A most unlikely governess...

...with a shocking secret

Part of The Governess Swap: Lady Rebecca Pierce escapes her forced betrothal when the ship she’s on wrecks. Assuming the identity of a governess she believes has drowned, she enters the employ of brooding Lord Brookmore, who’s selflessly caring for his orphaned nieces. Inconveniently, she’s extremely attracted to the viscount, with her only chance of happiness tied to the biggest risk: revealing the truth about who she really is...

The Governess Swap miniseries

Book 1—A Lady Becomes a Governess

Look out for the next book, coming soon!

“A passionate and sensual Regency romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

“A charming tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on Bound by Their Secret Passion

DIANE GASTON’s dream job was always to write romance novels. One day she dared to pursue that dream, and has never looked back. Her books have won romance’s highest honours: the RITA® Award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the HOLT Medallion, Golden Quill and Golden Heart®. She lives in Virginia, USA, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Visit her website at: dianegaston.com.

Also by Diane Gaston

A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

The Scandalous Summerfields miniseries

Bound by Duty

Bound by One Scandalous Night

Bound by a Scandalous Secret

Bound by Their Secret Passion

The Governess Swap miniseries

A Lady Becomes a Governess

And look out for the next book

coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Lady Becomes a Governess

Diane Gaston

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07384-4

A LADY BECOMES A GOVERNESS

© 2018 Diane Perkins

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To my dear friend Kristine Hughes Patrone, with whom I’ve shared the delights of many a trip to England.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

June 1816

Lady Rebecca Pierce trailed behind the seaman carrying her portmanteau on his shoulder and the dour-faced maid who was her companion for this undesired trip sailing across the Irish Sea to England to marry a man she loathed.

The seaman led them across the deck, following other passengers, a woman with children, a gentleman, a tradesman. The seaman took them through the companionway and down the steps to the cabins below.

Rebecca inhaled the scent of brine that permeated the ship’s wood. Must she be stuck breathing that sour mockery of fresh sea air for the entire journey? Would Nolan, the maid her half-brother, the Earl of Keneagle, hired to accompany her, at least allow her to spend some time on deck? She loved standing at the bow of a ship, feeling the sea breeze on her face and watching the vessel cut through the inky water.

She slowed her step, simply to annoy the woman. Nolan’s duty was to make certain Rebecca fulfilled the nuptials her brother had arranged for her—forced on her—but that did not mean Nolan could control her every move.

Rebecca glanced behind her. But there was no escaping the ship, not when it was anchored in the middle of the harbour. Even if she could swim the distance to shore, her brother had also arranged it that she would have nothing unless she married Lord Stonecroft.

‘Lady Rebecca!’ a strident voice called. Nolan, of course. ‘Hurry. Your cabin is ready.’

Her lips thinned and she simply stopped.

‘Lady Rebecca!’ Nolan had walked back to get her.

Reluctantly—and slowly—Rebecca followed her to the cabin.

* * *

In her cabin, Rebecca sat at the small table and chairs that were securely fastened to the floor. Through a small porthole she watched the ship leave the harbour. There was a good wind. No doubt they would reach England in the morning.

In the open sea, the water grew choppy and the ship heaved and swayed.

‘Oh,’ Nolan moaned, clasping her stomach. She dropped into the seat across from Rebecca. ‘I’m going to be sick.’

Not in her cabin, thought Rebecca. ‘Come.’ She rose and helped Nolan to her feet. ‘I’ll take you to your cabin. You can rest there.’

Nolan had a small cabin near Rebecca’s, nothing more than a berth and, luckily, a bucket. She helped Nolan into bed.

‘Oh,’ Nolan moaned again. The older woman had turned pale. She rolled over and faced the wall.

‘Can I get you anything?’ Rebecca asked. It was hard not to feel sympathy for the woman. ‘Eating something will help seasickness.’

Nolan thrashed in the bed. ‘No food. No food. Leave me alone.’

Rebecca placed the bucket next to the berth. ‘There is a bucket, if you need it. I will check on you later.’

‘No,’ wailed Nolan. ‘Leave me alone.’

With pleasure, thought Rebecca.

But she would check on the maid none the less. She’d never experienced seasickness herself, but in her trips across the Irish Sea during her years in school, she’d witnessed many others who had endured such misery.

She walked into the passageway and could not help feeling as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was free to do as she wished—within the confines of the ship, at least. It was worth something.

She quickly found her sea legs and easily walked to the companionway. Free of Nolan, this was the perfect time to go on deck and enjoy what she could of the voyage.

The hatch opened and a young woman descended the stairs. She wore a hooded cape that was damp and smelled of the sea.

Rebecca waited. There was only room for one on the stairs.

Head down, the woman passed Rebecca and Rebecca started up the stairs.

‘Were you planning to go on deck, miss?’ the woman asked. ‘The midshipman sent me down.’

Rebecca turned.

The woman pulled the hood of the cloak off her head. ‘Rough seas—’ Her eyes widened.

Rebecca gasped.

This woman had her same pale hazel eyes, her nose and lips, her nondescript brown hair. She was of a similar height and figure and age. Her cloak was even a similar shade of grey.

Rebecca was looking in a mirror. Except her mirror image wore her hair in a simple style and her dress was a drab brown.

When Rebecca managed to breathe again, she shook her head. ‘You look like me!’

Her eyes must be deceiving her. She blinked twice, but her mirror image remained.

The other woman laughed nervously. ‘I—I do not know what to say.’

‘Neither do I.’ What did one say to one’s exact likeness?

‘It is most unsettling.’ The young woman straightened. ‘But forgive my manners. Allow me to present myself. I am Miss Tilson. A governess. Nobody you would know.’

Rebecca extended her hand. ‘Lady Rebecca Pierce. It is a pleasure to meet you.’ She almost laughed. ‘To meet me.’

Miss Tilson accepted her handshake.

The hatch opened and a gentleman descended.

They moved to one side so he could walk by them. Miss Tilson turned away from him.

He glanced at them as he passed. ‘You ladies should stay in your cabins. The sea is rough. Do not fear. A seaman will bring your meal to you.’

Had he noticed their resemblance to each other?

Rebecca and Miss Tilson did not speak until he disappeared into one of the cabins near the end of the corridor.

‘We should do as he says, I suppose.’ Miss Tilson opened a door to a space as tiny as Nolan’s. ‘My cabin is here.’

‘I would like to speak with you more,’ Rebecca said hurriedly, before Miss Tilson left her. ‘I am quite alone. My maid suffers the mal de mer and remains in her cabin.’

The young woman lowered her gaze. ‘The sea has never bothered me. I suppose I have a strong constitution that way.’

As did Rebecca.

‘Will you talk with me?’ Rebecca’s pulse quickened with excitement. ‘Maybe there is some sense to make of this.’ She made a vague gesture in the air between them.

Miss Tilson gazed into her cabin. ‘You are welcome to come in, but there is very little room.’

‘Come to my cabin, then,’ Rebecca said. ‘We may be comfortable there.’

The two women settled in Rebecca’s cabin, seating themselves across from each other at the small table. Through the small porthole choppy waves spewed white foam.

Rebecca bit her tongue. Instead of blurting out Why do you look like me? she asked, ‘Where are you bound, Miss Tilson?’

‘To a family in the Lake District. Not a family, precisely. Two little girls whose parents were killed in an accident. They are in the care of their uncle now, the new Viscount Brookmore.’

‘How sad.’ Rebecca had been nearly grown when she lost her parents to illness.

‘And you, Lady Rebecca? Where are you bound?’ Miss Tilson spoke without the hint of an Irish brogue, Rebecca noticed. As did Rebecca. She’d lost her accent in a Reading boarding school.

‘To London,’ she replied.

‘London!’ Miss Tilson smiled. ‘How exciting. I was there once. It was so...vital.’

‘Vital, indeed.’ Except Rebecca had no wish to go there. London would be a prison to her. With Lord Stonecroft.

Miss Tilson’s eyes—so like her own—narrowed. ‘You sound as if you do not wish to go.’

Rebecca met her gaze. ‘I do not. I travel there to be married.’

The young woman’s brows rose. ‘Married?’

Rebecca waved a hand. ‘It is an arranged marriage. My brother’s idea.’

‘And you do not wish to marry this man?’

‘Not at all.’ She straightened in her chair. Marrying Stonecroft was the last thing she wished to talk about. ‘May I change the subject?’

Miss Tilson blinked. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’

Rebecca shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will tell you the whole story later.’ She leaned forward. ‘For now I am bursting with questions. Why do we look alike? How can this be? Are we related somehow?’

They traded stories of parentage and lineage, but nothing seemed to connect them. Miss Tilson’s family had been gentry. Her mother died giving birth to her and her overwhelmed and grieving father put her in the care of nurses and governesses and finally to school in Bristol when her father died, leaving her to fend for herself. She’d come to Ireland to be a governess and was now on her way to a new position.

Rebecca, on the other hand, was the daughter of an English earl whose estate was in Ireland, but she’d spent much of her life in England, in that boarding school in Reading.

Rebecca blew out an exasperated breath. ‘We are no closer to understanding this. We are not related—’

‘But we look alike,’ Miss Tilson finished for her. ‘An unexpected coincidence?’

