The Governess and the Brooding Duke

“I am the Duke of Westmere. You do not tell me what needs to be done in my own household. Have I not paid you sufficiently to manage these things for me? Do you not report to me that you have set my children to rights?” “I got them to do what I needed them to today, but that does not mean...” “Enough.” He drew closer to her, so close that she could smell the scent of him. His skin, and something smoky. Tobacco, perhaps. He was clean, soap mingling with another scent, something masculine and raw. The sort of thing that would normally have made her lash out. Or run. And yet she did not run. She imagined herself standing in soft ground again, but this time, it was not simply her heels that dug in. She felt as if her entire foot was weighted down there. Stuck to the spot. Grounded. The Governess and the Brooding Duke Millie Adams www.millsandboon.co.uk MILLIE ADAMS has always loved books. She considers herself a mix of Anne Shirley (loquacious but charming and willing to break a slate over a boy’s head if need be) and Charlotte Doyle (a lady at heart, but with the spirit to become a mutineer should the occasion arise). Millie lives in a small house on the edge of the woods, which she finds allows her to escape in the way she loves best—in the pages of a book. She loves intense alpha heroes and the women who dare to go toe-to-toe with them (or break a slate over their heads). To everyone who needs it: you are not defined by what hurt you. And you are worthy of love. Contents Cover About the Author Booklist Title Page Copyright Note to Readers Introduction Dedication 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 Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Epilogue Extract About the Publisher Chapter One London, 1825 One could never be prepared for a duke. That was Miss Mary Smith’s most prominent thought as she looked up—the natural level of her gaze falling to his black cravat, so great was his height—into the shocking blue eyes of Samuel Montgomery, the Duke of Westmere. Dressed in a severe black suit which conformed to a body that would look more suited to a Highland warrior than English nobility, he cut an imposing figure. He was dressed in all black out of concession for mourning, she supposed, and yet it also seemed to suit him. It was not simply that he was handsome—though he was, and if Mary were the sort of woman who was affected by the handsomeness of men, she would be struck into silence now—it was the vitality and power which shone from him as if he were the sun. It was unusual to meet the master of the house, as she was accustomed to meeting their wives. Or even a housekeeper. She understood why she was meeting the Duke himself, though, considering his situation. She knew little about him, or his situation, apart from the fact he had two children—a boy and a girl—and an infant, who was in the care of a wet nurse since the death of his wife. The children were young, and without a mother. The potential for the position to go on for years, to allow her some stability, some rest, was high. Higher than either of her previous two positions, where the children had been older when she’d arrived, and nearly finished with the age when a governess was necessary. Then there was the splendour of the estate. Attingham was glorious, set near the edge of a forest, with spacious lawns all around the red brick and grey stone house. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, apart from royal residences, in London. This felt something like hope. For the girl she’d been. That this chance she’d taken, leaving everything behind, coming to England, battling her accent away, and pushing her memories to the side, had all been worth it. Miss Mary Smith was everything Mary McLaren had never been. She was calm, assertive and educated. In all things. From arithmetic to society’s intricacies. She prided herself on being unflappable. Unbreakable. Here and now, when this composure was more important than ever before, she felt herself crack. She had never met a duke. Thus was unprepared for the impact of him. Though she did not think one duke was the same as another. Or at least, she had her doubts any were like him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his bearing and authority unparalleled to anyone she’d yet met. She had been looked down on before—in both the literal sense and in the figurative. She was quite small, after all. What the Duke did now was not look down on her. Rather he seemed to look into her. She found she would have preferred a condescending sneer. That, at least, she knew how to withstand. There were men who sneered because she was a woman, and therefore beneath them. There were women and men who sneered because she was a governess. Not quite a servant. Not quite a lady. Never one of them. A woman who shaped her life around the children of her betters but had none of her own. No husband. Nothing to inherit. Nothing at all to give her value in the way those sorts of people could measure it. And there were men who sneered in triumph, because they found the arrangement of her features beautiful, and thought because she was a woman, because she was a governess, they could have her if they wished. The Duke of Westmere did not sneer. His assessment, clear and cold, was somehow so much more disconcerting for the condescension it lacked. Despite years of preparing for this very moment,