Julia Carruthers arrives in London from Romney Marsh in
desperate need of a job. The last person to be interviewed
by Chance Becket, a handsome, frustrated widower who needs
a governess for his five-year-old daughter, Julia finds
herself hired and on her way back to Romney Marsh almost
before she can blink an eye.
Set in 1811, during a time when many a smuggler banded
together and England was at war with France, Chance Becket
works for the War Office. He's been charged with
investigating the smuggling that's taking place in Romney
Marsh, his home. Chance has many secrets and Julia is an
extremely smart woman who's never learned to hold her
tongue.
The Becket family stands strong together, and Julia isn't
sure whether or not she's accepted or will forever be the
outsider to this tight-knit family. But when Chance returns
to secrets of his past, and the Becket family tests Julia,
true colors are exposed and danger stands in the way of
their futures.
In this entertaining story, Ms. Michaels introduces readers
to an interesting mix of Beckets, whom I hope to read about
in future stories, and a match between two people who are
meant to be together.
Old enough to remember his beginning, Chance Becket has
spent all of his thirty years trying to forget, hiding his
unsavory youth behind a society marriage and a prestigious
position with the War Office. But now the widower must
confront his past and return to the windswept coast of
Romney Marsh... where the ghosts of his childhood still
linger.
Newly hired governess Julia Carruthers is delighted to be
in
charge of Chance's young daughter and eager to escape the
confines of London. Yet the excitement of the journey to
her
employer's strange home is nothing compared to the
attraction between them. And when Julia sees something she
should not, she wonders if Chance's sudden intentions are
prompted by ungentlemanly desires or his need to protect
his
family's secrets.
Excerpt
London, 1811
CHANCE BECKET SAT IN the formal drawing room of his
Georgian house located in Upper Brook Street, not two
blocks from Hyde Park, unaware of his expensive,
fashionable surroundings.
No, not unaware. Uncaring.
How could he not care? Wasn't this what he wanted, what
he'd always wanted? What he worked for, what he longed
for...what he had achieved almost entirely on his own?
Perhaps that was the rub. He had done nothing entirely on
his own. His extensive education had been a gift from his
father, Ainsley Becket, the mysterious, reclusive and very
wealthy Becket of Romney Marsh.
This house? This house had been a gift from his late
father-in-law. Even the furnishings, the fine silk sofa he
slouched in now, had come to him along with his wife,
Beatrice.
Chance sipped from the wineglass that had moments earlier
dangled from his fingertips, nearly spilling onto the fine
Aubusson carpet.
He was a sham, a farce, living no more than the shallow
dream of a reality that had fallen far short of all his
youthful expectations. Gentlemen were born, not
constructed out of whole cloth. All he'd achieved was the
pretty shell; there was nothing pretty inside.
And yet, this was all he had, all he could ever hope to
have, which was why Alice had to be rescued from him
before she became as shallow and unfeeling as himself.
"Mr. Becket, sir? There is still one more waiting on you
downstairs. Perhaps you are fatigued. Shall I send her
off? Or do you wish to see her?"
Chance blinked away his self-pitying thoughts as he looked
at his butler. "Forgive me, Gibbons, I'm afraid I was
woolgathering. What a thoroughly depressing afternoon this
has been. But there's another woman? I had thought that
profane Billingsgate drab was the last of them."
"Oh, no, sir, there's still the one more, and I apologize
again that Mrs. Gibbons still feels too poorly to have
handled this chore herself and you've had to take the
trouble. She'd be up and about if she could be, sir, but
her nose is still running a treat and —"
"The last applicant, Gibbons, if you will. Concentrate,
please. Time is running short if I am to have someone for
Alice before we leave."
"Oh, yes, sir. This last is younger than the rest, sir,
and with a civil tongue in her head, if I may say so."
"Please, Gibbons, don't raise my hopes. And please don't
apologize yet again for your wife's illness. I'm sure she
didn't take to her bed with that putrid cold you keep
telling me about simply to thwart me in my hour of need."