There was a mirror affixed to the wall. They stood and gazed into it.

‘We are not identical,’ Miss Tilson observed. ‘Look.’

Rebecca’s two front teeth were slightly more prominent, her eyebrows more arched, her eyes a bit wider.

‘No one would notice unless we were standing next to each other,’ Miss Tilson added.

‘Our clothes set us apart. That is for certain.’ Rebecca swung away from the mirror to face Miss Tilson instead of her image. ‘If you wore my clothes, I’d wager anyone would take you for me.’

‘I cannot imagine wearing fine clothes like yours.’ Her likeness sighed.

‘You must wear them then,’ Rebecca said impulsively. ‘Let us change clothes and impersonate each other for the voyage. It will be a great lark. We will see if anyone notices.’

Miss Tilson shook her head. ‘Your clothes are too fine for you to give up. Mine are plain.’

‘Precisely. But I believe people pay more attention to dress than to other aspects of one’s appearance. Perhaps even more than one’s character. In any event, I think there is nothing undesirable about wearing a simple dress.’

The other woman touched the fine vigonia wool of Rebecca’s travelling dress. ‘I confess, I would love to wear a gown like this.’

‘Then you shall!’ Rebecca turned her back to her. ‘Unbutton me.’

They undressed down to their shifts and traded dresses, acting as each other’s maids. Miss Tilson pulled Rebecca’s hair into a simple knot at the back of her head. Rebecca placed Miss Tilson’s hair—it even felt like her own—high on her head and arranged curling tendrils around her face.

They checked their images in the mirror again and laughed.

There was a rap at the door.

Rebecca grinned. ‘Answer the door as me.’

Miss Tilson blanched. ‘I could not.’

Rebecca gave her a little shove. ‘Of course you can!’

Miss Tilson straightened into a more regal bearing and opened the door. Rebecca returned to her seat at the table.

The seaman who’d warned them to stay in their cabins balanced a tray as the boat continued to pitch. ‘Some refreshment, m’lady,’ he said to Miss Tilson.

Miss Tilson lifted her chin. ‘Thank you.’

Rebecca stole one quick glance at the seaman before averting her face.

Miss Tilson gestured to Rebecca. ‘Miss Tilson passes the time with me. Will you bring her food here for her?’

‘That I will, miss.’ The crewman stepped into the cabin and placed the tray on the table. He returned a moment later with two more trays. ‘Your maid, miss?’

Miss Tilson’s gaze darted quickly to Rebecca, who pretended not to notice. The governess finally answered, ‘My—my maid is resting. Perhaps you might leave her tray here, as well? We will tend to her.’

The seaman bowed. ‘Very good, miss.’ He placed both trays on the table.

When he left, Rebecca glanced up and they stared wide-eyed at each other.

‘I was afraid he would notice we look alike,’ Rebecca said. ‘He must have glimpsed me when he left the trays.’

Miss Tilson shook her head. ‘A governess is not important enough to notice, my lady.’

Their trays each held two slices of bread, some cheese and a tankard of ale with a cover on it. The two women continued to talk as they ate and Rebecca felt as if they’d known each other for ages.

As if they were sisters, although they clearly were not.

‘I believe we should call each other by our given names,’ Rebecca said. ‘It seems silly to be formal to one’s mirror image.’

Miss Tilson fluttered her lashes shyly. ‘If you desire it... Rebecca. Then I am Claire to you.’

‘Claire!’ Rebecca felt as if she were conversing with a sister.

Miss Tilson—Claire—must have felt a similar ease. ‘Might you tell me now why you do not wish to be married?’ She gave Rebecca a daring look. ‘Now that we are no longer formal?’

Rebecca stared into her tankard of ale which she held with both hands to keep it from spilling.

How could she explain?

‘A woman gives up everything by marrying,’ she said. ‘Any wealth or property she might have. Any right to decide for herself what she wishes to do. If I am to give up everything, it should be to a man who loves me and respects me and will not confine me.’

Claire’s brows rose. ‘And this man?’

Rebecca grimaced. ‘I met him only once. He merely wished to ensure himself I could produce an heir.’

Claire did not look the least dismayed by this information. ‘But of course he would want an heir. Especially if he has a title and property.’

‘He does.’ Rebecca tapped her pewter tankard with her fingernail.

‘Is the gentleman wealthy enough to provide for you?’ Claire asked.

‘He is said to be prosperous,’ she replied. ‘He must be, because he is willing to marry me with a mere pittance for a dowry.’

Claire nodded approvingly. ‘Will you tell me who he is?’

Rebecca could see no reason not to. ‘Lord Stonecroft.’

Claire gave her an enquiring look.

‘Baron Stonecroft of Gillford.’

‘Ah.’ A look of understanding came over Claire’s face. ‘You were hoping for a higher title than baron. I mean, you said you are the daughter of an earl.’

Rebecca sniffed. ‘I care nothing for that.’

Claire looked surprised. ‘Did he seem like a cruel man, then? Is that your objection?’

Not cruel.

Indifferent.

Rebecca sighed. ‘I do not believe there is precisely anything to object to in him. I simply do not wish to marry him.’

‘Refuse, then.’ Claire spoke this like a dare.

Oh, Rebecca would love to refuse. ‘My brother—my half-brother—says I am too much of a burden for him to wait for me to find a husband I would like. I’ve refused every offer he’s arranged for me. He has made certain I will be turned out without a penny if I do not marry Lord Stonecroft.’ Her face heated at the memory of her brother railing at her. ‘I’ve no doubt he means what he says.’ Still, her mind whirled with ways she might avoid this marriage without being turned out into the streets.

None were viable, however.

Claire looked sympathetic. ‘How sad. One would hope a brother would understand. Family should understand, should they not?’

Rebecca regarded her curiously. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters? Any family at all?’

Claire shook her head. ‘I am alone in the world. Any relations are too distant to be concerned with me.’

More reason to feel a kinship towards her. ‘My parents are gone,’ Rebecca confided. ‘And my brother might as well be dead. He said he never wishes to see me again. Ever. Even if he visits England. He made that very clear.’

Her brother had always resented her. He’d resented her mother, as well. Possibly because their father had loved her mother better than either his son or daughter.

They fell silent.

Claire finally spoke and with a resolved tone. ‘I think you are fortunate to marry, Lady Rebecca—Rebecca. You have little money or property, correct? You can only gain by marrying. You’ll gain a home of your own to manage. Children of your own. Comfort and security. Even status and a respectable position in society.’

Rebecca glanced away.

All that was true. But Lord Stonecroft had only cared that she was young and healthy enough to breed and apparently tolerable to look at. He’d made no effort to know her. How was she to endure that sort of emotional wasteland? How was she to tolerate life with such a man?

Claire must have sensed Rebecca’s desolation. Her expression turned consoling. ‘Perhaps it will not be so onerous to be Lady Stonecroft.’

Rebecca managed a polite smile. ‘Perhaps not.’

As if by mutual agreement she and Claire began talking of other things. Books. Plays. Art. Music. From time to time Claire, pretending to be Rebecca, checked on Nolan, who never seemed to question who she was, to Rebecca’s delight.

Rebecca and Claire talked until night fell, turning the churning sea inky black.

Claire stood. ‘I should return to my cabin so you might get some sleep. I’ll help you out of your dress, if you help me out of this lovely gown.’

Rebecca rose and let her lookalike untie and loosen the laces at the back of the plain dress she’d worn most of the voyage. What a shame. She’d quite enjoyed not being herself, playing a woman whose life seemed so much simpler, so much within her own control.

She turned to face Claire. ‘Let us see how far we can carry this masquerade. You be me tonight. Sleep in my nightclothes, in this bed. And I will continue being you.’

The young woman looked stricken. ‘I cannot allow you to be closeted in that tiny berth they gave me!’

‘Why not?’ Rebecca countered. ‘It will be an adventure for me. And you will have the comfort of this cabin as a treat. When Nolan enters in the morning, we shall discover if she still believes you are me.’

Rebecca pulled out her nightdress, made of the softest of muslin. ‘Here.’

Miss Tilson fingered the fine cloth of the nightdress. ‘Perhaps. If you desire this.’

‘I do desire it,’ Rebecca insisted, helping Miss Tilson out of her dress. ‘I desire it very much.’

* * *

In the morning the sea became even more restless. The sky turned even more ominous shades of grey. Rebecca convinced Claire to continue to wear her clothes and impersonate her. Nolan, who remained abed, sick as ever, and the few seamen who attended them still did not guess that Claire masqueraded as Rebecca. Even with the two ladies together, the seamen never seemed to notice how alike they were.

The seamen were rushed and worried, however. There was a storm brewing, the seamen said. The ladies must remain below.

As the day progressed, Rebecca and Claire talked more about the weather than about their lives. They left the cabin rarely only to check on Nolan, who suffered so much she did not even react when Rebecca, dressed as the governess, attended her.

In the late afternoon, the storm broke, tossing the packet boat even more violently than before.

‘We should be nearing the coast,’ Rebecca said.

‘If the ship can even sail in this.’ Claire’s face—her identical face—paled in fear.

