A governess with a secret
...meets this ready-made family!
Part of The Widows of Westram: Lady Marguerite Saxby is being blackmailed! Desperate for money, she accepts Jack Vincent, Earl Compton’s offer to become the temporary governess to his three motherless daughters. There’s so much she can’t tell her new employer. Only, she’s not expecting the all-consuming attraction that makes living under Jack’s roof a constant battle between her head and her heart!
The Widows of Westram
Widowed by war...tempted by new flirtations!
Lady Carrie and her sisters-in-law, Lady Petra and Lady Marguerite, each tragically widowed on the same day by the same battle in Portugal, have had time to come to terms with their circumstances.
Now these three beguiling widows aim to seize the day and build their own destinies—in life, and in the realm of romantic liaisons...!
Find out what happens in Marguerite’s story:
A Family for the Widowed Governess
And read the other stories in
The Widows of Westram trilogy!
A Lord for the Wallflower Widow
An Earl for the Shy Widow
Author Note
I hope you enjoy this final story in The Widows of Westram series as much as I enjoyed writing it. It is always difficult to say goodbye to characters who feel like they have become friends during the journey to their happy ending, isn’t it? I certainly feel that way with these three very different ladies. I am not sure where the idea of three widows whose husbands all died on the same day in the same place came from, but I had fun with it. I do love hearing from readers, be it a request for a story about a secondary character in an earlier book or for a chat about the story you are reading now. You can always reach me through my website, annlethbridge.com, or at Facebook.com/AnnLethbridgeAuthor or join the whole Harlequin Historical author team for fun and prizes at Facebook.com/HarlequinHistorical.
ANN LETHBRIDGE
A Family for the Widowed Governess
In her youth, award-winning author Ann Lethbridge reimagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com. She loves hearing from readers.
Books by Ann Lethbridge
Harlequin Historical
It Happened One Christmas
“Wallflower, Widow...Wife!”
Secrets of the Marriage Bed
Rescued by the Earl’s Vows
The Widows of Westram
A Lord for the Wallflower Widow
An Earl for the Shy Widow
A Family for the Widowed Governess
The Society of Wicked Gentlemen
An Innocent Maid for the Duke
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This story was about three women who became friends and supported each other through thick and thin. I would like to dedicate this book to great friends everywhere. These are people who make each day feel a little brighter and who are there for you in times of need as well as times of celebration. Friends are like treasure. Hoard every one of them.
Contents
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from Reunited with Her Viscount Protector by Mary Brendan
Chapter One
Lady Marguerite hated the way the ground sank and the water oozed up. A smell of wet mud filled her nostrils. It had taken her all morning to find the right ground conditions for the specimen she needed and she wasn’t going to give up now, even if it did mean getting wet feet.
She slogged on across the meadow, stepping on the highest tussocks. At least, for the first time in a week, it wasn’t raining. Indeed, it was a lovely spring day. Or it would be if she hadn’t had to go specimen hunting in the boggy ground of a water meadow.
There! Finally. The yellow flower she was seeking. Caltha palustris. Or marsh marigold, as she had known it as a child. She picked her way over to the tall plant, aware that the water level here was higher than ever. Now each step created deep puddles that threatened her jean half-boots.
Ugh. She hated this part of her work. Gathering plants in the wild. Petra would have adored it, but Petra was married and gone. The gentleman paying Marguerite to draw plants for his book was supposed to provide her with the specimens, but he’d said they were more prolific in Kent than where he lived and asked her to find one for herself.
She had thought it would be easy. She had seen them everywhere last spring. Unfortunately, she needed one in flower and very few were in bloom yet.
She tugged on the stalk. After a slight resistance, it pulled free of the muddy earth. She inspected it from root to tip. There were more plants, closer to the stream. Should she try for one with more flowers? This one had only two blossoms and one bud.
‘Ouch!’ A high-pitched scream rang out across the field.
Marguerite glanced wildly around. More screams. A child, she thought. At the edge of the field. She picked up her skirts and headed in the direction of the sound.
‘Ooh! Ooh! It hurts. Ouch. Ouch.’
Was someone striking a little girl?
She flung her sample aside and ran, ignoring the water soaking through her boots. Then she saw two little girls, the bigger of them dancing around flapping her hands and making the sounds Marguerite had heard. There was no sign of any menacing presence. Marguerite rushed up to the one who was clearly in pain.
‘What is it?’
‘Ouch. Ouch.’ Tears were running down the child’s face. ‘I was picking flowers and something bit me.’
The younger child came over to stand beside her...sister? They looked alike. Brown hair. Big brown eyes and dressed exactly the same. Where on earth had they come from?
