Chapter 1: The Governess, the Flying Settee, and an Indecent Landing
Prudence Fairweather—whose name had never before been an irony—straightened her spine until it resembled a steel ramrod as her carriage approached Hallowford Hall. The imposing gray stone edifice loomed against the pewter sky like a monument to architectural excess, its many turrets and spires piercing the heavens as if to challenge God Himself.
She adjusted her spectacles with one gloved finger and mentally recited her personal governess’s creed. Discipline begets order. Order begets virtue. Virtue begets a moral society. Her life’s philosophy, applied rigorously to every pupil entrusted to her care, had earned her a reputation as severe but effective. The pinnacle of propriety. The duchess of decorum. The empress of etiquette.
Nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared her for Hallowford Hall.
The carriage wheels crunched to a halt on gravel that looked as though it hadn’t been raked since the last Tudor monarch. Weeds erupted between stones with jubilant abandon. Prudence’s mouth puckered as if she’d bitten into an unripe persimmon.
“Hallowford Hall, miss,” the driver announced, his tone suggesting he’d rather deliver her to a plague house.
“Indeed,” Prudence murmured, gathering her reticule and adjusting her bonnet. Plain, practical, and utterly respectable. Just as she was.
The front door of the manor burst open before she could knock, and a gangly footman with hair the color of carrots staggered out, his livery askew as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backward.
“Miss Fairweather?” he gasped, eyes wide with something resembling terror. “Thank heavens you’re here! They’ve been at it since dawn!”
“I beg your pardon? Who has been at what, precisely?”
A crash from within the house answered her question. It was followed by what sounded suspiciously like a goose honking in outrage.
“The young misses, of course!” the footman said, grabbing her trunk with surprising vigor. “Lady Imogen has decided that goose stuffing would be improved with gunpowder, Lady Ophelia is conducting experiments with the cook’s best copper pots, and Lady Penelope has taken to wearing nothing but her chemise and claiming to be a ‘woodland sprite.'”
Prudence’s chest constricted. Lord Dravenhurst’s sisters sounded like heathens. Absolute heathens. But she had tamed wild children before. Had she not once transformed the young Earl of Harrington from a boy who ate lizards into one who could recite Virgil in the original Latin?
“Take me to my charges at once,” she commanded.
The entrance hall confirmed her worst fears. What had once been a stately reception area now resembled the aftermath of a naval battle. Mud tracked across marble floors. A suit of armor wearing what appeared to be ladies’ undergarments. And was that… yes, there was indeed a live goose perched atop a priceless Ming vase, eyeing her with open hostility.
“The young ladies are in the east wing, miss,” the footman said, edging around the goose with the wariness of one who knew from experience not to turn his back on it. “Though I should warn you, they’ve been… constructing something.”
Prudence squared her shoulders. “I have yet to meet the child who cannot be brought to heel with proper instruction and firm boundaries.”
The footman’s expression suggested he was mentally composing her epitaph.
As she followed him up a grand staircase—noting with disapproval the dusty banister and the portrait of what appeared to be a previous Lord Dravenhurst engaged in a decidedly improper activity with a milkmaid—Prudence reviewed what she knew of her employer.
Lord Phineas Markham, Viscount Dravenhurst, was by all accounts the most dissolute rake in all of England. His exploits were legendary. His morals were nonexistent. His staff was rumored to include not one but three French chefs whose sole duty was to prepare his post-debauchery breakfasts. And now he had engaged her—Prudence Fairweather, paragon of propriety—to govern his three younger sisters, whom their maternal grandmother had deemed “ungovernable hellions” before abandoning them to his care.
“I shall succeed where others have failed,” Prudence whispered to herself. “I shall bring order to chaos.”
The sounds emanating from the schoolroom suggested that chaos had other plans.
“HARDER, IMOGEN!” a young female voice shrieked. “PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT!”
“I AM PUTTING MY BACK INTO IT!” came the reply. “THIS BLASTED ROPE WON’T HOLD!”
“LANGUAGE!” a third voice admonished. “Grandmother would have your hide for such talk.”
“Grandmother isn’t HERE, is she? She’s off in Bath pretending we don’t exist!”