Suddenly shouts and pounding feet sounded from above them, then a loud crack and a thud that shook the boards over their heads. The two women grasped each other’s hands. Their masquerade became unimportant as the wind and sea pitched the ship so constantly that they could not change back into their own clothing.

The gentleman who’d passed them the day before opened the door without knocking. ‘Come above,’ he demanded in a voice they didn’t dare disobey. ‘We must abandon ship. Bring nothing.’

Rebecca defied him, grabbing her reticule containing all her money. When they reached the stairs, she shoved the reticule into Claire’s hands. ‘Here. Take this. I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to get Nolan.’

Claire hung the reticule on her wrist.

‘Miss!’ the gentleman cried. ‘We must leave now.’

‘I will be right behind you,’ she called over her shoulder.

Rebecca rushed to Nolan’s cabin. A seaman was at Nolan’s door. He turned to Rebecca. ‘She refuses to come,’ the man shouted. ‘Hurry! We must get above.’

Rebecca pushed past him and ran to her maid. ‘Nolan! Come with me.’

The older woman recoiled, rolling over and huddling against the wall. ‘No. Sick. Leave me alone.’

‘Come, miss!’ the crewman cried. ‘There is no time to waste!’

‘I cannot leave her!’ she cried.

He dragged her away from Nolan’s door, practically carrying her to the steps of the companionway.

On deck, rain poured as if from buckets, obscuring the chaos Rebecca found above. The mast had splintered in two and lay like a fallen tree on the deck, ropes and sails tangled around it.

‘To the boats!’ the seaman shouted, running ahead.

She followed him, catching sight of Claire and the gentleman at the railing. The ship dipped suddenly and a wave washed over the deck. Rebecca had only a second to grab hold of a rope or be carried in its ebb. When the wave passed and she looked up, Miss Tilson and the gentleman had disappeared.

Her escort seized her arm. ‘Come, miss. No time to waste.’

He pulled her along with him to the side of the ship where other passengers and crew were climbing into a rowing boat that had been lowered over the side. Claire was not among them. Rebecca glanced out to sea, but Claire had vanished. Nolan, Claire and the gentleman were lost.

There was no time for emotion. The crew lifted her over the side as the rowing boat bobbed up and down beneath her. Only with luck did her feet connect with the wood of the boat’s bottom.

The boat filled quickly. Rebecca huddled next to a woman clutching her two children. Beneath their feet was at least an inch of water and more pouring from the sky. Somehow the sailors rowed the boat away from the packet. Through the darkness and rain, a shadow of coastline was visible. Rebecca kept her eyes riveted on it, watching it come slowly closer. Almost in reach.

From behind her a woman screamed.

Rebecca swivelled around to see the packet boat crash against the rocks. At that same moment the rowing boat hit something and tipped.

Rebecca plunged into icy water.

Chapter Two

Garret Brookmore, the new Viscount Brookmore, received word of the shipwreck off the coast of Moelfre while he waited in an inn in Holyhead. This was the packet he was to meet, the one on which the governess was to arrive. There were survivors of the wreck, he was told, and Garret felt obligated to travel to Moelfre to see if Miss Claire Tilson was one of them.

None of this was remotely within his experience. A year ago he’d been in Brussels with his regiment awaiting what became the Battle of Waterloo. For the past ten years he’d battled the French. Then word came that his brother and his brother’s wife had been killed in a carriage accident and he needed to return to England to inherit his brother’s title and all the new responsibilities that accompanied it, responsibilities over which he had no preparation. His older brother had been groomed from birth to be the Viscount. John was the family’s fair-haired boy, able to do no wrong in their father’s eyes, whereas not much was expected of Garret so he’d always been bound for the army.

Now the son from whom the family expected little had an estate to run, Parliament to attend and two little girls, his orphaned nieces, to tend to. Pamela and Ellen, only nine and seven, had been securely in the care of their governess, a long-time retainer of their mother’s family, but fate had not finished being cruel. That woman, too, died.

How much could two little girls take? Their mother. Their father. Their governess. Left with a strange uncle whose heart remained with his regiment. Garret had witnessed thousands of deaths, but these seemed the cruellest.

When notified that his nieces’ governess had died, Garret had been in London attempting to meet society’s expectations of a viscount. He contacted an agency in town to hire a new governess and left his obligations there to travel back to Westmorland to the family’s principal estate, to see to his nieces and await the new governess. He’d barely arrived at Brookmore when the agency sent word to expect Miss Tilson to arrive in Holyhead from Ireland.

What if Miss Tilson had drowned in this shipwreck, though? What was Garret to tell the little girls? That another person who was supposed to care for them had died?

He rode to Moelfre and enquired where the shipwreck survivors might be found. He was directed to the Pheasant Inn, a place bustling with activity.

The innkeeper greeted him. ‘Welcome. Do you seek a room?’

‘I am looking for a survivor of the shipwreck,’ Garret responded.

The man frowned and shook his head. ‘Such a tragedy. Almost forty people lost, I’m afraid. Only eleven made it through.’

That did not sound hopeful. ‘I am looking for Miss Tilson. Miss Claire Tilson.’

The innkeeper broke into a smile. ‘Ah, Miss Tilson! Yes. Yes. She is here.’

Relief washed through Garret. ‘May I see her?’

‘Of course.’ The innkeeper gestured for him to follow. He followed the man up two sets of stairs. ‘She’s been feverish since the rescue. Some men pulled her from the water, we were told. She seemed better today, our maid said. Might not be awake.’

‘I understand.’

The innkeeper knocked and a maid answered. ‘Someone to see Miss Tilson.’

The woman smiled and opened the door wider. Neither she nor the innkeeper asked who he was.

He approached the bed and gazed down in surprise. He’d expected an elderly woman like the previous governess. Miss Tilson hardly looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom herself. Her skin was smooth and flawless; her features strong, not delicate. Her hair, the colour of Kentish cobnuts, fell loose over the white pillow. Would her face fulfil the promise of character shown in her repose? He was intrigued.

He looked over at the innkeeper. ‘I do need a room.’

‘Yes, sir, I can accommodate you,’ the man answered. ‘Would you like to come with me now? I will show you to the room.’

Now that he’d found Miss Tilson, he was reluctant to leave her. ‘I will stay until she wakes up. So she knows I am here.’

She was bound to experience distress, waking in a strange place, after nearly drowning.

The innkeeper reached for Garret’s valise. ‘I’ll take this to the room and come back with your key, if you like.’

Garret nodded his thanks.

The maid spoke up. ‘May I leave, sir? I am very hungry. May I get food?’

The innkeeper glanced towards Garret.

‘I have no objection.’ Far be it from Garret to deny a hungry girl, so he wound up alone, seated at the bedside of a beauty he did not know, but for whom he was now responsible.

* * *

An hour passed, an hour spent with swirling thoughts of all he must remember to do, of all he’d learned needed his attention at the estate and even more demands in London and how much he wished he were simply marching with his men on some foreign road bound for the next battle. He missed his men. Worried about how they were faring. The war was over. Napoleon was on St Helena. Regiments were disbanding.

What was the use of wishing for what could not be? Even if his brother had not died, his army life would have changed drastically.

He had to admit he’d travelled to Holyhead mostly to give himself time away from these duties and regrets. Time to think. He could have easily sent a servant to escort her to the estate.

He rose when the innkeeper brought his key. As he settled back in the chair next to the bed, Miss Tilson’s eyes—unexpectedly hazel—fluttered open.

‘Where?’ she managed, her voice cracking.

He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on the bed table. ‘You are safe, Miss Tilson,’ he told her. ‘You are at an inn in Moelfre.’

Her brow creased as if she were puzzled. ‘Miss Tilson,’ she whispered. ‘Claire.’

He helped her to sit and held the glass as she drank. ‘I am Lord Brookmore.’ It still sounded strange on his tongue. In his mind Brookmore was still his brother. ‘Your employer.’

She stared at him a long time and it seemed as if he could see a range of emotions flit through her eyes. Puzzlement, horror, grief and, finally, understanding.

* * *

Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. This was not another fever-filled vision, but a real man touching her, helping her drink. Once she quenched her considerable thirst, she became acutely aware that she wore only a thin nightdress. From where? From whom? Had even the clothes she’d worn—Claire Tilson’s clothes—been lost? Her throat tightened again, but this time from grief. Claire. Nolan. All those poor people.

She shrank away from the man and he sat back in his chair, placing the glass on the side table.

He was Claire’s new employer, he’d said, and he thought she was the poor governess who’d been swept away by that killing wave. He did not look like a man who would hire a governess. His rugged face and muscular frame made him look untamed. His piercing blue eyes seemed a thin shield against painful remembrances. Dark hair, longer than fashionable, was as windswept as a man who’d galloped over fields on a wild stallion. The shadow of a beard covering a strong jaw gave him a rakish air.

Her eyes darted around the room. Why was such a man alone with her? She certainly had never before been alone with a man in her bedchamber, in her night clothes.

‘Why—?’ Her throat closed again and she swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’

His blue eyes fixed on her. ‘I waited at Holyhead. News came of the shipwreck so I rode here to see if you’d...survived.’

The shipwreck. Again she watched the wave consume Claire. Again she felt the rowing boat smash against rocks and plunge her into the water.

