‘The doctor informs me that I will need a nurse for a few months while I recuperate. I can think of no one better,’ Lord Ravensworth said, and his voice became like heavy silk sliding over her skin.
‘You know of my faults, and your conversation is more amusing than most. Should you wish the position, it is yours. I will pay half as much again as your present employer.’
‘Lord Ravensworth!’ Daisy stared at him in astonishment. If she went to work for him, she might as well forget about ever being a governess in England again. She could well imagine how the interviews would go if he gave her a reference. The slight tutting, and then the news that the post had been filled. ‘You are unmarried!’
‘Double what Mrs Blandish is paying you. You drive a hard bargain.’
His eyes were molten gold with flecks of amber—eyes that Daisy knew she’d dream about for months to come—eyes which silently urged her to say yes.
‘It should be more than sufficient to make you swallow your principles about being employed by an unmarried man.’
‘Without my principles I am nothing. I am a governess, not a nurse. Therefore I must refuse, Lord Ravensworth, and urge you to seek a suitable person for your needs.’
Author Note
This book came about because of the gleam in my senior editor’s eye when I mentioned governesses, and the image of a half-naked man lying in Irthing River which haunted my brain for several nights running. And, as I had recently finished reading Alex Von Tunzelmann’s Indian Summer, as well as Kipling Sahib by Charles Allen, I knew the story had to have an Indian connection. India remains high on places I want to visit. And some day I will.
I found The Victorian Governess by Kathryn Hughes and Other People’s Daughters—The Lives and Times of the Governess by Ruth Brandon really useful for background information about governesses—plus their front covers are endlessly inspiring.
Because Daisy’s friend Louisa Sibson came up and tapped on my shoulder, demanding her story be told, and thankfully my editor agreed, her story will be appearing soon.
As ever, I love getting reader feedback—either via post to Mills & Boon, on my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, http://www.michellestyles.blogspot.com
All the best.
Compromising Miss Milton
Michelle Styles
Born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.
Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE GLADIATOR’ S HONOUR
A NOBLE CAPTIVE
SOLD AND SEDUCED
THE ROMAN’ S VIRGIN MISTRESS
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER
(part of Christmas By Candlelight)
VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE
AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE
A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY
IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE
To Pauline Tomlinson;
because everyone needs a Pauline in their life!
Contents
Chapter One
July 1837—Gilsland, Cumberland
The carriage’s abrupt stop jolted Adam Ravensworth, the third Viscount Ravensworth, from a fitful sleep, and sent his cane clattering to the floor of the carriage. Adam gripped the horsehair seat with his long fingers, narrowly preventing his body from tumbling after it.
‘In the name of all that is holy, what sort of driving is that? You are paid to avoid potholes, not drive through them!’ Adam banged on the roof.
Silence filled the unmoving carriage, only to be broken by the tramp of heavy feet and muffled voices. Adam froze, listening. Not poor driving but something far more sinister.
With a practised hand, he reached towards where his pistol was stored and encountered—air. A loud oath dropped from his lips.
Adam forced the remains of sleep from his mind. The pistol was there. It had to be. He had carefully placed it alongside the necklace before they had left the coaching inn this morning, an integral part of his ritual. His hand groped for the ruby necklace. His shoulders relaxed slightly. That at least was there.
Adam reached out again, fumbling in the dark with the latch of a hidden compartment, but despite his