as the first person to successfully prove that a steam locomotive on iron rails was feasible. Twenty years later, railway engineers George Stephenson and Robert Stephenson demonstrated the potential of their locomotive, Rocket.
Steam power continued to be the dominant power system in railways around the world for more than a century.
ELEANOR WEBSTER
The Duke’s Proposal
for the Governess
Eleanor Webster loves high heels and sun, which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snowhills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences, including a nasty glue gun episode, have proven that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in Psychology and holds an undergraduate degree in History and Creative Writing. She loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.
Books by Eleanor Webster
Harlequin Historical
No Conventional Miss
Married for His Convenience
Her Convenient Husband’s Return
A Debutante in Disguise
Caught in a Cornish Scandal
The Duke’s Proposal for the Governess
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com.
To family.
To my daughters, father and husband who provided love, patience, encouragement and frequent meals to sustain me during this undertaking. To my father-in-law and mother-in-law, who are my greatest fans. To our family pets who enhance our lives with a pure and unconditional love. To Milton, the hedgehog and, lastly, to Basil, the dog. This mischievous canine provided company and inspiration throughout the creation of this manuscript.
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from Second Chance with His Viking Wife by Sarah Rodi
Prologue
‘Mrs Harrington is desiring an audience,’ Benton intoned from the library’s threshold.
Lord Lansdowne, Duke of Elmsend, looked up at this unwarranted interruption. ‘An audience? I am not the bloody Pope. And who the devil is Mrs Herring-whatever?’
‘Mrs Harrington,’ Benton repeated. ‘A relative of your late mother’s.’
‘Indigent, I presume?’
‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’
‘How many indigent relatives can one woman have?’ he grumbled.
‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’
‘And what can she possibly want with me? And don’t say you couldn’t say. Where did you put her?’
‘In the drawing room, my lord.’
‘Tell her I am indisposed.’
‘Indeed, alcohol does give one a bad head,’ Benton said, with that slight tsk of his tongue, well remembered from schoolboy scrapes and all too familiar of late.
Randolph looked up to the ceiling. Thankfully it was pleasantly blank. His mother had had an unfortunate predilection for cupids. Few rooms remained unscathed. ‘Fine. I will see her if only to stop you from looking baleful because some long lost cousin is disappointed.’
‘Your mother was a very kind woman, my lord. She believed in family, my lord.’
‘Except her family seems unusually large,’ Randolph said. ‘And indigent.’
* * *
The bonnet fascinated.
Really such a bright thing should not be allowed within the presence of an individual indisposed. Truthfully it more closely resembled an orchard than any form of headgear. Or a vineyard. Or even a greengrocer. Perhaps Mrs Harrington aimed to be a greengrocer catering exotic fruits. Did greengrocers sell exotic fruits? Dolph was not well versed in greengrocers.
‘Lord Lansdowne!’ Mrs Harrington’s trumpeting tones quite startled him from his reverie.
‘Mrs Harrington,’ he said, making his bow before seating himself opposite a middle-aged woman, her stout form encased in dark mourning, a sharp contrast to the bonnet.
‘I am so delighted to meet you,’ she continued. ‘Likely your dear mother mentioned me to you. I am your cousin. From Harrogate.’
‘Indeed,’ he said. It was, after all, entirely possible. His mother had had a large family. Besides, agreement seemed considerably less effortful than contradiction. Truthfully, he’d paid limited attention to his mother’s rambling discourse. He sighed. Odd how something once irksome becomes touched with nostalgia when no longer possible.
He pushed the thought away, shifting his gaze back to his company. ‘So how may I assist or were you wishing merely to renew our kinship?’ he asked, languidly stretching his long legs towards the fire.
Mrs Harrington shifted with a rustle of cloth as she leaned forward, still talking in tones too loud for the situation. He wondered if the absent Mr Harrington was deaf. ‘Yes, well, you see, your mother was always so kind as to send us a Christmas greeting and a little something for my dear Lucinda. Such a kind woman. And so very sad about your father and brother. Indeed, we expressed our condolences. And she wrote back. Even in her time of grief. Anyhow, it all rather made us hope that, upon our arrival, in London that...that...well...she might be...be kind enough to introduce us and lend us...consequence...’