She shivered with the memory and he rose again, this time to wrap a blanket around her shoulders. Her skin heated at his touch.

She looked up into his face. ‘How many? How many survived?’

‘Eleven, the innkeeper said,’ he replied.

Only ten others? What about the woman and her two children? Were they swept out to sea like Claire and the gentleman with her? Her eyes stung with tears.

‘My God.’ She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

She could feel him staring at her, even though he was still and silent. How humiliating to become so discomposed in front of this stranger. It was so unlike her.

She wrested some control, finally lifting her head and taking deep breaths.

Without speaking, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her tear-soaked face.

The handkerchief was still warm from his body.

‘Thank you.’ She took another deep breath and started to return the now soaked handkerchief. She pulled it back, laughing drily. ‘I—I will have it laundered.’

What a silly thing to say. She had no means of getting it laundered. She had no money. No clothes. Nothing.

She, of course, could identify herself. Send word to London of her predicament. To Lord Stonecroft. Who else was there to help her in London? But why would she want to ask for his help when she wanted to escape him? Being his brood mare seemed even worse than drowning.

Lord Brookmore sat back in his chair again, his face averted.

She should tell him she wasn’t Claire Tilson, that she saw Claire washed overboard.

Oh, why had Claire drowned and not her? Claire had independence. She had work for which she earned her own money and she also had the hope of finding a man to love her some day. Claire would have fared so much better than Rebecca, who had nothing to look forward to but a prison of a marriage. Why could fate not have let them trade places in death as easily as they’d worn each other’s clothes?

She stole another glance at Lord Brookmore and her heart quickened.

He thought she was Claire. Perhaps she was the only one who knew she was really Lady Rebecca Pierce, doomed to marry Lord Stonecroft.

She could not die in the watery depths instead of Claire. She’d have been willing to do so. But she could trade places with Claire now. She could live Claire’s life for her.

Escape her own life.

Lord Stonecroft would not mourn her; he’d merely be annoyed that he must search for another brood mare to marry. Her brother would not mourn her. He’d get to keep her dowry. She could not sacrifice her life instead of Claire’s, but she could become Claire.

Guilt pricked at her. She’d be deceiving this very handsome man. What a way to repay his kindness.

He did need a governess, though, did he not? She could be a governess. How hard could that be? It would help him, would it not?

‘I—I had a fever, I think,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember much except—’ Except plunging into churning, cold water and thinking she would die. ‘Except the wreck.’

His eyes fixed on her again. ‘I know nothing more than you were saved and you were ill.’

‘Am I still to be your nieces’ governess?’ Will he accept her as Claire? she meant.

‘If you feel up to the task, yes.’ His voice was stiff and formal and so deep she felt the timbre of it as well as hearing it. ‘If you need a long recuperation—’

‘I am well enough.’ She sat up straighter as if to prove it. ‘I am quite recuperated.’

‘Good.’ He stood. ‘I will send for the maid and some food, if you are hungry.’

She didn’t really know if she was hungry, but the mention of food made her stomach growl. ‘Thank you, sir.’

He nodded. ‘We can travel to Brookmore House as early as tomorrow, if you are able.’

Better to leave soon, although, out of ten other survivors, who was likely to know she was not Claire? Someone must have already identified her as such. ‘I will be ready for travel tomorrow. I am certain.’

He nodded. ‘Very good. Anything you need, Miss Tilson, just ask for it. I will see that it is provided to you.’

She glanced down at herself. She needed everything! Lady Rebecca would not hesitate to enumerate each necessary item, but she could not imagine Claire doing so.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she murmured instead.

‘I will take my leave, then.’ He inclined his head. ‘Miss Tilson.’

‘My lord,’ she responded.

After he walked out the door she threw off the covers and climbed out of bed, suddenly restless. The wood floor was cold beneath her bare feet and her legs were weak. She made her way to the window and looked down upon a village street, its whitewashed buildings glowing in the waning light of early evening. Wagons and carriages rumbled by and villagers hurried here and there as if this day was like any other.

Her days would never be the same, though. A frisson of trepidation rushed up her spine. She was about to become a whole new person.

She rubbed her arms and smelled the faint scent of the sea on her skin. She did not want to smell the sea! She wanted to banish the memory of plunging into the water where so many others died.

There was a rap at the door and a maid entered, carrying a tray. The scent of stew and cheese and ale seemed to affirm her choice of life. A new life.

‘Oh, you are up, miss,’ the maid said. ‘Are you feeling better? The gentleman gave me some coins and said to bring you food and whatever you need.’

Rebecca seated herself at a chair next to a small table. ‘I am much better. I am afraid I was too feverish—what is your name?’

‘I’m Betty, miss.’ The maid put the tray of food on the table. ‘What else might I bring you?’

Dare she ask? She did dare, because she needed to feel renewed. ‘I would love a bath, Betty.’

The maid smiled. ‘A bath you shall have then, miss.’

‘And I will need some clothes.’

* * *

By the next morning, Rebecca was not only clean and well fed, but also clothed.

The maid, Betty, brought her undergarments and a dress. ‘His lordship said to find you clothes and so I did,’ she’d said. ‘The ones you wore before were ruined.’

Claire’s clothes.

Betty helped her into the simple shift, a corset that fit tolerably well and a plain dress, not unlike the one Betty herself wore. The stockings looked newly purchased and the shoes, well-worn half-boots, were only slightly too big. Included in the bundle of clothes had been a new brush and comb, as well as a set of hairpins. Betty helped pull her hair back, as Claire had done.

Rebecca looked at herself in the mirror, but in her reflection she could only see Claire Tilson. Her eyes again filled with tears.

She blinked them away.

‘I’ll tell his lordship you are dressed,’ Betty said, hurriedly making up the bed. The maid left and a moment later Lord Brookmore entered.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Rebecca remembered to curtsy deferentially. This was her employer, after all. His presence made her a bit breathless, but that must be only nerves. She was lying to him, after all. It was not because he was very tall and very masculine.

‘Miss Tilson.’ He nodded. He handed her a bundle wrapped in paper. ‘I took the liberty of purchasing items you will no doubt need on the journey to Brookmore.’

She untied the string around the bundle and unfolded the paper to reveal a paisley shawl, a silk bonnet and lavender kid gloves.

‘These are lovely,’ she whispered. Every bit as fine as she’d once owned.

He nodded in response. ‘How are you today? We need not travel if you are not sufficiently recovered.’

‘I am well!’ she assured him. She was eager to start her new life.

Claire’s life.

She looked up from the items. ‘Thank you for these. Thank you for the clothing, as well.’

He shrugged. ‘You needed something to wear.’

Everything that had belonged to Rebecca Pierce was gone.

He stood just inside the door. Her impulse was to invite him to sit, to order tea, just as she might have done at home in Ireland. How foolish! She had no means to order tea and did a governess even invite a viscount to be seated?

It would take a little work to rid herself of Lady Rebecca.

He looked uncertain, his blue eyes finding hers only fleetingly. ‘I will arrange for a carriage, then. If you are certain you are ready.’

‘Quite ready,’ she replied.

She crossed the room to retrieve his handkerchief, which she had washed with the soap and water provided for her and dried in front of the fire. It was not pressed, but this had been the best she could do with no means to hire someone for the task.

She handed the handkerchief to him. ‘It is clean, sir.’

As he reached for it, his gaze lingered on her. Their fingers brushed and she felt a flush warm her skin. She stepped back.

He cleared his throat. ‘I will see to the carriage.’

He turned and left.

Chapter Three

The carriage Lord Brookmore arranged was a small two-horse landaulet with two coachmen on the box. It was comfortable enough, but if she’d had to share it with the Viscount, it would have seated them so close their bodies would have touched. Luckily he rode on horseback, so she did not have to face being in such intimate quarters with him. Unfortunately it also meant she had no company at all.

For half the day, the road skirted the sea whose sight and scent made it impossible to forget the terror and loss she’d endured from its violence. There was nothing to divert her thoughts away from those memories. With every glimpse of waves outside her window, she relived the shipwreck.

She tried to look away, out the window that did not face the sea. Occasionally Lord Brookmore rode next to the carriage and asked her how she fared. She always replied that she did very well. The truth could not be easily explained. Other than that, she was silent, even saying little during their brief contacts when they stopped only long enough to change horses and procure food which she ate in the coach.

Eventually the sea disappeared from view, replaced by farms and fields and small villages. Rebecca’s nostrils filled with the odour of growing things. Of life instead of watery death, but still, being alone, her thoughts drifted back to the sea.

Lord Brookmore, who looked even more imposing on horseback, again appeared beside the carriage. ‘We are nearing Chester. We will spend the night there.’

* * *

At the inn in Chester, Garret dismounted and handed his horse off to the waiting ostler. The carriage pulled in behind him and one of the coachmen jumped down to help Miss Tilson descend the steps. Garret stood nearby, his valise in hand.

Miss Tilson carried only a small bag with those few items he had purchased for her.

In the waning sun, she looked even paler than when they’d started the journey. He’d suspected then that she was not recovered enough. Now he kicked himself for not insisting she rest in Moelfre at least one more day. He’d been impatient to return to Brookmore House, though, eager to see her settled and his nieces comfortable, and matters set to rights. Brookmore House still felt like his brother’s house, not his, even though he’d grown up there. Of course, when he’d been a child he’d been constantly reminded that his brother was the heir, the eventual owner of the estate.

