When She Was a Governess (The Duke’s Legacy #3)

Chapter One

The year she’d bargained for was over.

Sophia Ashford pressed her palm against the cool glass of the drawing-room window, watching the afternoon light fade over the Kent coast. Below the cliffs, the sea churned in restless shades of pewter and slate, white foam marking where waves met the rocky shore. A storm was building on the horizon.

Three weeks had passed since the letter arrived from her eldest brother, Sebastian, requesting her presence in London.

For the Season. Her debut season. Although their fortunes had changed, and she no longer needed work as a governess, she would rather stay with Amelia than become Lady Sophia Ashford.

Ironically, for years, Sophia had prayed her family would have their titles and wealth restored by the king.

Sebastian had played a risky game and won.

His title, along with James’s and Sophia’s, were now intact, as was their wealth.

All of which should have made her deliriously happy. Instead, she was miserable.

She’d begged her brothers for one more year with Amelia, but there would be no more delays. She had to go.

She turned from the window, gazing instead at the golden head, curls plastered against a pink cheek, tiny fist holding on to one ear of her toy rabbit.

Amelia napped soundly, unaware that in two days, the woman who’d cared for her since she was six months old would be gone, just shy of Amelia’s third birthday.

Sophia would not be here for her birthday.

She swallowed a painful lump in the back of her throat.

In a week’s time, another woman would stand next to Amelia’s bed in the nursery.

Someone who didn’t know that Amelia always slept with Christopher, her rabbit, and that she must have a story read to her before bedtime and needed fresh air every day to get her wiggles out and a hundred other details that only a mother knew.

She sank into the rocking chair, her vision blurring, thinking of all the hours she’d spent holding the baby, singing to her in this very spot.

One of the maids appeared in the doorway. Sophia, not wanting to wake Amelia, followed her out to the hallway.

“Lord Montrose has asked for you, Miss Ashford.”

Clearly, Amelia’s uncle had learned of her resignation. And he wanted to see her? Sophia clasped her hands together and nodded. “Now?” Amelia’s guardian had never asked to see her before.

Her hand flew to her throat, her pulse hammering against her palm. Perhaps he’d found a replacement already. Perhaps he wanted her gone today, this very hour, before she could poison Amelia further with her unseemly attachment.

“He wants to see me right now?” Sophia asked.

“Yes, please.” The maid bobbed. “Mrs. Bromley says I’m to stay with the child.”

“Thank you. She only just went down for her nap, so she shouldn’t stir for another hour or so.”

Sophia, feeling very much like she was about to meet the devil himself, made her way down the hallway, her slippers noiseless on the runner that lined the wood corridor.

Down the long hallway, the beginning of the storm shed rain on the tall mullioned windows.

The walls were paneled in pale oak, polished to a dull sheen, decorated with gilt-framed landscapes of the Kent coast. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly at the corridor’s end.

She gathered her courage and descended the grand staircase, her hand gliding along the cool, carved banister.

The foyer opened wide below to checkerboard marble floors.

Ancestral portraits lined the staircase wall, their oil-dark eyes assessing the governess forced to resign her post. A faint draft stirred the curtains, whispering against the glass.

She turned toward the west wing, where the study waited behind its heavy oak door, a place she had never been invited to before.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Bromley, had been her primary conduit to Lord Montrose.

Sophia gave regular reports of the child’s progress to the kindly woman, who then shared them with Amelia’s uncle.

From what Sophia had observed, Lord Montrose was not a hard or cruel man, but he appeared to have little interest in the child, which had suited her just fine.

Sophia had raised Amelia as she saw fit, with little interference from anyone.

The air grew cooler as she reached Lord Montrose’s study.

Her footsteps softened on the Persian runner, and for a moment she could hear only her pulse and the rustle of her skirts.

Her hand hovered over the polished brass doorknob.

She drew a steadying breath, then knocked once, the sound no match for the beating pulse between her ears.

“Come in, please.” Lord Montrose’s deep voice came from behind the closed door.

She slipped inside, staring at her feet, a droplet of sweat running down the middle of her back, despite the corset around her slim frame.

He half-rose, hesitated, then stood fully, his composure slipping just enough for her to notice. “Miss Ashford. Good afternoon.”

