Chapter One
There was a deep scratch upon the side of Maggie’s valise.
She could not recall how it had happened. Perhaps the last coach she had taken had flung it a little too roughly to the ground? Her previous conveyance had been a public stagecoach, so crowded that all the luggage was lashed to the roof—even her worn old valise. The coachman, being neither careful nor courteous, had dropped it with something close to contempt when she changed vehicles. It had almost certainly happened then, she supposed.
Carefully, she turned the case so that the mark would not show when she stepped out. This was the final leg of her journey, and she must look as composed as possible.
On impulse, she drew out her cracked silver hand-mirror and opened it, studying her reflection.
I look like a governess. Perfect.
Her hair, brushed smooth from its rich chestnut curls, was drawn into a modest knot at the back of her head. Not a strand dared stray. Her face, though pale from travel, bore no smudge or blemish. She met her own eyes—clear green-gold, fringed with dark lashes.
Not modest enough for a governess.
She lowered her gaze, practising meekness. It did not come naturally. She would have to learn it.
On cue, a man’s voice echoed in her head—low and amused.
“What pretty eyes you have, my dear Maggie. I shall always call youMaggie, and never Margaret. A woman namedMargaretwould never have such bewitching eyes. Didn’t your poor, dead Mama call you Maggie?”
The recollection made her shiver. Clenching her jaw, she snapped the mirror shut and thrust it away. She was weary of her reflection—weary of his voice that clung to her like a stain.
I will not think of him. He cannot find me here. Three months have passed; I am safe. I am Maggie Winters, governess. Margaret Camden is long gone.
She would have to remind herself often. Perhaps she ought to have chosen another name entirely, but it was too late now. Her application had been signedMaggie Winters, and that was whom they expected.
The coach lurched suddenly, turning up a steep, gravelled drive. Peering through the cloudy window, she caught sight of her destination—a great house crowning the hill.Burenwood Manor.It looked more imposing even than she had imagined.
The final ascent seemed interminable, though perhaps her nerves made it so. At last, the coach rolled to a halt before the largest house she had ever seen.
She pushed open the door herself and stepped down, manoeuvring her scratched valise after her. Her boots sank into the well-raked gravel.
A sharp tut met her ears. An elderly butler advanced, lips compressed.
“You should have allowed me, or the footman, to open the door,” he reproved. “You are Miss Winters, I presume?”
“I am,” Maggie replied with a smile. “I am used to opening my own doors, you see.”
It was meant lightly, but the butler did not so much as twitch a smile.
“Things are done properly here at Burenwood Manor,” he said austerely. “His Grace is most particular.”
Maggie curbed her amusement. “I shall endeavour to remember.”
He inclined his head, apparently appeased. “See that you do. I am Crawford, the butler. John, take her case.”
A footman appeared as if conjured, seized her valise, and strode away. Maggie felt oddly bare without it and clutched her gown to steady herself.
“Come inside,” Crawford said briskly. “Mrs Thornton awaits you. The housekeeper—I believe you corresponded with her.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched towards the great stone steps and arched doorway.
A small tremor of apprehension passed through her. She wished she could hold her valise again—heavy, awkward, scratched though it was.
Inside, the air was as chill and pristine as outdoors. Their footsteps echoed so sharply that Maggie wondered if she would forever announce her presence wherever she went.
Should I put felt upon my soles? Would the duke object to his servants clattering through the house?