He needed to return to London, although he was not as eager as he ought to be. He’d been swept up in events in London. It had been like watching another person negotiating that society and its expectations. Not him. Not at all him.

But it had been what he must do. Colleagues of his brother and father guided him through the ceremony, customs and politics of the House of Lords and of what was expected of a viscount there.

He needed to secure the inheritance, they’d insisted. His family would lose everything to some distant relation if he did not beget an heir. He’d seen the logic in that and so had done his duty. Attended the marriage mart. Became betrothed.

Lady Agnes was the perfect choice, his advisors assured him. He agreed. She was the daughter of the Earl of Trowbridge. She was polished, pleasant, accomplished and beautiful. She’d be the perfect hostess. There was absolutely nothing to object to in Lady Agnes.

Except Miss Tilson pulled more emotion from him than Lady Agnes ever had.

He stepped towards the governess and reached for her small bag. ‘You look fatigued. I will arrange a room for you and have a meal sent up to you.’

She gave him a stricken look that he did not understand, but he took her bag and she fell in step with him to the door of the inn.

When they entered the hall, the innkeeper’s eyes darted between them. ‘Welcome. A room for you, sir?’ His tone was uncertain.

‘Two rooms,’ Garret replied. ‘The lady will require a maid and a meal in her room.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The innkeeper bowed.

‘No!’ Miss Tilson broke in, her voice sharp. She immediately modified it. ‘No, please. I would prefer to eat my meal in the tavern.’

The innkeeper’s brows rose, as did Garret’s. She wished to expose herself in a public tavern? What sort of governess was she?

Garret frowned. ‘As you wish.’

The innkeeper cleared his throat. ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’

Garret followed behind the man and Miss Tilson as he led them up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway.

‘These two.’ The innkeeper gestured to two rooms across the hallway from each other. He opened each of the rooms and handed them their keys. ‘Shall I send a maid up now, ma’am?’ he asked Miss Tilson.

‘Not now,’ she replied. ‘Later. Perhaps nine or ten?’

‘Very good, ma’am.’ He bowed and left.

Garret placed his valise inside his room and his hat and gloves on a table, but he did not move from the doorway.

Neither did Miss Tilson.

She lifted her chin. ‘Lord Brookmore, I am of a mind you disapprove of my not eating in my room. If you wish it, I will do so.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘A public room can be a rowdy place, Miss Tilson. Not suitable for an unaccompanied woman.’ Not suitable for his nieces’ governess, he meant.

She lowered her gaze. ‘I did not think of that. I thought only to have people around me. To not be alone.’ Her voice cracked on her last word.

His insides twisted at her emotion.

She raised her eyes again. ‘When I am alone, the shipwreck comes back to me.’

The shipwreck. Of course she would be reliving the shipwreck. Before yesterday she’d been too feverish to become accustomed to the memories.

‘Would you accompany me to the tavern, then?’ she asked. ‘I would not require you to make conversation. Simply being among people—even rowdy people—would—would—distract me.’

How often after a battle did he seek the companionship of his fellow officers? To be alone with one’s thoughts simply repeated the agony. Companionship, drink and carousing kept memories at bay. He ought to have realised this young woman would feel such a need, as well.

Truth be told, he was trying not to think of her that deeply.

Her lips thinned. ‘Forgive me. It was wrong of me to ask.’ She turned to enter her room. ‘Have my dinner sent up. That will suffice.’

He crossed the hallway and seized her arm, dropping it as soon as she turned back, looking alarmed.

He straightened. ‘If you do not wish to dine alone, I will not compel you to do so. I will request a private dining room and you will be my guest.’

Her expression relaxed into a relieved smile. ‘Oh, thank you, my lord.’

He closed his door. ‘I will arrange it immediately.’

She touched his arm this time. ‘May I go with you?’

Her need for company was that strong? He nodded. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘allow me a few minutes to rid myself of the dust of the road and we can seek a meal right away.’

Her smile grew. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He washed his face and hands and brushed off his clothes. A glance in the mirror made him rub his chin, debating whether to take the time to shave. He decided against it. This was not a London drawing room and Miss Tilson was eager to be free of her solitude.

When he opened his door, she awaited him in the hallway. They walked together down the stairs through the hall to the tavern room.

The tavern room was everything Garret feared it would be. Loud voices, talking, laughing mingled with the clatter of dishes, tankards and cutlery. The air reeked of hops, cooked meat and male sweat. Men of all classes gulped from tankards of ale. Some enjoyed the company of the few women who shared booths with them. Serving girls threaded their way through the crowd.

Garret sought out the publican. ‘We seek a private dining room,’ he yelled over the din of the crowd.

The man’s bald pate gleamed with perspiration. His white apron covered a swelled girth. ‘This way, sir!’

Garret held Miss Tilson’s arm as he followed the publican through the room. Men definitely glanced her way, their expressions curious, appreciative or licentious. He pulled her a little closer, feeling protective. Had he ever felt protective of Agnes?

Unfair comparison. He’d never walked Lady Agnes through a rowdy tavern and he could not imagine ever doing so.

Miss Tilson trembled beneath his touch.

He released her as soon as they reached the private room, hoping she had not thought his actions too forward. He’d felt protective. Nothing more.

The private dining room was simply furnished with a table, four chairs and a sideboard. There was a window with brown curtains and a small fireplace with a few pieces of coal glowing on the grate. The walls were bare.

‘What drink do you desire?’ the publican asked as he lit two lamps from a taper. ‘I’ll have the serving girl bring them directly.’

‘Ale for me,’ Garret said. Not a drink for a viscount, but he was parched. ‘Miss Tilson?’

She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Claret?’

He turned to the publican. ‘A decanter of claret for the lady.’

The man rubbed his hands. ‘And food? We have char fish and a mutton stew and pigeon...’

‘Not fish!’ Miss Tilson cried.

The publican eyed her with a surprised look.

Garret turned to her. ‘Stew, then?’

She nodded.

He addressed the publican again. ‘We will both have the stew. And bring some bread and cheese, as well.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The man bowed and left the room.

When he closed the door behind him, Miss Tilson lowered herself into a chair at the table. She expelled a nervous breath.

Garret inclined his head towards the door. ‘You see why you could not come alone.’

She took another breath, pressing her hand against her chest. ‘It was so odd. The voices. All the men. Walking through that room I thought I was on the deck of the ship again. I actually saw it.’ She looked up at him, her forehead creased. ‘Now you will think me mad.’ She pressed her temples. ‘I think myself mad.’

He settled in the chair adjacent to her. ‘Some soldiers relive a battle after it is all done. As if they were there.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘They hear the sounds of the battle again. Even think they see the battle.’

Her puzzled eyes turned hopeful. ‘Do you think it could be the same?’

‘It could be.’ He looked away and drummed his fingers on the table.

Seated this close, under the lamplight, her eyes—their irises thin brown rims circled in green—had captivated him, created a yearning inside him. Perhaps it was the changing emotion he saw in those eyes. Perhaps he was drawn to her because she’d suffered and she knew what it was like to survive when so many others died.

But he could not desire her. How could he desire her? She was a governess. In his employ. And he was a viscount now. A governess was beneath him.

What was he thinking? He could not desire her. He was betrothed.

He pressed his lips together, feeling as confined as if the walls were closing in on him.

She shifted in her chair. ‘Have I annoyed you?’

She had no idea that annoyance was not his problem. His problem would be forgetting who he was now and thinking he was a soldier again.

‘Not at all,’ he responded perfunctorily.

She folded her hands in her lap and kept her gaze averted. It felt to him as if she held herself in check and he wondered what he would see if she set herself free. He laughed inwardly. Apparently they were both confined, both unable to be who they were inside.

But he did not need this sense of kinship with her, fuelling that inexplicable yearning inside him. It was not physical desire—or, more accurately, not only that.

How odd that her looks should captivate him when she did not meet society’s ideal of beauty.

Lady Agnes certainly did.

Miss Tilson was too tall, too strong-featured, but somehow not plain. It was difficult for his gaze not to be riveted upon her face and her changing expressions.

She took a breath, as if trying to clear away whatever had been in her mind. ‘So you were in the army?’

He shrugged. ‘I was a younger son, until my brother died.’ He blinked away his own intrusive memory.

The polite smile she’d pasted on her face faltered a bit. ‘What regiment?’

She seemed determined to make conversation. ‘The 28th.’

His father had purchased a lieutenancy for him when he turned eighteen. And why not? He’d not been suited for anything else, or so he’d always been told. As part of the 28th, he’d been in nearly every major battle of the war with Napoleon, from Egypt to Toulouse.

‘Were you at Waterloo?’ she asked.

He gritted his teeth for a moment. ‘No.’

He could have stayed in Belgium with his regiment, when he inherited the title, but battles were unpredictable matters and he dared not risk being killed and leaving his nieces to the mercy of relatives so distant as to have no care for them.

He’d grieved not being a part of the Waterloo battle almost as much as he’d grieved his brother’s death. Many of his men died at Waterloo. He should have been leading them. Protecting them.