Prudence took a deep breath, adjusted her collar, and knocked sharply on the door.
Silence fell immediately.
“Enter,” a voice finally called, with a sweetness so false it could have rotted teeth at twenty paces.
Prudence opened the door and beheld what could only be described as an engineer’s fever dream. The schoolroom—a once-elegant chamber with tall windows and ample space for scholarly pursuits—had been transformed into a workshop of madness. In the center stood what appeared to be a settee, but not as God or any furniture maker had intended. It had been fitted with a series of ropes, pulleys, and what looked disturbingly like a ship’s sail.
Three young women froze in various poses of industry. The tallest, a willowy creature with a shock of auburn hair, had one foot braced against a bookcase as she pulled on a rope. The middle girl, her blonde curls escaping what had once been a neat coiffure, clutched what appeared to be a navigational chart. And the youngest, a tiny sprite of perhaps fourteen, sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by feathers, a jar of paste, and several suspicious-looking metal objects.
“Good afternoon,” Prudence said, her voice crisp as fresh linen. “I am Miss Fairweather, your new governess.”
The three girls exchanged glances that contained entire paragraphs of silent communication.
“How delightful,” the blonde one finally said, hastily rolling up her chart. “I am Lady Ophelia. These are my sisters, Lady Imogen”—she gestured to the tall redhead—”and Lady Penelope.” The little one waved a paste-covered hand.
“May I inquire,” Prudence asked with deadly calm, “as to the nature of your… project?”
“It’s a flying settee!” Lady Penelope blurted, her eyes shining with unholy enthusiasm. “We’re going to sail it out the window and over the lake!”
“I see.” Prudence did not, in fact, see. Or rather, she saw all too clearly the depths of depravity to which these young ladies had sunk in the absence of proper guidance. “I regret to inform you that such activities are not part of a proper young lady’s education. We shall instead focus on deportment, literature, arithmetic, and the domestic arts.”
Lady Imogen snorted. “Boring.”
“On the contrary,” Prudence replied, removing her gloves with precise movements. “There is nothing boring about becoming a woman of accomplishment and virtue. Now, please dismantle this… contraption at once.”
“But we’ve spent WEEKS on it!” Lady Ophelia protested.
“Then you have wasted weeks that could have been spent developing your minds and souls.” Prudence moved toward the settee, intent on demonstrating her authority by being the first to dismantle the ridiculous creation.
She did not notice Lady Penelope sliding quietly toward one of the ropes, a gleam of mischief in her eyes that would have alarmed anyone familiar with the Markham sisters.
“I shall begin your instruction immediately,” Prudence continued, placing one hand on the settee to emphasize her point. “First, we shall—”
What happened next occurred with the swiftness of divine retribution.
Lady Penelope yanked the rope. A counterweight plummeted. The settee—with Prudence still touching it—catapulted toward the open window with the velocity of a cannonball.
Prudence’s scream tore through the air as she found herself suddenly, horrifyingly airborne, clutching the abominable piece of furniture as it sailed out the window. Her bonnet ripped away, her skirts billowed around her like the sails of a ship caught in a tempest, and her stomach lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat.
Below, in the garden, Prudence caught a glimpse of a tall figure in a bottle-green coat. Lord Phineas Markham, Viscount Dravenhurst, strolled with the careless elegance of a man who owned not just the ground beneath his feet but the very air above it. His golden hair caught the sunlight, creating a halo that belied what she knew of his wicked reputation.
The scream that tore from Prudence’s throat startled even her with its volume and pitch. The wind rushed past her ears, her stomach plummeted to her feet, and the ground—along with the viscount—approached with terrifying speed.
For a single, suspended moment, their eyes met. His widened with shock—summer-sky blue and framed by indecently long lashes—as he beheld the extraordinary sight of a proper governess attached to a flying settee hurtling directly toward him.
The inexorable laws of mathematics and physics, caring nothing for propriety or first impressions, conspired to bring their bodies into catastrophic alignment.
Then they collided.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs. The settee, mercifully, hit the ground first, splintering into kindling. Prudence continued her trajectory and slammed directly into the viscount, bowling him over like a skittle pin.
They tumbled together in a tangle of limbs and outrage, rolling across the manicured lawn until they came to rest in a position so indecent that Prudence was certain she would spontaneously combust from mortification.
