LITMIR.BIZ

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her gaze to drift to his scars. It was just damaged skin. She must not stare and make him uncomfortable.

      His voice gentled. ‘So you know what it is like to be orphaned?’

      ‘Yes.’

      It is lonely. It is being second-best, unimportant, overlooked. It is knowing you are different and never feeling as though you belong.

      ‘I do not remember my parents. I was still a babe in arms when they died.’

      Like Clara, when I gave her away.

      He sat back. ‘I hope Clara will remember her parents, but I am not sure she will. She is only two.’

      ‘She will if you talk to her about them and keep their memory alive,’ Grace said. ‘My uncle and aunt never spoke to me of my parents. They had quarrelled over something years before and they only took me in out of what they considered to be their Christian duty.’

      Silence reigned as Ravenwell stared, frowning, into the fire. Grace knitted the strands of her thoughts together until she realised there were gaps in her understanding.

      ‘You speak only of Clara,’ she said. ‘You said you will need to know about me if you are to entrust her to my care. Is she not rather young, or do you and Lady Ravenwell have need of a governess for your other children, perhaps?’

      Her question jerked Ravenwell from his contemplation of the flames. ‘There is no Lady Ravenwell. Clara would be your sole charge.’

      ‘Would a nanny, or a nursery maid, not be more suitable?’ The words were out before Grace could stop them. What are you trying to do? Talk him out of employing you?

      Ravenwell scowled. ‘Are you not capable of looking after such a young child? Or perhaps you think it beneath you, as a trained governess?’

      ‘Yes, I am capable and, no, it is not beneath me. I simply wondered—’

      ‘I do not want Clara to grow fond of someone and then have to adjust to a new face in a few years’ time. She has faced enough disruption. Do you want the position or not?’

      ‘Yes...yes, of course.’ Grace’s heart soared. How could life be any sweeter?

      Ravenwell was eyeing her, frowning. ‘It will be lonely out here, for such a young woman. Are you sure?’

      ‘I am sure.’

      Joy bubbled through her. Real joy. Not the forced smiles and manufactured jests behind which she had concealed her aching heart and her grief from her friends. Now, her jaw clenched in her effort to contain her beaming smile, but she knew, even without the aid of a mirror, her delight must shine from her eyes. She could not fake nonchalance, despite Madame Dubois’s constant reminders that unseemly displays of emotion by governesses were not appreciated by their employers.

      ‘I will fetch Clara and introduce you.’

      Grace’s heart swelled. She could not wait to speak to Clara. To touch her.

      Lord Ravenwell stood, then hesitated and held out his hand. ‘Give me your cloak. I will ask Mrs Sharp to brush it for you.’

      Startled by this unexpected courtesy, Grace removed her grey cloak—warm and practical, and suitable garb for a governess—and handed it to him. Doubts swirled. Until this moment she had not fully considered that accepting the role of governess to Clara actually meant becoming part of this household and living here with Ravenwell. She thought she had learned her lesson of acting first and thinking about the consequences second, but perhaps, deep down, she was still the impulsive girl she had always been. Her entire focus had been on the lure of staying with Clara. She swallowed. Ravenwell—who had not smiled once since her arrival and who appeared to live as a recluse in this cold, isolated house—was now her employer. This terse, scowling man was now part of her future.

      It will be worth it, just to be with Clara. And what kind of life will my poor little angel have if I do not stay?

      There was no question that she would accept the post, even if she had not considered all the implications. She would bring sunshine and laughter and love to her daughter’s life. Clara would never doubt she was loved and wanted. Grace would make sure of it.

      ‘How many servants are there here?’ she asked.

      ‘Three indoors and two men outdoors. We live quietly.’

      And with that, he strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder this unexpected path her life had taken. What would Miss Fanworth say if she could see Grace now? Doubt assailed her at the thought of her favourite teacher. It had been Miss Fanworth who had come to her aid on that terrifying night when she had given birth, Miss Fanworth who had advised Grace to give her baby up for adoption and Miss Fanworth who had taken Grace aside on the day she left the school for the final time and revealed the name of the couple her baby daughter had been given to.

      ‘It is up to you what you choose to do with this information, Grace, but I thought you deserved to know.’

      Grace had left school that day, full of determination to find the people who had adopted her daughter, knowing nothing more than their name and that they lived in Gloucestershire. When she eventually tracked them down, it had been too late. They were dead and Grace’s daughter had been taken to live with her uncle and guardian, the Marquess of Ravenwell.

      Undeterred, Grace had travelled to Ravenwell’s country seat, south of Harrogate, where—after some persistent questioning of the locals—she had discovered that the Marquess lived here, at Shiverstone Hall. And, finally, here she was. She had succeeded. She had found her baby.

      She could almost hear Miss Fanworth’s measured tones in her head: ‘Do take care, Grace, dear. You are treading on very dangerous ice.’

      Those imagined words of caution were wise. She must indeed take care: her heart quailed again at the thought of the forbidding Marquess discovering her secret.

      I am not really doing wrong. I am a governess and he needs a governess. And I will protect Clara with the last breath of my body. How can that be wrong?

      The door opened, jolting her from her thoughts. Ravenwell entered, walking slowly, holding Clara by the hand as she toddled beside him, a rag doll clutched in the crook of her arm.

      ‘Clara,’ he said, as they halted before Grace. ‘This is Miss Bertram. She has come to take care of you.’

      A tide of emotion swept through Grace, starting deep down inside and rising...swelling...washing over her, gathering into a tight, aching knot in her chest. Her throat constricted painfully. She dropped to her knees before her little girl, drinking her in...her light brown curly hair, her gold-green eyes—the image of mine—her plump cheeks and sweet rosebud lips.

      Oh, God! Oh, God! Thank you! Thank you!

      She reached out and touched Clara’s hand, marvelling at the softness of her skin. How big that hand had grown since the moment she had taken her baby’s tiny fist in hers and pressed her lips to it for the last time. She had tucked away those few precious memories, knowing they must last a lifetime. And now, she had a second chance.

      She sucked in a deep breath, desperately trying to suppress her emotion. Ravenwell had released Clara’s hand and moved aside. Grace could sense his eyes on her. Watching. Judging.

      ‘What a pretty dolly.’ Her voice hitched; she willed the tears not to come. ‘Does she have a name?’

      Clara’s thumb crept into her mouth as she stared up at Grace with huge eyes—too solemn, surely, for such a young child?

      ‘She has barely spoken since she lost her parents.’

      Powerless to resist the urge, Grace opened her arms and drew Clara close, hugging her, breathing in her sweet little-girl scent as wispy curls tickled her neck and cheek.

      She glanced up at Ravenwell, watching her with a puzzled frown. She dragged in a steadying breath. She must not excite his suspicions.

      ‘I know what it is l-like

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