‘On the Peninsula, then?’ she persisted.

‘Yes. On the Peninsula. And in France.’ His regiment had been a part of that bloody pursuit of the French as they retreated from the Pyrenees into France.

Her brow furrowed. ‘And some soldiers relive battles afterwards, the way I relived the shipwreck?’

Apparently the shipwreck was never far from her mind. ‘Yes. Many. I expect if I heard cannon right now, it would put me right back into battle.’

‘It would?’

There was a rap on the door and a serving girl entered with their drinks and food. After she left, Garret took a generous gulp of ale and plunged his spoon into the stew.

Miss Tilson nibbled on a piece of bread, a pained expression on her face.

It tugged at his sympathy. ‘Talk about it.’

She glanced up. ‘About what?’

‘About the shipwreck,’ he explained. ‘It helps.’

Although it might be more help to him to keep his distance from this young woman—his nieces’ governess.

* * *

Rebecca glanced away. She wanted desperately to talk about the events crowding her head and overwhelming her senses, but ought she to do so?

Claire Tilson would have declined this invitation, she was sure. Indeed, Claire Tilson would not have fished for this conversation at all. She would have remained in her place. She would have gone to her room as the Viscount requested, even if spending more hours alone would have been unendurable.

Well, she would be Claire Tilson later. Right now she needed to be Rebecca Pierce, on an equal footing with this gentleman and with a great need to talk.

She faced him. ‘Shortly after we woke that morning, the storm began and we were told to remain in our cabins.’

‘We?’ His brows rose.

She must be careful how she spoke. ‘I—I befriended another young lady. We spent most of the voyage in each other’s company.’ And in each other’s clothes.

She described how the storm grew and how their alarm escalated. And how the gentleman came to take them on deck. She told him of the wave that washed Miss Tilson and the man off the deck.

She did not tell him of being pulled away from Nolan, her poor sick maid. Could she ever forgive herself for that?

She saw an image in her head of Nolan in her bed as the water rose around her. Rebecca covered her eyes.

‘Go on,’ his voice demanded.

‘I was dropped into a rowing boat. There was a mother and her children next to me, but then we saw the ship crash against the rocks and the rowing boat tossed us into the sea.’ She remembered the cold water all around her, not knowing which way was up, not being able to breathe. ‘I don’t remember anything else very clearly until waking up in the inn.’

What had happened to the mother and those dear little children? She could not bear thinking of them under the water. Could not bear thinking of their dead bodies floating to shore.

She glanced at Lord Brookmore, whose gaze did not waver.

She took a breath. ‘That is it. That is all.’

Did his eyes turn sceptical? She could not tell. ‘A harrowing experience,’ he said, more factually than sympathetically.

That was a good thing, though. Had he offered her comfort she might have broken down and turned into a watering pot the way she’d been yesterday.

He dipped his spoon into the bowl of stew, making her realise he’d refrained from eating while she told her story.

She ate a few bites, as well. ‘I don’t know why I was saved. Why me over so many others?’

She downed her glass of claret.

Lord Brookmore took a more leisurely sip of his ale. ‘There is no making sense of those matters, you know. In battle, good men die. And yet men like me live. There is no making sense of it.’

Of course. He must know more about death than she could ever know. ‘What do you mean “men like me”? Are you so bad, then?’ She tried for a light-hearted tone.

He faced her, a sad smile on his face. ‘There were times in my youth that my father was convinced of it.’ He poured her another glass of claret.

She took a sip. ‘I cannot believe it. You have been nothing but kind to me.’

He laughed drily. ‘I need a governess for my nieces.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I do not think a governess is so difficult to find. You could have sent for someone else and never have come looking for me.’

He met her gaze. ‘And how could I have explained to my nieces that, after losing their parents and their old governess, I could not be bothered to discover if their new governess survived a shipwreck?’

She lifted her chin. ‘A bad man would not have cared. I’ll not hear you speak of yourself so.’

He averted his gaze.

She finished the claret left in her glass. ‘Did it ever occur to you that you survived all those battles so that your nieces would still have you to care for them?’

His expression turned bleak. ‘How much better it would have been for my brother and his wife to live and me die.’

His words knocked the breath from her.

Because it would have made so much more sense for Claire to have survived instead of Rebecca. Claire had everything to gain by living. Rebecca, instead, had been facing a dismal future in a loveless marriage.

At least she knew there was another good reason she had decided to live Claire’s life for her. So Lord Brookmore would not have to tell his nieces that their new governess had died. He’d travelled all the way to Moelfre in the hopes that he would not have to tell them such news. She wasn’t going to let his efforts be for naught.

She just needed to learn to act a little like Claire and less like Rebecca. ‘Tell me about your nieces,’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘They are aged seven and nine, but you probably know that.’

She knew nothing. ‘Their names?’

He peered at her. ‘Were you not provided their names?’

Oh, dear. She must be careful if this deception was to work.

‘It was in the letter—’ There must have been a letter. ‘But I fear, with all that happened, I’ve lost my memory for the details. I do apologise.’

He seemed to accept that—to her great relief. ‘Pamela is the elder. Ellen, the younger.’

Pamela and Ellen. She repeated to herself over and over.

He frowned. ‘I have not been present in their lives. I can tell you little else of them.’

She returned to her stew, even though she could no longer taste it.

They fell into a silence, broken only by the clink of spoons against the bowls. Her heartbeat accelerated. How was a governess supposed to handle this?

A governess, she suspected, would sit quietly, no matter how oppressive the silence, no matter how compelling the gentleman. But Rebecca was inclined to be outspoken, even when it was better to keep her mouth shut. Silence was torture to her.

The sounds of their eating grew louder and louder in this vacuum. She’d go mad if this continued much longer.

She knew how to end this. She’d received the training. After her brother discovered that her boarding school had educated her too liberally, he’d sent her back to England to a finishing school in Bath, so she knew very well how to engage a gentleman in conversation, even though it might be quite un-governess-like to use the skill now.

‘Do tell, my lord, about the house where your nieces live. Is it in a lovely part of the Lake District?’

‘All parts of the Lake District are lovely.’ He looked up from his stew. ‘Have you not been there?’

When his gaze reached her eyes, it made her insides flutter. She glanced away. ‘I never had the pleasure.’

He cocked his head as if in apology. ‘Of course. Why would you?’

She forced herself to meet his gaze again. ‘Tell me. What will I see?’

This time he glanced away and took a sip of ale before he spoke. ‘You will see mountains. They are green this time of year, but they’ll turn all shades of orange in autumn and white when winter comes. The lakes change colour, too, with the sky. From silver to blue to purple.’ He looked as if he were gazing at the landscape right now. ‘I have been to many places in the world, but none is as fine.’

She was moved by the suppressed emotion in his words. ‘I shall be eager to see it.’

He finished his ale and his voice turned flat. ‘You will not like the house.’

She felt a niggle of alarm. ‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘It is old.’

What family seat possessed a new house? She laughed softly. ‘I am in no position to complain. An old house. A new house. As long as I have a roof over my head.’

He did not seem to appreciate her attempt at levity. ‘I am hopeful you will find it tolerable. I do not want my nieces to lose another governess.’

And Rebecca needed a place to stay. A different life to live. Somehow she must make this work for everyone.

She’d figure it out in time.

She forced herself to smile. ‘Let us not worry at the moment, my lord.’ She gestured down at herself. ‘As I own nothing and have nowhere else to go, let us assume I will be happy as your nieces’ governess and that you will be happy with my services.’

She lifted her glass of claret as if in a toast.

* * *

Garret raised his empty tankard, more affected than he wanted to admit at the emotions flitting over her face.

He knew loss. His parents. His brother. Sister-in-law. And countless friends and fellow soldiers on the battlefield. But for him there was always something left, even if it was merely a title and property he’d never desired and never deserved. How might it be to have nothing left? Not even the clothes on one’s back?

He admired her for not giving in to the raw emotions grief could cause.

He must see to replacing her wardrobe and other essentials a lady must need. There ought to be some reparation he could provide for not giving her more time to recover. He should have known that more than the body needed to heal.

He pushed the plate of bread and cheese towards her. ‘Please help yourself, Miss Tilson.’

She more dutifully than hungrily cut herself a piece of bread and cheese before looking up at him. ‘Shall I slice some for you?’

He nodded. ‘Thank you.’

He was, perhaps, even less desirous of more food than she, but he accepted the tray, selected the bread and raised it to his mouth.

‘Have you any family, Miss Tilson? I ought to have asked before now.’ One more way he was remiss. ‘Is there anyone you would wish to contact?’

She paused before answering. ‘There is no one. No family.’

The bread tasted dry in his mouth. She had lost everything.

She finished the bread and cheese and folded her hands in her lap. She was thinking too much. He’d seen such a look on his soldiers’ faces. Social conversation was not a skill he excelled in, but he wanted desperately to distract her from those thoughts.

‘Is there anything else you desire?’ he asked her.

She gave a wan smile. ‘I am quite sated. The portions were generous, were they not?’

‘They were indeed,’ he agreed.

He did not know what else to say. Should he ask if she was ready to be alone again? How could he leave her alone after knowing how alone she truly was?