She curtsied. “My lord.”

Despite her nervousness, she took in the room.

She’d never been invited in before, and she had to admit to a curiosity about the room in which Lord Montrose spent so much of his time.

The study felt deeply masculine, with paneled walls in dark walnut.

The scent of leather bindings and traces of pipe smoke lingered in the air.

A large Georgian partners’ desk commanded the center of the room, its surface meticulously arranged: neat stacks of correspondence, a heavy brass inkwell, and a quill trimmed to precision.

Behind the desk hung a tall window framed in thick velvet drapes of deep green that looked out to sea.

One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases, their shelves filled with leather-bound volumes.

Between the shelves stood a marble fireplace, its mantel sparsely decorated save for a silver-framed portrait of his late sister, Rebecca, and a single candlestick.

A pair of mahogany armchairs flanked the hearth, upholstered in dark green damask, well-used but well-kept.

The firelight caught the edge of his waistcoat buttons and the faint tension in his jaw, though his expression remained unreadable. He didn’t stride forward but stood there, one hand resting on the back of his chair.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, then gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”

The fire gave a soft pop, startling her slightly. On the polished surface of the desk lay the letter she had written in her neat, careful hand. It looked stark against the dark wood, the seal broken, her fate exposed.

Sophia’s heart gave a small, helpless twist. She’d hoped, foolishly, that Mrs. Bromley had merely conveyed her intention to leave her post. But her resignation letter lay before him, and his gaze, when it met hers again, was not angry, only searching.

She sat in one of the chairs positioned in front of his desk.

“As you can see, I’ve received your resignation,” he said, each word deliberate. “And I find myself unwilling to accept it.”

Her breath caught. For a moment she could only stare at him, unsure if she’d heard correctly.

“I’m sorry, Lord Montrose, but you must. My brother insists.”

She found it hard not to stare at the man.

Henry Montrose was, unfortunately, much too handsome.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with an ease that came from breeding rather than arrogance.

His wavy hair, a shade somewhere between chestnut and mahogany, caught the firelight.

She had a sudden impulse to run her fingers through his brown locks.

Where had that come from?

He was clean-shaven, his jaw strong, his mouth firm but not unkind.

However, it was his eyes that unsettled her most. Brown and clear, and far too perceptive.

They held a stillness that suggested deep thought, perhaps loneliness, and yet, when they turned fully on her, she felt seen in a way she had not often experienced in her life.

“I don’t understand, Miss Ford. Why does he insist?”

She swallowed. It still jarred her to hear anyone call her by her false name. However, she’d had no choice. Using her real name would have opened her up to unwanted scrutiny. “It’s a rather long story.”

He sat back in his chair, watching her. “I’ve all the time in the world, Miss Ford. There’s a storm coming in.”

The storm gave him more time? She put that aside to think about later.

“My brother is Lord Ashford.”

He stared at her, brow knitted. “Lord Ashford cannot be your brother.”

“But he is. James Ashford is also my brother. We are the three Ashford siblings who lost our position in society when our father was falsely accused of murder and hanged.”

“I know the story.” He frowned, shaking his head, almost as if he didn’t believe her. “You’re Sophia Ashford.”

“That’s correct, my lord.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, his tone was deadly calm.

The kind of calm that chilled Sophia to the very bone.

Baron Langston had spoken that way, right before he lost his temper and pulled out his riding whip.

Sophia covered her scarred right hand with her left, a habit she’d developed years ago.

“And why is it, Miss Ford, that you have lied to me and my staff about your identity? Or should I say, Miss Ashford.”

Anger flared for a quick second. How could he ask that question? Wasn’t it obvious? “It was prudent that I kept my noble birth to myself, my lord. Our family was in disgrace, leaving me with no choice but to become a governess.”

“I see.”

Sophia looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry I lied, my lord. However, it was necessary at the time.”

“And now?”

“And now, Sebastian—Lord Ashford—wants me to have a Season. To marry well.”

“Is this what you want?”

To Sophia’s horror, her eyes filled with tears. She brought her left hand to her aching throat. “It is not, my lord.”

“And may I ask why?”