He stiffened. He hated the quick stab of pain. He hated this vulnerability. ‘Indeed, her death does rather curb that notion.’
‘I was so distressed.’ Mrs Harrington pressed her hands together. ‘But by the time I heard the sad tidings, I had already arranged to let our house. Besides, I’d packed up everything. Anyhow, I came up with the notion that we should come to London and hope for the best.’
‘The best?’
Mrs Harrington’s broad, pleasant face flushed. ‘Yes, well, you see, Mr Harrington is recently deceased but I set aside a small amount for my dear Lucinda’s dowry. It is no great sum, but sufficient if we get the right introductions. So we hoped that we might prevail upon our kinship—’
Dolph blinked, his thick head making sense of this convoluted information with difficulty. ‘You didn’t think perhaps my sister might prove more able in this regard?’
‘She has been consistently away,’ his guest said.
She would. His sister did not believe in putting herself out for others, particularly those of a lower social status. ‘Convenient,’ he said. ‘And how exactly are you related to my mother?’
‘Her uncle was a second cousin to my mother. Or is it third? Or perhaps it was her—’
He waved a silencing hand. It did not matter. His mother had helped her every relation, no matter how distant the connection. She seemed incapable of turning away family as though her father’s fiscal fortune made her indebted for ever to those still struggling.
His own father had despised the practice. But then his father had despised his mother. She’d had neither a title, land nor social graces. Indeed, the occasional flat Yorkshire vowel still habitually slid into her words.
But she was rich. And he was not.
Dolph drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. The drumming made his head hurt. He stopped.
‘I’m sure you would be entranced if you were to meet my daughter. She is quite lovely,’ Mrs Harrington said, speaking more quickly as she warmed to her topic. ‘Well brought up. Her artwork is delightful. And she speaks French. Such a musical language, I always think. Indeed, her governess was quite fluent.’
The innocuous words felt like the heavy scent of lavender, which still lingered in his mother’s sitting room, hovering about her writing desk and in the cushions of the settee. His mother would talk like this when he’d first inherited the title. She’d describe some eligible young lady, eulogizing about a fine countenance, pleasant smile or an improbable musical talent.
He’d disliked those conversations as much as he disliked being the heir.
He stood, the movement abrupt. ‘You must excuse me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Hot colour flushed into the woman’s cheeks and neck.
He was being rude. He hated bad manners. They demonstrated a lack of control and an unkindness too much like his father’s.
He made his bow. ‘It was delightful to meet you. Do leave Benton your card. I will, naturally, call on you later in the week.’
‘We would be entranced—’
He rang the bell, craving the silent emptiness that he both sought and hated.
Chapter One
The brisk knocking made Abby jump. The Harringtons had seen few visitors since arriving in London and the timing was most inconvenient, given that everyone else was out.
Pushing aside her sewing with some reluctance, Abby crossed the small entrance way and swung open the door.
A gentleman stood on the threshold. The sheer size of him startled. It was not only his height, made more considerable by his Hessian boots, but also his breadth. The great cloak magnified this dimension so that he dominated the foyer—though, truthfully, this was no great feat given its minute proportions.
‘Good d—’ Abby spluttered before her words were interrupted by the thunder of Basil’s paws. A second later, the dog’s bulk struck her from behind so that she was catapulted against the visitor. For a suspended moment in time, she found herself flush to the great coat, inhaling a smoky, masculine scent. Instinctively, she raised her hand to his shoulder.
‘Basil!’ she gulped, pulling herself away and half falling down the steps. ‘Stop him!’
She lunged forward as Basil reached the bottom step, in a headlong rush towards the street.
With surprisingly swift agility for one so large, the gentleman turned, stepping down the stairs and simultaneously grabbing the frayed rope. Basil jerked to an abrupt halt.
‘Yours, I believe?’ The gentleman handed over the rope.
‘Thank you.’ She took it, stepping back into the front entrance and pulling the animal close so that he now almost sat on her slippers. ‘You must be Lord Lansdowne.’
‘I am.’
‘You had best come in,’ she said.
Truthfully, she was not entirely happy to see him. More precisely, she was irritated. After a week, Mrs Harrington had all but given up any notion that Lord Lansdowne would visit or help with Lucy’s debut, and Abby thought it better that way. Her father had wasted too much time in flights of fancy, hanging on to futile dreams.
