Gift-Wrapped Governesses: Christmas at Blackhaven Castle / Governess to Christmas Bride / Duchess by Christmas. Marguerite Kaye
in her camp now, before her, sheltering her, the flurry of his shots matching his sons.
She could hardly speak for laughing, the barks of Melusine adding to the noise, and behind on the top step of the porch she noticed a row of servants observing the chaos.
Life.
This was how it should be.
Not hiding out for fear of what others might say about the loss of Moreton Manor and the death of her father, but living it regardless with laughter and energy and four days left until Christmas.
She would never forget this moment, she thought to herself: the joy of it and the fun, though drips of freezing ice down her back made her gasp.
‘That’s enough, now.’ The boys obeyed their father as surely as Melusine had and when he bent to help her up his hand was as cold as her own.
‘Do you surrender?’ The same words she had used before, but said differently, and her heart beat in her throat as a sharp ache of want pierced her body, for him, for Trey Stanford and his steady, honest goodness and his offer of safety for a month. She could barely breathe with the promise of it and her grip tightened.
The moment was lost, however, as Terence moved forwards to give his help.
‘Thank you, kind sirs,’ she said, threading her arms through each of theirs and, with Melusine and the other two children running in front, they repaired to the portico where Mrs Thomas, the housekeeper, called out the enticing promise of hot chocolate and sugar-covered currant buns in the blue salon with a roaring fire.
Much later Trey lay down upon his bed fully clothed and booted, his valet dismissed for the evening whilst he mulled over the extraordinary day. His childhood had been dour and strict and he had let his own children go wild after their mother had died because of it. All advice had railed at him to send them up to school, but he had not wanted to let go of them.
He had revelled in seeing them as he had today in the snow, joyous, happy and carefree, the small dog yapping her head off and Seraphina Moreton aiming her snowballs like a professional.
He found it difficult to understand how she had managed to stand upright for so long in those ridiculous smooth slippers of hers, for even in boots with a thick and furrowed sole he had had trouble with the balance.
Wiping his hand across his face, he frowned. Lord, if Terence had not appeared when he did he might have picked Lady Seraphina up, daring the world to hurt her again or make her sad.
Leaving the thought there, he rose, gazing at the lights in the opposite wing of the castle. She would be in the room now, overlooking the valley. He wondered if she looked across the rolling hills to the ocean and its islands close in beside the promontory of rocks.
Blackhaven was his land and his home. Catherine had always hated the isolation. He could not have imagined her running out to save a wounded bird or throwing a snowball and laughing when the ice crept in down her back. The artifice of court seemed muted in the only daughter of an earl renowned for his pretensions and his imprudent ways.
Aye, Lady Seraphina Moreton was a puzzle.
Over hot chocolate she had told the boys that they could help her find holly tomorrow, pine boughs and mistletoe to decorate the castle’s hearth for Christmas. His sons had looked at him, expecting a refusal, but the bright anticipation in his new governess’s face was hard to deny.
The quiet sound of music came from beneath him, the servants in the kitchens, he supposed, singing of Christmas hope and glory, the stars above and the Stanford property spreading out below as far as the eye could see.
Star of wonder, star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright
Westward leading still proceeding
Guide us to thy Perfect Light.
Exactly here!
What did Lady Seraphina sleep in? he wondered, for the bag she carried when she arrived had been small. Did she take her slumber in nothing at all?
God, the woman was making him into a man he did not recognise. She had come as his governess, a position she had gone to great lengths to reassure him she wanted, and as the lord of the house he had a duty to allow her safety at Blackhaven.
He was a gentleman who understood the responsibility of honour and power. She was here for the while it might take to send her onwards and he only wished that the swelling region around his groin might recognise the fact.
Chapter Four
21 December
Seraphina opened her bag and brought out the only other dress she owned. The white gown was beyond repair and she doubted that even Mrs Thomas with her varied skills could rectify it.
Her sister-in-law, Joan, had given it to her as she had explained the difficulty in housing even one more family member. Seth Moreton’s gambling had taken a toll on everyone, she had lectured, when she had extracted the yellowing garment from the back of her wardrobe and handed it to Seraphina—a replacement for the one Bonnington had ruined.
‘The man should be shot, of course. He should be hanged, drawn and quartered for his ill use of you, but who are we now to demand it? It is finished, Seraphina. Your brother is washing his hands of everything that was his birthright and you would be more than wise to do the same.’
Bernard had not appeared, but Seraphina had seen her eldest brother’s shadow beneath the door in the hallway outside and she had known that he was hiding. Confrontation disturbed him, but the thought of a penniless dependent probably worried him more.
The Moretons had neither money nor land left and a city that prided itself in both would not receive them well. Joan had even refused the use of a carriage to take her back into London, reasoning that every pound was to now be counted if they were to survive the penury that would surely follow. Seraphina had left the house and walked the mile into town, her hat pulled full down across her face so as to avoid any notice.
There had been marriage proposals, of course. Her first Season had been awash with offers, but her father had demanded she wait for the one that could not be refused and when his own foolishness had tarnished their name, all promises had been quickly withdrawn.
Even before Bonnington she had been an outcast, she realised, the few dresses that her father had allowed her to procure constantly changed by her own hand to make them appear different.
The dark-blue gown she took out now was one of those dresses, three years old but well cut and made of worsted velvet, which she had to admit was in places thinning badly. The cook had smuggled it out with Melusine when she had chanced one final call at the Moreton town house before leaving London.
At least she would not trip over the hem, she thought, combing her hair and winding it into a long plait tied with a bright red ribbon. But she must be very careful with the condition of the dress; after this, there was nothing else left.
The duke was waiting downstairs, but this morning he looked ill at ease, a man caught by company he did not desire. When she smiled at him his frown deepened.
‘Good morning, my lord.’
‘Miss Moorland.’
As he remained silent she filled in the awkward space between them with chatter.
‘Today with the children I shall begin on a lesson of botany. The plants that signify Christmas all have their own tales attached and the boys should enjoy the stories as we gather them.’ She added a ‘sir’ when he still declined to answer, for the détente that had been so apparent yesterday had disappeared overnight.
‘Then I hope you have a fruitful day.’
‘You will not accompany us?’
He shook his head and