He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Have you been a governess long, Miss Tilson?’

What a foolish question. She could not be more than twenty or twenty-one, but he did not know what else to ask except about the one thing he knew about her—that she was a governess.

A look of distress flashed over her face. ‘Um. No, not long, sir.’

Why the distress? He was trying to distract her.

‘Then your last position was your first as a governess?’ He seemed to remember that from the letters from the agency he and his housekeeper had used to fill the position.

Her eyes darted. ‘Yes.’ She took a breath. ‘My first of any consequence, that is.’

‘And...’ This was not going well at all. ‘Why did you leave?’

She blinked rapidly. ‘Not for any bad reason, sir. I was not discharged, if that is what you are asking.’

That was not what he meant. ‘No. I was merely curious.’ Though it was not curiosity, just his clumsy attempt at conversation. He took another gulp of his ale. ‘No other reason. I wondered what your life was like before. What the previous family was like. How many children were in your charge. That is all.’

She leaned forward with an earnest expression. ‘Are you having second thoughts about hiring me? Because I would hope you would not judge me by these past two days. Or by my—my forward behaviour at this meal—’

Forward behaviour?

‘Please give me the chance to show—to show what I can do,’ she pleaded.

He gripped his tankard of ale. ‘Miss Tilson, I am not having second thoughts. Rest easy on that matter. You remain distressed about the shipwreck. I understand that. Distraction helps at such times.’

She sat back. ‘Oh.’

He attempted a smile. ‘Shall we talk about something else?’

She shifted in her chair. ‘Perhaps I ought to retire to my room.’

‘As you wish.’ He felt as if he’d driven her away, which was not at all what he’d intended.

Another reason he should have remained a soldier. Conversing with his fellow soldiers was not so fraught with peril.

He stood and helped her out of her chair.

When they walked through the tavern again, it was no less full of life. There were still men and women laughing and drinking away whatever their cares might be. He envied them. He had not imbibed nearly enough drink to drown his emotions this night.

The innkeeper greeted them when they walked back into the hall. ‘I hope your meal was satisfactory.’

Miss Tilson replied before Garret opened his mouth. ‘Thank you, sir. It was very satisfying.’ Then she shifted her gaze to him as if he might object to her speaking.

As they approached the stairway, Garret remembered the innkeeper’s offer of a maid. ‘Would you like the maid to attend you now?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘A maid now. Or as soon as it is convenient.’ She glanced back at the innkeeper.

The man spoke up. ‘I will send someone directly, miss.’

Garret followed her up the stairs and escorted her to her door. She took a key from her pocket and he opened his hand. She gave him the key and he unlocked the door. In the open doorway she turned to face him.

He was quite aware of how close he stood to her and how the soft light of the hall lamps made her skin glow and her eyes darken.

‘I’ll arrange for the maid to wake you in time to leave tomorrow,’ he managed to say.

Her voice turned raspy. ‘Thank you, sir. For eating your meal with me.’

He lowered his voice, too. ‘I hope it eased matters for you.’

Her eyes softened. ‘Much better than being alone.’

That seemed faint praise.

She affected him more than he wished to admit. His arms itched to hold her.

To comfort her, that was all. Merely comfort her. He had no business acting upon any other temptation, although it struck him how easily it could be done. She could not refuse him, could she? She had nothing but the position of governess that was entirely in his control.

No. He would not touch her.

Oh. And he was betrothed. He’d forgotten about that.

He stepped back. ‘My room is across the hall. Knock on the door if you need me—if you need anything. Otherwise, sleep well, Miss Tilson.’

She lowered her head and curtsied. ‘You, as well, sir,’ she replied dutifully.

She turned and entered the room, closing the door behind her. The key sounded in the lock.

Garret stared at the closed door for a moment before heading back to the stairway and returning to the tavern for something stronger than ale.

Chapter Four

The next day Garret rose early, ignoring the pounding in his head from too many glasses of a rather bad brandy. He sought out the innkeeper and arranged for a man to ride ahead to Preston on a specific errand.

When Miss Tilson was ready, he arranged for breakfast in the private dining parlour. The sun shone through the parlour window, lighting her face with its dark circles under the eyes. Her skin was nearly as pale as his first sight of her abed in Moelfre.

He frowned. ‘I fear you did not sleep well, Miss Tilson.’

She blushed, which at least gave her some colour. ‘Not very well.’

‘Were you troubled by dreams?’ Nightmares followed battles. Why not shipwrecks?

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘I was. I dreamed of the water.’

Poor girl.

‘You won’t always have the dreams,’ he reassured her.

She nibbled on toasted bread and jam. He ate a piece of ham and racked his throbbing brain for some way to make this trip less unpleasant for her.

‘I could hire a larger carriage, if you like. Ride with you.’ There was really no need for her to be alone.

Although how comfortable would it be to be so close to her for so many hours?

She looked alarmed. ‘I would not so inconvenience you, my lord. I will manage well enough in the landaulet. You must not give up the pleasure of riding horseback.’

He was most comfortable on a horse, that was true. On the Peninsula, he and his horse moved as one and in battle his horse never failed him.

He glanced out the window. ‘It does look to be a fine day for riding.’

Her voice turned wistful. ‘A lovely day for riding.’

He heard her take another bite of her toast. He gazed out the window, but his mind was working.

Finally he turned back to her. ‘Do you ride, Miss Tilson?’

To his surprise, her hazel eyes kindled with pleasure—a captivating sight.

‘Once upon a time I rode every chance I could,’ she said dreamily. ‘So I well understand what a joy it is to view the countryside from the back of a horse.’

He nodded. ‘If we can procure a riding habit for you and a ladies’ saddle, would you like to ride today?’

He could pay off the coachmen. They certainly would not mind receiving the same pay for a trip they did not have to take.

Her eyes widened. ‘Surely you cannot arrange such a thing.’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘I can try. We shall see what can be done.’

Her eyes brightened. ‘I would love to ride.’

* * *

It took some effort—and a generous output of coin—but Garret managed to provide Miss Tilson with a decent and well-fitting riding habit, riding boots, gloves, hat, riding crop and a side saddle that suited her almost as well as if made for her. He paid enough for the owner of the items to purchase three replacements and ones of finer quality, too.

But he would not tell Miss Tilson the cost. It exceeded her yearly salary, which would seem a fortune to her, but to him, now that he’d inherited wealth, it was a mere trifle.

The stable provided them both with horses, which they would change periodically at other coaching inns on the road.

The air was crisp and the sky so vivid a blue it almost hurt the eyes. Rolls of white clouds added to the day’s grandeur. What finer day could there be for a ride?

In Chester the road was busy with farm wagons, mail coaches, carriages of all kinds, from the simplest gig to elegant landaus to a lumbering post chaise, but as they rode further away from the town there were times they were alone on the road and could ride side by side.

‘How are you faring?’ he asked. ‘I can always hire a carriage if riding is too taxing.’

She was as game as he’d hoped, though. ‘It is not too taxing.’ She smiled at him. ‘It is wonderful!’

Garret was pleased. He’d brought her some happiness after all she’d been through.

‘You ride well,’ he said.

She grinned. ‘It is one of my favourite pastimes, I must say. When I was a little girl I rode astride and bareback on my beloved pony. When I was sent to school, my father provided a horse and I learned how to ride properly.’

‘Where was your school?’ he asked.

Her smile faded and she took a moment to answer. ‘Bristol,’ she finally said.

Whenever he asked her a question, her demeanour changed. It kept him from asking more.

But as they rode in silence for a while, he felt compelled to say something. ‘You must have the use of the stables at Brookmore. There are a couple of mares there—my sister-in-law’s horses—that you would find pleasant to ride.’

Her face lit up. ‘I might ride? How very wonderful!’

Changing horses at the inns gave them both a chance to stretch their muscles and ease any soreness from the time in the saddle. Garret was used to long hours on horseback, but Miss Tilson could not be as seasoned, even if she loved riding.

When they took refreshment at the inns, their conversation was more comfortable than the night before, but, then, any questions he asked her were about the inn, the food, the fresh horses they were given. Apparently questions about the present were not difficult for her to answer.

He liked being in her company. She was neither too chatty nor deadly silent.

* * *

When the sun dipped low in the sky, they reached the outskirts of Preston. Preston was a large and busy town and the traffic on the road was almost as bustling as London. Many a male rider would have found it daunting to guide a horse through such busy streets. Miss Tilson still rode confidently.

He led her to the inn. In the yard, ostlers ran up to hold the horses. Garret dismounted and turned to see Miss Tilson expertly slip off hers. Their gazes caught briefly and, for a moment, he was lost in the depths of her hazel eyes.

He quickly glanced away.

For a multitude of reasons—her position, his fiancée—he must not allow any physical attraction to her, yet at unexpected moments like this desire coursed through him.

The ostler handed him his valise and Miss Tilson gathered the small bag carrying the few items she could now call her own.

She took a step and winced.

He stepped towards her and put his arm around her. ‘Are you able to walk?’

She let him support her. ‘I am stiff, of course. I’m sure it will pass.’

He was more than happy to have her lean against him, although this was precisely the sort of contact he should avoid.

When they entered the inn and Garret gave the innkeeper his name, the innkeeper’s eyes lit up.

