Miss Caroline Whiston put her leather-bound book of Shakespearean sonnets to one side with a sigh. No one had ever compared her to a summer’s day, and if they had she would probably have boxed their ears, knowing their intentions could not be honourable. She knew of too many governesses who had made the mistake of believing in romance and had lived to regret it. Even so it would have been pleasant for once—just once—to meet a man who was neither a rake nor a worthy.
Ever since she had become a governess companion some ten years previously, Caroline had secretly classified all the men that she met into these two groups. The rakes predominated. They could be the fathers, brothers, relatives and friends of her youthful charges and they generally considered themselves irresistible, believing that Caroline should feel the same way. These she dealt with using a mixture of severity and hauteur, resorting very occasionally to physical violence to deter their advances. None of them ever persisted. Caroline was not pretty enough to make it worth their while, and she made sure that she concealed rather than accentuated those features that did give her distinction. Her beautiful chestnut hair was ruthlessly drawn back and confined into a bun. She wore drab, shapeless clothing. Her manner instilled respect into both her pupils and their parents alike.
“I say,” the elder brother of her previous charges had complained with feeling, “Miss Whiston has a dashed cutting way with her! I’d sooner kiss a snake than try for some sport there!”
Then there were the worthies. These were not as dangerous as the rakes but had to be deterred all the same. They might include a tutor or curate who would imagine that Caroline would make a suitable helpmeet. To these she was kind but firm. She had no intention of exchanging the drudgery of an upper servant for that of unpaid maid of all work in a vicarage, not even for the respectability of a wedding ring.
Caroline sighed again. She was growing cold, for the November mornings had turned frosty recently and not even the thickness of her winter cloak was proof against the chill that seeped up through her boots and was currently spreading through all her limbs. Her scarlet velvet dress, a most impractical present from the kind-hearted mother of one of her charges, was more for show than warmth. Caroline knew it was an affectation to wear an evening gown when she was out walking in the forest in the dawn, but after all, there was no one to see and it was the only time she could indulge in a little luxury. Still, she should be getting back. She shivered. It was cold, and she would be late, and then Julia would be as sharp and scratchy as only she could be.
Caroline tucked the book into her pocket, picked up her basket and started to pick her way through the undergrowth towards the path. The frosty twigs crunched under her boots. Spiders’ webs whitened with ice shone like spun silver in the sun. It was very quiet. These early mornings were the only solitude that Caroline could find at present, for she was at Julia Chessford’s beck and call all day long and even at night, if Mrs Chessford were suddenly struck down with insomnia. Caroline, who had at first interpreted Julia’s invitation to stay at Hewly as a request from a friend, had been quick to realise that she was in fact nothing more than a servant. The days when the two of them had been schoolgirls together were long gone.
Then there was Admiral Brabant, who required constant nursing and whose illness cast a shadow like a pall over Hewly Manor. His latest attack had occurred some three months previously, before Caroline had come to Hewly, and had left him incapable of running the estate any longer. The servants whispered that the Admiral would not outlast the winter snows and their gloomy predictions added to the general air of misery. Hewly Manor was not a cheerful place.
Life for Caroline might have been very different. She and Julia Chessford had studied together not fifteen minutes’ walk away, at the Guarding Academy in Steep Abbot. In those days, Julia had been Admiral Brabant’s god-daughter and ward, and Caroline had been the daughter of a baronet. A spendthrift baronet, as it had turned out. Caroline could only be grateful that he had staved off his ruin until she was old enough to earn her own living. He had died when she was seventeen, the title had devolved on a distant cousin, and the estate had had to be sold to pay his debts.
Caroline stepped out of the trees and on to the path, and almost immediately heard the sound of horse’s hooves striking against the frosty earth. Whoever was approaching was riding quickly. It sounded like a single horseman coming from the west rather than from the Northampton road to the east. Caroline hesitated. She had no wish to be found alone and loitering in the middle of the wood, and fortunately there was a woodcutter’s tumbledown hut set a little way back from the track. She hurried to take cover there. She did not fear poachers or highwaymen—that would have been foolish imagination—but there was no sense in courting danger by making herself obvious.
As the horseman came around the corner of the path he slowed his mount to a walk, affording Caroline the chance to get a good look at him. She peeked through the broken doorway of the hut and heaved a silent sigh of relief. Here was no rake, she was sure. He looked far more like a worthy, with his fair, fine-drawn looks and air of abstraction. He was neatly but plainly attired in a black coat and buff breeches, and his boots were scuffed from hard riding. No London rake, then, but a sober country gentleman. Medium height, medium build, altogether unremarkable. Perhaps he was a poet enjoying the morning air just as she had been. Caroline kept quite still and waited for him to pass by.
It seemed, however, that the gentleman was in no hurry. She watched as he sprang down from the saddle and pulled the horse’s reins over its head. It was a fine animal, a high-stepping grey with intelligent eyes, and she saw the man stroke its nose and speak quietly to it as he led it along the path towards her. The horse was limping a little and had obviously gone lame. Caroline held her breath and hoped that its rider would not decide to stop for a rest.
It was the mouse that was her undoing. She considered herself an indomitable female, but ever since Julia had put a dead mouse in her bed at school, Caroline had had a fear of tiny furry mammals. This one ran across her foot and she made an involuntary movement, sending the dead leaves swirling through the doorway of the hut and frightening a pheasant that was scratching around outside. The bird flew off giving its harsh cry and the horse, no doubt still unsettled by the incident that had turned it lame, reared up and almost knocked the gentleman to the ground.
Caroline drew back hastily into the shadows but she knew she was too late. Her abrupt movement had revealed a flash of scarlet velvet and it was useless to just stand there pretending that she was invisible. As she hesitated, the gentleman regained his balance and turned sharply towards the hut. For a long moment he stared straight at her, then he dropped the horse’s reins and took a step towards her.
Caroline’s heart was racing suddenly. She knew that the sensible course of action would be to step forward and apologise, but even as she thought this, she was turning to scramble through a gap in the back wall and stumble down amongst the leaves and brambles on the other side.
Her legs were shaking as she tried to steady herself and tear her cloak from the grip of the rough masonry that snagged at the material. She heard the scrape of loose stone behind her and was filled with a heady panic. Surely he was not following her! He had looked so harmless, so very worthy…
It was at that moment that Caroline discovered the extent of her mistake. A hand caught hold of her wrist and pulled her round to face him with a force that almost knocked the breath from her body. The hood of her cloak fell back and her hair tumbled all about her shoulders. She grasped instinctively at his arm for support, and felt the hard muscle beneath her fingers, the indisputable evidence of a man in excellent physical condition. So much for her thoughts of a dreamy poet with more interest in pursuits of the intellect than those of the body! Caroline raised her gaze to his face and discovered that the far-seeing eyes that she had imagined were dwelling on some piece of verse were a hard blue, cold as a stormy sea. For a long moment they stared at each other, and then Caroline saw a hint of laughter lighten his face and for some reason she felt her legs tremble again.
“Well…” There was lazy amusement in the man’s voice. “Not the poacher I’d expected, but I cannot find it in me to be sorry! Hold still, sweetheart—” He