Title A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke
Author Emily Windsor
Genre Regency Romance
Publisher Senara Press
Book Blurb
“So tell me, Miss Webster, why should I employ you as governess?”
The penniless Miss Charlotte Webster needs employment.
The frosty Duke of Shawdale needs a governess.
What could be simpler?
Yet when a long-ago love, a bold wager, a night-wandering uncle and Christmas are involved… Nothing is simple.
A charming short novella, inspired by Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and set in the romantic scenery of the Lake District, Charlotte must remind the duke of his past, show him the present and let the future unfold…
With elegant balls, a Lakeland wedding and a duke who has forgotten the meaning of love, the vocation of governess has never been such a festive fairy tale.
Merry Christmas.
Excerpt
Shawdale Manor. Ambleside, Lake District. December 1817
“So tell me, Miss Webster, why should I employ you as governess?”
Oh, for heaven’s sake…
And rolling her eyes, Charlotte reached across the study desk for another mince pie.
“For so many reasons, Marcus…” She ignored the ascent of ducal eyebrow at her informality. “It’s a mere eleven days till Christmas Eve. You cannot leave your fourteen-year-old ward alone with the servants. My previous employment has just ended. And no one else would be available at such short notice.” She munched the pie – such a luscious crust. “Indeed, I’m your only option.”
A grunt emanated from across the desk. “I suppose,” he began in a low rumble. “I ought to be thankful you’ve brought your references at all.” And he set to perusing them as though they formed a contract with the cloven-hoofed devil himself.
Withdrawing a threadbare handkerchief from her threadbare reticule, Charlotte patted crumbs from her lips. Since her eighteenth year, she had worked as a finishing governess for families within the Lake District and was therefore well aware one should remain patient and demure throughout an interview.
Yet that was rather arduous when the duke conducting said interview was the neighbouring boy she’d played with as a mischievous child, the earnest young man she’d waltzed with as a wistful girl, and the handsome gentleman she now…
Well, at present, Charlotte was uncertain what her feelings were for Marcus Scarcliffe, the Duke of Shawdale.
Nigh eight years past, that earnest young man had left the Lakes and travelled to London for some Town polish and oh, how she had eagerly awaited his homecoming…
But a haughty pinchfist had returned to them in his place. A nobleman who’d appeared to care for naught but the state of his coffers.
Perhaps after the sophistication of the city, he’d considered his rural Westmoreland district neighbours beneath his ducal rank? Or had a broken love affair changed him?
Charlotte had seen him on occasion since his return, and although she treated him the same, his manner towards her had become as distant as the night-time stars.
She inhaled deeply to clear such timeworn musings. “And why are you not staying here in Ambleside with your ward for Christmas?”
That chestnut head of hair leisurely lifted and hazel eyes pierced to her very heart – so familiar and yet…not. As a younger man, a green tint had danced within them – carefree and trusting. Now they remained brandy-brown with the occasional fleck of pure gold – a hint as to where his true passions lay.
“You would not understand, Cha… Miss Webster.” He cast her a patronising smile.
She simpered her own in return.
Pompous presumptuous lackwit.
“But I am a busy man and Christmas Day is like any other day. I am to depart for Carlisle on the Eve of Christmas to discuss a canal construction venture with Lord Crockett.”
“Grief, any more canals and England will sink. And Lord Crockett? Truly?” Charlotte tutted. “He has a reputation amongst his house maids as a debauched buck fitch. They call him Lord Cockbawd.”
He shrugged those broad, finely clad shoulders. “His personal circumstances are no business of mine.”
“There’s no worse time of year to be leaving home either.” The joy of Christmas. The need for family and–
“I know. It might damn well snow.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant and he dratted well knew it.
Her lips thinned, eyes meandering to the study window to note that the crest of Wansfell Pike, the summit which shadowed the town of Ambleside and this manor house, was hidden by a stratum of fog.
With each day of advent, the weather worsened, the nights as icy as this duke’s heart.
When a girl, this neighbouring house had been so full of festive spirit, for although Marcus’ father had died young and during these same winter months, his mother had insisted on celebrating Christmas to the utmost, lighting candles for remembrance and decorating every room with greenery.
Marcus’ gaze returned to her references, so Charlotte returned to the mince pies.
The monies from her work as governess just about kept her own family home from falling around her ears. But the roof leaked above her chamber, the attics were troubled with rampant mould, and her uncle Marmaduke had thrice this week escaped his nurse by climbing out the dilapidated library window to be later found in the duke’s rose garden calling for a woman named Martha.
But more of that later…
“Have you a new school lined up for your ward after Christmas?” For Charlotte knew that Miss Dinah Lovecott had just finished at Miss Fanshawe’s Most Excellent Seminary for Elegant and Educated Young Ladies. Established 1802. Board included. Ninety guineas per annum. Washing extra.
“No.”
“Perhaps you should employ me as a full-time finishing governess then and not just for the Christmas season?”
His lips thinned, high cheek bones so taut one could bounce a sage dumpling off them. “You are…expensive.”
Charlotte spluttered mince pie crumbs. “Your starched cravats for a week must cost more than my wages for a year.” And no, this wasn’t the best manner in which to gain employment but she was fast losing patience.
He straightened said cravat. “I have a certain deportment to project.”
“A starchy one?”
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Author Biography
Emily grew up in the north of England on a diet of historical romance and strong tea.
Unfortunately, you couldn’t study Regency slang, so she did the next best thing and gained a degree in Classics and History instead. This ‘led’ to an eight-year stint in engineering.
Having left city life, she now lives in a dilapidated farmhouse where her days are spent writing, fixing the leaky roof, battling the endless vegetation and finding pictures of well-tied cravats.
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