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. That is —"
Chance waved the butler to silence and stood up, heading
for the drinks table, for interviewing potential nannies
had turned out to be thirsty work. "We'll make this quick,
shall we? I promised Miss Alice I'd join her for her
evening tea, although I have been informed I am not to be
the guest of honor, as that distinction is reserved, as
always, for her stuffed rabbit."
"Buttercup. Yes, sir." Gibbons bowed. "We shouldn't wish
to keep Miss Alice waiting. Although this establishment
will be a cold and dreary place without her, sir, if I may
be so bold."
"Our only sunshine, gone. Yes, Gibbons, I am aware of the
sacrifice. But it is Miss Alice we must consider. London
is no place for a motherless child."
"Very good, sir," the butler said, bowing yet again before
leaving the room.
Chance took up his position in front of the fireplace,
placing his filled wineglass on the mantel as he stood,
hands clasped behind him, awaiting what was sure to be
another disappointment. Buttercup. Yes, of course. A good
father would have known that.
"Mr. Becket, sir," Gibbons announced from the
doorway. "Miss Carruthers."
"Mr. Becket," the woman Chance now knew as Miss Carruthers
said, sweeping into the room with all the grace of a
duchess and the wardrobe of a miller's daughter dressed up
for Sunday services. A woefully unsuccessful miller. But
then, if the woman had a full purse, she would not be
hiring herself out as a nanny.
"Miss Carruthers," Chance said, indicating with a slight
sweep of his arm that she should take up her seat on the
sofa to the right of the fireplace, while he, bringing his
wineglass with him, retook his own seat. "You have come in
answer to my advertisement?"
"Apparently so, Mr. Becket." Her tone was neutral, her
diction reassuringly untainted by Piccadilly, her words
not quite as subservient as he might have liked. And her
perfect posture would put a military man to shame.
He watched, rather nonplussed, as Miss Carruthers stripped
off her gloves, noting her long, tapering fingers, her
neatly trimmed nails and the fine mending on the thumb of
the left glove. She then removed her aged straw bonnet to
place it beside her on the sofa, revealing a thick head of
warm blond hair she'd mercilessly scraped back from her
forehead and into a high, thick and rather lopsided bun.
Her skin was quite nice, pale but with hints of color, and
her nose was delightfully straight above a full, wide
mouth and a determined chin. He felt a stir of interest,
which surprised him.
Miss Carruthers was down on her luck, most obviously, but
she had pride and possibly breeding — definitely more than
he could claim, but then, most anyone did. Best of all,
she was clean and, if his luck was to have turned all the
way for the better, would be desperate enough for a decent
wage to give up the delights of London for the mist and
damp of Romney Marsh.
In any event, at least Alice wouldn't take one look at the
creature and run screaming for her nursery.
Chance didn't realize he'd been staring until Miss
Carruthers raised her chin and looked at him with a most
incredible pair of long green eyes framed by brows too low
and straight to be considered in vogue. "Forgive me, Miss
Carruthers. Have you been waiting long? Would you care for
a glass of lemonade?"
Julia Carruthers frowned, wondering if she should accept —
and take a step toward insinuating herself — or refuse,
keeping the distance she was quite certain master and
servant maintained. But, dear, she was thirsty. "Thank
you, sir, I appreciate your offer. Have there been many
other applicants?"
"None worth considering, no. I'm afraid you're the last,"
Chance said as he moved to the drinks table. A pitcher of
lemonade was always kept there for Alice.
He bent over, opening the double doors beneath the
tabletop, and Julia watched as he retrieved a lovely glass
goblet, taking note of Chance Becket's tall, well-formed
frame. That and the black mourning band pinned to his
sleeve above his left elbow.
She'd expected a woman, a mother, not this young, handsome
society gentleman. She'd been prepared for a woman. She'd
dressed for a suspicious woman with a husband or grown
sons in the house.