Marguerite grabbed one of the flapping hands and inspected it. Raised bumps with scarlet edges. She knew exactly what had happened. She cast her gaze around until she found what she wanted. Dock leaves. She scrunched up a couple to free their juices, then began rubbing them all over the little girl’s hands.
After a few moments, the little girl’s cries subsided to a whimper and she gazed up at Marguerite, her face sad. ‘Why did the flower bite me?’ She pointed to a little blue cornflower.
Marguerite winced. ‘It didn’t. It is hiding in a bed of stinging nettles. Those tall green plants. That is what hurt you.’
‘Stinging nettles?’ She kicked out at the plant.
Marguerite pulled her back. ‘Careful. They can easily sting through your stockings.’ Hadn’t every child in England learned that the hard way?
The younger child crouched down and p
eered at the nearest nettle. ‘Nasty flower,’ she said.
Marguerite inspected the older child’s hand. It was still swollen and sore looking. She rubbed some more. ‘You put your hand right into the middle of them.’
The child gazed at her sadly, tears staining her little face. ‘Why do they sting?’
‘To stop you from picking them. Or rather, to stop grazing animals from eating them. It is the way the plant protects itself.’
The little girl pulled her hand from Marguerite’s and inspected the damage. ‘It still hurts. And I wasn’t going to pick it. I was picking the blue one.’
‘It will hurt for a while, I am afraid. And itch.’ She picked more dock leaves. ‘Keep rubbing the sore places with this until it goes away.’
She glanced around. They were a good mile from Ightham village and even further from her home in Westram. ‘Where do you live?’
The smaller child pointed away from Ightham. ‘Over there. In a big house.’ She spread her arms to aid in her description.
Marguerite knew of only one big house in this particular area, though she had never visited it. Good lord. Marguerite had assumed they were children of villagers, or tenants, but now that she had time to look more closely, she could see that their dresses and pinafores were of far too good a quality to be worn by children of common folk. ‘You mean Bedwell Hall. You are Lord Compton’s daughters?’
The older girl left off sucking the back of her hand and nodded.
Marguerite recalled her abandoned specimen with a sigh. She’d have to pick one another day, because these children should not be wandering around in the fields alone. What on earth could Lord Compton be thinking?
‘Come along, ladies. It is time you went home.’
The younger one giggled. ‘Ladies.’
‘You are ladies, are you not?’ Marguerite said.
The older one left off her rubbing. ‘I am Lady Elizabeth and she is Lady Jane. Everyone calls me Lizzie.’
‘I’m Janey,’ the younger one added.
Marguerite took their hands. How tiny they were. And grubby. It made her think of her childhood. When she had been young and innocent. She could scarcely remember it. Mama had died when she was very young and then it seemed as if she had become mother to her siblings, especially to her sister, Petra.
And now Petra had remarried, leaving Marguerite entirely alone. She liked it that way. She really did. Not having to care for anyone else, being able to do exactly as she pleased, when she pleased, was heaven. And if she needed company, she could always call on Petra and her new husband, Ethan, or go for a visit to Carrie and Avery at their home in the north of England.
Right now, Petra and her husband were off visiting Ethan’s elderly relative in Bath. Ethan had thought Petra was looking a little peaky and had thought a change of air would do her good. Bless the man. He really was good to her younger sister.
They climbed a stile and crossed a narrow laneway bounded by a high wall.
‘The gate is that way,’ Lizzie said.
They really were quite a distance from the house. It did not seem right at all. ‘How old are you, Lizzie?’
‘I am eight,’ Lizzie said, ‘and Janey is six.’
Marguerite frowned. ‘Are you supposed to be wandering around the fields on your own?’
‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘But we ran away.’
A cold chill travelled down Marguerite’s spine. ‘Why?’
‘Because Papa is mean to us,’ Janey said. ‘So we runned away.’
‘Ran,’ Marguerite said. She did not like the sound of this. Not at all. How many times had she, too, had the urge to run away?
In the end, it had been Neville who left her. She never had understood why he, of all people, had gone off to war with her brother and brother-in-law, but of the three of the women left behind to become widows, she must have been the only one who celebrated her husband’s departure with a toast to whatever impulse had sent him off.
She hadn’t wanted his death. But she had been glad to see him go. Unfortunately, she wasn’t yet free of the misery he had imposed on her life from the moment they wed. But she would be. Very soon.
Not far down the lane, a side gate into the Bedwell estate stood ajar.
