Gift-Wrapped Governesses. Marguerite Kaye

       ‘Everywhere and at all times, Christmas has been the season of miracle and surprises …’

       Blackhaven Castle, Essex, England

       19 December, 1812

      Lady Seraphina Moreton came to Blackhaven Castle on the edge of the worst storm to hit Essex in living memory. Hailstones as large as golf balls had pelted the carriage roof and the snow at each side of the winding country lane was deep.

      ‘Not an omen, not an omen,’ she whispered to herself, repeating it over and over again as the coach jolted violently and stopped. Before her the castle loomed, walls tall and dark. A single light was held by a figure standing on the large front portico.

      Blackhaven. It suited its name, forbidding and isolated. Seraphina drew in breath. She must not be seen to be criticising. She must place a smile on her face and be unremittingly merry. Was that not what Mrs Jennings at the agency had impressed upon her? ‘No sour faces in this profession, miss. The client is always right and beggars cannot be choosers.’

      Beggars like her! The panic that lay beneath her careful veneer was only just buried. She wanted to run from this place across the frigid ground and away from a world that was increasingly indecipherable to her.

      Instead, she waited until the door was opened, lifted the hem of her velvet cloak and stepped out into the night, the servant with the lamp indicating the care needed on a patch of frozen ice as she followed him into the house.

      Trey Linton Stanford, the sixth Duke of Blackhaven, stood against the windows in his library, turning as the woman entered, accompanied by his man Elliot. He had seen her alight from the coach, her hair the colour of the burnished angel wings that graced the stained-glass panels in the family chapel and bright in the falling dusk. He hoped like hell that she was not beautiful, was not young and was not one of those governesses who placed a false smile upon their lips and never let go of it.

      When she came closer, however, and pale blue eyes met his own, he knew himself to be sorely disappointed on all three accounts. He swore soundly beneath his breath.

      ‘Welcome to Essex.’ He could hear the lack of charity in his words, but did nothing to alter the tone. Six governesses in three years and this one looked to be the most fainthearted of the lot. His sons would eat her up in a day. ‘I am Blackhaven.’

      ‘I thank you for the kindness of the offer of a position here, my lord. My name is Miss Sarah Moorland, and I hail from London.’ She curtsied with grace, her voice holding the cadence of a genteel upbringing as she went on. ‘I shall, of course, do my very upmost to be the sort of teacher you desire for your children, sir, as this post has arrived at a most opportune time for me.’

      Trey almost smiled at that. Almost. He could see desperation in her eyes. ‘You have experience, then, in the role of a governess?’

      The flush in her cheeks told him she had not, though to give her her