‘Lord Brookmore, sir. Welcome.’ The man bowed. ‘Let me assure you your rooms are ready and the items you requested have been placed in the lady’s room.’

Miss Tilson looked at him quizzically.

He did not enlighten her.

Their rooms were on the first floor, next to each other, too close to make defying temptation easy. Better he were on the other side of the building.

The innkeeper grinned as he opened Miss Tilson’s door.

Obviously the man Garret had sent ahead had managed his task very well. Across the bed were items of clothing and rolls of cloth, everything he could think of that would be of use to her.

* * *

Rebecca gasped. ‘What have you done?’

The bed was laden with rolls of cloth, but there were also three dresses, shifts, petticoats, gloves and hats.

She stepped into the room as the innkeeper withdrew.

Lord Brookmore stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Preston is known for its cloth. I simply took advantage of this fact. I sent a man ahead.’

‘The cloth is beautiful.’ She gestured to the pile. ‘But there is clothing here, as well.’

The innkeeper spoke up. ‘My wife took up the challenge, miss. She found a dressmaker who had dresses the buyers never collected. I will send my wife to assist you whenever you wish. She has a seamstress on hand to address any alterations.’

Rebecca could not find her voice. Lord Brookmore had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense for her, so unlike how other men had treated her of late. Her brother begrudged any expense and had only arranged the marriage in order to be rid of her.

Lord Brookmore spoke. ‘You must select what you like, Miss Tilson. As many pieces as you like. When we get to Brookmore House a local seamstress can make whatever you need.’

She smiled at him in wonder. ‘This is so generous.’

His face stiffened. ‘I am clothing my nieces’ governess. You need clothing and I am well able to provide it.’

She walked back to his side. ‘I am so very grateful.’ She touched his arm and it seemed as if the warmth of his kindness spread all through her.

The innkeeper broke in. ‘Shall I ask my wife to attend you?’

Rebecca lifted her hand away. ‘Yes. Please have her come at her convenience. I will just wash off the dirt of the road.’

Lord Brookmore stepped away from the doorway. ‘I will leave you now. Send word when you wish to dine.’ He turned to the innkeeper. ‘May we have a private room for dining?’

‘I’ll see to it, m’lord.’ The man bowed again and left them.

Rebecca did not wish for Lord Brookmore to leave. ‘What time would you wish to dine, sir?’

‘Whenever you wish.’ His tone softened. ‘I need to clean up, as well.’

But neither of them moved. His blue eyes seemed to pierce her, reaching parts of her that felt vulnerable and raw. Perhaps he really could see inside her. He certainly was able to anticipate her needs and discern her emotions. When had a man ever been able to do that? She’d been used to demanding what she needed.

Lord Brookmore averted his gaze and took another step back. ‘I will leave you now.’

She watched him enter his room and close the door behind him. Only then did she do the same.

* * *

By the time Rebecca had stripped off her riding habit and washed off the dirt of the road, the innkeeper’s wife and the seamstress knocked on her door.

‘I am Mrs Bell, dear.’ The woman was small and round, with a kind face and warm voice. ‘This is Miss Cox. We were told of your misfortune. You poor creature!’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, well. Let us see what we can do about providing you with some clothes to wear.’

The two women helped Rebecca out of the corset and shift she’d been given in Moelfre and into the undergarments that Mrs Bell had brought her. Two of the shifts fit her very well and one of the corsets was near perfect and so much more comfortable than the one from before. There was a nightdress that would be heaven to sleep in and two day dresses that fit her well enough.

One needed only minor alterations, which were accomplished on the spot. The other, the seamstress promised to have ready by the morning. With the help of the two women, Rebecca chose a length of wool for a winter dress and another for a cape. She picked out some plain white cotton for some aprons and caps and a print for another dress.

The ship had carried two trunks full of her clothing. She’d packed walking dresses, morning dresses, carriage dresses, dinner dresses, nightdresses and ball gowns. She had hats for all occasions and several pairs of shoes and gloves. Her undergarments had been made of soft linen. The wardrobe had been worthy of an earl’s daughter and soon-to-be wife of a baron.

These makeshift clothes were—serviceable. But they were also more dear to her than all of her lost dresses. Because of the thoughtfulness behind them.

Her father had indulged her with the finest clothes and jewels—all lost now—but he’d been unable to stand the sight of his daughter after her mother died. She’d reminded him too much of his beloved wife.

When Mrs Bell and Miss Cox left her, Rebecca took the pins from her hair and brushed it out with the brush Lord Brookmore had purchased for her. She rearranged it into a simple coil at the back of her head, as Claire had done. She wore the dress that the seamstress fixed for her, a dress of plain grey.

She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror that had been provided for her.

Her breath caught.

She saw Claire Tilson.

Donning the lavender gloves Lord Brookmore had purchased for her in Moelfre and the paisley shawl, she glanced at her image again and felt a little more like herself.

She left the room and knocked on Lord Brookmore’s door.

He answered it in his shirtsleeves and looked even more handsome than when wearing his well-tailored coat, waistcoat and neckcloth.

‘Miss Tilson,’ he said in some surprise.

Oh, dear. This was a bit improper of her. ‘You said I should let you know when I was ready to dine.’

‘I assumed you would send word.’

Yes, but it had seemed silly to send someone else with the message when she was right next door. Besides, she had seen her father and brother in shirtsleeves on occasion—but they did not look at all like Lord Brookmore.

He quickly donned his waistcoat and buttoned it.

She averted her gaze. ‘I can return to my room, if you would prefer to eat later.’

‘No. No. I am quite ready.’ He put on his coat, pulling at the lapels and the cuffs to straighten its fit. He threw a neckcloth around his neck and managed to tie it into a reasonably neat mathematical.

He paused, his eyes scanning her. ‘That is one of the new dresses? It looks well on you.’

Her face flushed at the compliment. Why should she react so to such mild praise when most men’s flattery left her cold? Who had ever complimented her when wearing such a plain garment?

* * *

Their dinner was a lovely relaxed affair and Rebecca marvelled that there were long moments when she did not think of the shipwreck and when she quite forgot she was supposed to be a governess.

When Lord Brookmore’s eyes lit upon her, it seemed as if her insides would melt. She’d met other handsome men, but he was so much more than any man she had ever met.

How ironic that she should meet him as his lowly employee and not as a suitor. As Lady Rebecca she would have been acceptably eligible to him.

Not that he would have desired such an impulsive, wilful female, who’d defied her brother until he’d put her in a corner from which she could not escape.

Except she had escaped. All it had taken was the loss of Claire’s life.

That thought brought a stab of pain.

But during the dinner with Lord Brookmore she tried very hard to push thoughts like that away and instead simply enjoyed his company.

* * *

After dinner they climbed the stairs to their rooms.

‘Do you wish to ride again tomorrow?’ he asked.

She glanced up at him. ‘I would love to ride.’ Riding had made the trip a pleasure.

‘We should reach Brookmore House tomorrow.’

He walked her to her door where she would have to take on the role of governess completely and leave Lady Rebecca behind. A companionable night like this would be impossible then. A viscount simply did not become friends with a lowly governess.

Like the night before, he held his hand out for her key. She took it from her pocket and placed it in his palm, very aware of her fingers brushing his skin.

He unlocked the door and returned the key to her.

She gazed up into his face. ‘My lord, this was a lovely day. How can I ever thank you for all the kindness and generosity you’ve shown me?’

He stared at her, not speaking. They stood close, no more than a foot apart. His scent filled her nostrils, the faint odour of horse, of lime and something very male. It was more intoxicating than the wine she’d consumed at the meal.

Once when a man stood so close to her, he had forced her into a kiss. Even Lord Stonecroft had placed his wet, pulpous lips upon hers before he’d left to return to London. She’d wanted to retch. Somehow, though, if Lord Brookmore did the same, she would not mind.

What a brazen thought!

If she were herself—Lady Rebecca—instead of pretending to be Claire, could she, this moment, invite a kiss? All she needed to do was rise up on tiptoe.

Perhaps it would not hurt to be Lady Rebecca for a few minutes longer.

* * *

Garret gazed down at her face, so close to his. His heart thundered in his chest as her words echoed.

How can I ever thank you?

A kiss would be more than thanks.

The hall lamp shone on her, making her skin glow, bathing them both in light. The darkness cocooned them. Nothing else existed but the two of them, so close.

She rose, bringing her tantalising lips a whisper closer. It was enough to undo him. Garret seized her arms and lowered his lips to hers.

She tasted of claret and raspberries, her lips whetting an appetite he’d tried hard to deny. Her mouth opened to him and she placed her palms on his cheeks, holding his kiss.

It was all the encouragement he needed. He deepened the kiss and pressed her against him, against where the need for her had escalated. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers buried themselves in his hair. She returned his kisses with an ardour matching his own.

What might it be like to make love to her? Would she match his passion making love?

‘Lord Brookmore,’ she murmured in a voice tinged with both passion and anxiety.

It woke him up.

He was Lord Brookmore. Her employer.

He pushed her away. ‘Miss Tilson, I—’ Words failed. What could he say to her about what he’d done? And almost done?

He turned on his heel and strode away, back down the corridor and stairs.

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