She frowned at it. This lord did not care very much for the welfare of his children, that much was certain. She ushered the children through and closed it behind them, making sure it was firmly latched. With growing anger for this careless papa, she marched the two girls up the path to the back of a beautiful Palladian mansion. Once, this house had belonged to the Westrams. Back before Oliver Cromwell had turned England upside down.
It would not have looked like this then. It had been vastly improved since its Tudor days.
Not a soul hustled out to meet them. Had no one realised these girls were missing?
* * *
‘My lord?’
Jack Vincent, Earl Compton, glanced up from reviewing his bailiff’s weekly report on several matters relating to the estate. He frowned. Johnson was staring out of the estate office window with a puzzled expression.
‘What is it?’
‘A young woman, my lord. With Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jane in tow.’
Jack shot out of his chair and around the desk to see what Johnson was talking about. Indeed. It was as his bailiff had said. A willowy woman was striding across the stable yard with his daughters dragging their feet as she urged them along.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded. He strode for the kitchen door.
Cook looked up, flustered at his entry. ‘Is there...?’
He opened the door to the courtyard and emerged into the spring sunshine. He blinked against the glare.
‘Lord Compton?’ an imperious, slightly out-of-breath voice asked.
He bowed slightly to the dishevelled woman whose hems were damp and muddy and who had locks of auburn hair dangling from beneath her cap as if she had been pulled through a hedge backwards. ‘Who the devil are you? And what are you doing with my daughters?’
She recoiled and drew herself up straight. ‘We have not met, but I am Lady Marguerite Saxby. I live in Westram.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘As for your other question, I found these ladies wandering in the field outside your walls. Lady Elizabeth has had an unfortunate encounter with a stinging nettle.’
He froze, looked at the tears staining his eldest child’s face and felt anger rising inside him. How had this happened? ‘Why were you outside?’
Lizzie flinched.
Damn it. He hated when she did that. He reached for a modicum of calm.
‘We runned away,’ Janey announced.
‘Ran.’ He and this woman, this Lady Marguerite, spoke at the same time.
He glanced at her. She glared back. As if he was somehow in the wrong.
‘You know you are not allowed to go outside without a maid.’ He sounded gruffer than he intended.
Lizzie lifted her shoulders. ‘Nanny said everyone was busy.’
‘Then you wait.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look, if you can’t do as you are told, Lizzie, then I’m sorry, but you know the consequences.’
Lizzie burst into tears. ‘Nooooo!’
The woman thrust herself between Lizzie and himself. ‘Leave the poor child alone. She has been punished enough, I should think. Look.’ She gently pulled Lizzie forward and held out her hand for his inspection.
It was covered in white bumps with red edges. His stomach churned. His brain went numb at the sight of the painful swelling. ‘Go,’ he yelled. ‘Upstairs. Get Nanny to put something on it.’
‘I gave her dock leaves,’ Lady Marguerite said. Her voice was beautifully modulated, if a little deeper than most women’s. For some reason it calmed him.
She crouched down. ‘Take the leaves to your nanny, she will know what to do.’ Lizzie nodded and ran
off with Janey scurrying behind.
Jack hated to see his children hurt. Could not abide it. Why the devil would they not do as he had instructed and stay indoors with Nanny James?
The young woman rose to her feet. She was almost tall enough to look him in the eye. And delightfully feminine, despite her drab clothing. ‘What on earth are you about, Lord Compton?’
He stared blankly ‘About?’
‘Those children should not be wandering the countryside alone. Anything could happen.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’
She blinked.
Damn and blast, he had raised his voice. Again. He lowered his tone. ‘They know better. I have told them time and time again.’
Her finely arched eyebrows, a darker auburn than her hair, lowered. Her pretty green eyes narrowed. ‘The gate to the lane was open. They were a long way from home and you had no idea of it. Children of their age need proper adult supervision.’
Good lord, who was she to come here laying down the law? He was the magistrate. ‘Nonsense. They have proper supervision. Indoors.’
‘I see.’ She looked completely unconvinced.
‘There is a nanny, three footmen and a cook, all there to see that they have whatever their little hearts desire. Is that enough supervision for you, madam?’ Devil take it, why was he explaining himself to this woman? He took a deep breath.
Somehow, she managed to look down her nose at him. ‘Not enough of the right sort of supervision, apparently, and while a punishment is likely in order, I beg that it be denial of some privilege, a story at bedtime, a visit to the village, something that will not cause physical pain.’
Stunned, he stared at her. Pain?
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Good day, Lord Compton.’ She spun around and marched back the way she had come.
How dare she come here and accuse him of not looking after his children? And...and did she think he was going to beat them? Damn her, for judging him so poorly. ‘Johnson, get a chain and a lock and secure the damned gate. And find out who left it open.’
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