Abby was determinedly practical.
She stepped further into the small entrance way, pulling at the obstreperous animal, who now seemed unwilling to shift his considerable bulk, leaning heavily against her legs. Lord Lansdowne followed. His presence gave her an odd feeling. His size seemed to completely fill the narrow hall, making it feel airless.
Although this, she reminded herself, was scientifically impossible. The hall, while small, was not of the dimension where one individual would completely fill the space. Indeed, it was more likely that she was experiencing this odd sensation because he was an unlikely visitor at number thirty-one.
To be sure, she did not know what sort of person would be a typical guest at number thirty-one. To date, the Harrington household had received no one.
‘Shall I close the door?’ Lord Lansdowne enquired, stepping into the hall.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said as she retreated, almost tripping over Basil.
‘Go!’ she admonished the unrepentant animal. ‘You know perfectly well you should be in Iggy’s bedchamber.’
Basil wagged his tail and, surprisingly, chose to obey, loping back up the stairs, his feet a retreating scrabble against the wood.
With that situation resolved, she turned back to take the visitor into the parlour. ‘Mrs Harrington is out but you are welcome to wait.’
At its threshold she paused, glancing back at their guest. Everything about the man seemed in stark contrast to the rented house. The tall collar of his shirt and expertly folded necktie spoke of an entitled sophistication, making the dull furnishing and paint all the more obvious.
His expression was politely bland as though determinedly oblivious to the chipped paint on the newel post, the threadbare rug or the myriad of other telltale signs which each spoke of financial distress.
His very politeness irked. He would say all the right things but do little. That was the way of gentlemen. She’d seen it in her father’s parish, where the local landowners, the Ashleighs, would agree amicably to all manner of improvements for their tenants and then do precisely nothing.
Moreover, Lord Lansdowne was no minor landowner but a gentleman of the first order, a member of the ton.
He was exactly as Mrs Harrington had described.
Exactly what she had anticipated.
And feared.
‘Lord Lansdowne, may I pose a question?’
He raised an eyebrow. His hair was dark, and the combination of an angular jaw and sharp cheekbones gave him a strong, uncompromising aspect.
She squared her shoulders. ‘May I ask the purpose of your visit?’
* * *
Good heavens, polite society would make mincemeat out of her without a vast and immediate improvement of manners. Dolph studied Miss Harrington but found she was not much improved with this closer examination. Her style appeared limited and where her mother had enjoyed flamboyancy, this female appeared quite the opposite. She wore a plain grey dress with her brown hair unfashionably scraped back from a high forehead. Her brows were dark, straight and framing blue eyes, currently peering at him with disconcerting directness.
‘That question would seem somewhat impertinent,’ he said. The female required a set-down.
‘My father would have advised against it,’ she agreed equably.
‘A gentleman of sense.’
‘Not really. Quite the opposite. He merely believed in social niceties. I prefer blunt speech,’ she said, her gaze still unwavering. Her eyes, he had to admit, were quite striking. They were large, framed by long lashes and of an intense blue, azure perhaps, which gave them a mesmeric quality, as though one might sink into their depths.
Her hair, while neither fashionable nor flattering, was thick and of a deep chestnut hue. Her face was heart shaped, her neck long and elegant, and her skin had that English-rose clarity.
Certainly, she was not beautiful in the typical sense and yet there was something about her.
‘I am afraid,’ he said, pulling his attention back to the conversation, ‘that I have not been blunt for the better part of a decade. May we be seated or must one stand for such candour?’
He noted the slight stiffening of her shoulders but she complied, swinging open the door and moving forward with a brisk and purposeful step. Dolph shrugged off his great cloak, hanging it on the stand before following her into a small, somewhat dingy room. A lacklustre fire burned in the hearth. The furniture looked to be of good quality, and an attempt had been made to brighten the place with a vase of flowers placed on a side table.
‘Sit, please.’ She indicated a small settee as she sat on an upright chair close to the hearth, smoothing her skirts while eying him with the obvious expectation of a response.
He sat also. ‘My visit has no ulterior motive. Mrs Harrington paid a call and I am merely returning the courtesy.’