Now she felt an absolute drab, all angles and third-best
finery and with her hair pulled back so tight a headache
had been throbbing at her temples for the entirety of the
three hours she had been cooling her heels in Mr. Becket's
ground-floor sitting room. She'd spent that time as the
very last of a steadily decreasing number of other
applicants, some of whom had given her pause as she
wondered if they all could have been the same species as
herself. So her hopes had climbed. But now she worried.
Julia took the offered glass, happy to discover that
Becket's household was one that could support the
frivolous expense of ice. How wonderful it would be to
have her days of scraping for any bit of luxury behind
her, even if that meant she had to ride herd on a passel
of thoroughly spoiled children.
"Thank you, sir," she said, dropping her gaze to her lap
to pretend she hadn't seen the assessing look in Chance
Becket's green eyes.
Not at all like her own eyes, which her father had told
her reminded him of the color of spring grass. Chance
Becket's eyes were the dark green of a stormy sea at
twilight, so green they were nearly black, and decidedly
intelligent.
Julia's nervousness increased, which was never a good
thing, for being nervous made her angry with herself, and
she often said things or did things she wouldn't say or do
if she felt more in charge of the situation. She knew this
because her father had pointed this failing out to her on
several occasions, mildly informing her that she could,
now and then, become somewhat pertinacious.
What she knew now was that she was acutely aware of the
man sitting across from her and that he made her very
nervous. Why was he just sitting there? Why didn't he say
something? Was she supposed to say something? Describe her
qualifications? Drink more lemonade, so that he could be
assured she didn't approach eating and drinking like a cow
at the trough? What?
She dared to look into those eyes once more. "I can only
hope I am the last applicant it will be necessary for you
to interview, Mr. Becket, and that you will engage my
services."
There. That had sounded fine, hadn't it? She'd said
enough, and just enough. It was his turn now. Julia went
back to looking at him. He really did fascinate her.
Perhaps in the way of the snake and the mongoose?
Hopefully not.
The man had strong features that didn't seem completely
English. His unfashionably long hair, combed back and tied
in a thin black grosgrain ribbon at his nape, seemed
darker close to his head, as if the sun had teased gold
into each strand only as it grew. Not an English blonde.
In fact, with his strong nose and well-defined lips, with
his high cheekbones, he could almost be of Italian
descent. A Roman in his ancestral past perhaps? A warrior
Roman who'd conquered some fair English maiden?
And she should stop being fanciful. She had no time to be
fanciful. She raised her hand, politely coughed into her
fist, hoping he'd speak again before they both froze here,
mute, into eternity.
Chance struggled to come up with a reasonable question,
one that had nothing to do with asking her why such a
strikingly handsome woman as herself would wish to be
nanny in someone else's household. A woman like this
should be wed, with children of her own.
"I've yet to see your letters of recommendation, Miss
Carruthers," he said at last, reminding himself that he
was in charge here, after all. "As to that," Julia began,
then sighed. "I have none, sir, as I am new to London. In
truth, I have never worked as a nanny, although I believe
I am qualified. I most thoroughly enjoy children, and my
education has not been lacking."
Never been employed as a nanny? That seemed fair, in some
twisted way, as he'd never before employed a nanny. It
might be better if neither of them knew how they should go
on and just muddled along together. With Alice in charge,
of course — he'd learned that much, at least, in the past
six months. "And that slight accent? Do I hear a bit of
Kent in your speech, Miss Carruthers?"
Julia smiled. "I didn't think it was obvious, Mr. Becket.
But, yes, I was raised in the village of Hawkhurst. My
father, now deceased, was vicar of a small church there,
although he came originally from Wimbledon."
"Hawkhurst, you say. Very near the beginnings of the
Marsh," Chance said, his tone now flat. "Then I would
suppose you have no great wish to go back?"
Julia frowned. "If you are asking if I would enter your
employment here in London just to leave it so that I might
return to Kent? No, sir, I would not do that. There is
nothing for me there now that my father is gone."
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