She found herself astride him—astride HIM—her knees on either side of his hips, her hands braced against his chest, their faces mere inches apart. His eyes were the blue of a summer storm, and they widened as they took in her disheveled appearance.
From atop its ornate pedestal near the garden path, a priceless Ming dynasty vase—which had stoically endured five centuries of emperors, revolutions, and sea voyages—witnessed the scandalous position of the governess astride the viscount and promptly shattered of its own accord. The blue and white porcelain exploded into a thousand indignant shards, as if the very ceramic couldn’t bear to exist in a world where such impropriety occurred in broad daylight. Several pieces skittered across the flagstones in what appeared to be a deliberate attempt to distance themselves from the moral outrage.
Prudence’s hair, once confined in a tight, respectable chignon, now cascaded around her shoulders in wild chestnut waves. Her skirts had ridden up to expose her ankles—nay, her calves!—and her spectacles sat askew on her nose.
“Good God,” Lord Dravenhurst murmured, his lips curving into a smile that could only be described as sinful. “It’s raining governesses.”
Prudence’s mouth opened and closed like a fish deprived of water. The solid wall of male chest beneath her palms radiated heat through his fine lawn shirt. She could feel every breath he took, every beat of his heart. Something hot and unfamiliar coiled low in her belly.
“I—You—This is—” For the first time in her life, Prudence Fairweather found herself utterly devoid of words.
“Enchanting? Fortuitous? The beginning of a beautiful friendship?” Lord Dravenhurst offered, making no move to dislodge her from her compromising position. If anything, his hands came to rest lightly on her waist, steadying her.
Prudence shrieked and scrambled backward, tumbling gracelessly onto the grass. She yanked her skirts down with such violence that she heard a seam rip.
“My lord, I apologize most profusely for this… this…”
“Divine intervention?” he suggested, rising to his feet with the fluid grace of a predator. He stood over her, tall and impossibly handsome, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. He extended a hand. “Allow me to assist you, Miss…?”
“Fairweather,” she managed, ignoring his offered hand and struggling to her feet unassisted. “Prudence Fairweather. I am the new governess for your sisters.”
“Ah, yes. The paragon of virtue recommended by Lady Whitmore.” His gaze traveled over her with insulting thoroughness, lingering on her disheveled hair and the grass stains marring her practical gray gown. “Somehow, I pictured you differently.”
“I assure you, my lord, I do not normally make a habit of… of…”
“Falling from the sky and tackling innocent noblemen to the ground?” His smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. “Pity. It’s quite exhilarating.”
Before Prudence could formulate a suitably cutting response, she became aware that they had an audience. A crowd had gathered—servants, gardeners, and was that a nun standing by the rose bushes?—all staring at the spectacle with expressions ranging from shock to unholy glee.
“My lord!” The butler—a dignified gentleman whose expression suggested he had seen far worse in this household—hurried forward. “Are you injured?”
“Only my pride, Simmons,” Lord Dravenhurst replied cheerfully. “And possibly my virtue, though that was damaged beyond repair long ago.”
The nun crossed herself.
“Miss Fairweather and I were just becoming acquainted,” he continued, with a wink that caused Prudence’s face to flame hotter than the depths of Hades. “In a rather unconventional manner.”
“Indeed, my lord.” Simmons’s gaze flicked between them, his expression impossible to read. “Shall I arrange for the banns to be posted, or do you prefer a special license?”
Prudence choked on air with such violence that her lungs attempted to exit through her nostrils. Her throat produced a sound like a harpsichord being tumbled down a staircase, and her eyes bulged so dramatically her spectacles nearly shot from her face as if fired from a miniature cannon. When she finally managed to speak, her voice emerged an octave higher than any musical composition had ever dared include.
“I beg your pardon?” she sputtered, the words emerging with such force that a nearby butterfly was blown off course and a gardener two hedges away looked up in alarm.
“Come now, Simmons,” Lord Dravenhurst said, “let’s not rush the poor woman. Though I must say, Miss Fairweather, your method of proposal is wonderfully original. Most ladies simply flutter their eyelashes or arrange to be caught alone with me in a garden. None has ever launched herself at me via flying furniture.”
“I did not propose!” Prudence sputtered, her voice rising to a pitch that caused nearby birds to take startled flight. “This was an accident! A terrible, mortifying accident!”
“An accident?” The housekeeper—a formidable woman with steel-gray hair and a bosom like the prow of a warship—had joined the gathering. “My dear girl, you were astride his lordship in full view of half the household! Sister Mary Constance was giving gardening instruction to the orphans, and they all witnessed it as well!”
Sister Mary Constance nodded gravely, while a group of wide-eyed children peered around her skirts.
“The children saw everything,” the nun confirmed, her voice vibrating with righteous horror as she clutched her rosary so tightly the beads threatened to fuse together. “Their innocent souls have been indelibly stained with visions of carnal impropriety! We shall be conducting emergency prayer vigils and cold-water baptisms for a fortnight to cleanse their minds of such… such… depravity!”
At that moment, a lanky footman came hurtling around the corner at such velocity that his livery flapped behind him like the wings of a demented crow. His legs, seemingly operating independently from the rest of his body, tangled with each other in their eagerness to reach the spectacle. He skidded to a halt, sending gravel spraying in a semicircle, his eyes so wide they threatened to escape his face entirely.
“I heard the commotion and came running,” he explained weakly, chest heaving like a bellows operated by an enthusiastic blacksmith. “I never thought I’d see the day his lordship was brought low by a flying woman.”
“Not just any woman,” Lord Dravenhurst corrected, his eyes never leaving Prudence’s face. “My future wife, apparently.”
“I am not your future wife!” Prudence cried, her voice reaching a decibel heretofore unknown to human ears. Her insides twisted like a swarm of angry eels having a seizure. This could not be happening. It could not.
“She’s shy,” Lord Dravenhurst stage-whispered to the assembled staff. “Understandable, given the unconventional nature of our courtship thus far.”
“It has been thirty seconds!” Prudence protested. “That is not a courtship!”
“Ah, she counts the seconds since our meeting,” he said with a theatrical hand to his heart. “How romantic.”
The crowd sighed collectively.
“Most unusual courtship I’ve ever witnessed,” murmured the elderly head gardener to his assistant. “In my day, we just sent flowers, not airborne furniture.”
“Ten pounds says they’ll be married within the fortnight,” a maid said to the cook.
“Twenty says the goose officiates,” the cook replied, nodding toward the waterfowl who had waddled closer to inspect the proceedings with imperious disapproval.
“Lord Dravenhurst finally caught by a woman who literally fell from the heavens,” declared an ancient butler who had served the family for three generations. “My late mother’s medium predicted this very scenario last Michaelmas. We all thought she was having a stroke at the time.”
“My lord, you must correct this misapprehension at once!” Prudence demanded, fighting the urge to stamp her foot like a child. “I am here to govern your sisters, not to… to…”
“Become my viscountess?” he suggested helpfully. “Bear my children? Tame my wild heart with your prim disapproval?”
Prudence made a sound like a teakettle reaching its boiling point.
Lord Dravenhurst laughed, the sound rich and warm and utterly infuriating. “Peace, Miss Fairweather. I am merely teasing you. Though I must say, you make it irresistibly easy.”
From an upper window came the sound of three distinct female giggles. Prudence glanced up to see Lord Dravenhurst’s sisters watching the scene with expressions of unholy delight.
“Is she going to be our new sister?” Lady Penelope called down, bouncing on her toes.
“It seems the fates have decreed it,” Lord Dravenhurst called back, grinning.
“I like her!” Lady Imogen declared. “She flies beautifully!”
“She didn’t actually fly,” Lady Ophelia corrected. “The settee did all the work.”
“I believe,” Prudence said through clenched teeth, “that I should like a word with you in private, my lord.”
“Already seeking private audiences? My, we are moving quickly.” But he offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. “Shall we retire to my study, future wife?”
“Do not call me that,” she hissed, reluctantly placing her fingertips on his arm. Even through layers of clothing, she could feel the hard muscle beneath. It sent an unwelcome shiver up her spine.
As Lord Dravenhurst led her toward the house, Prudence became aware of activity behind them. Servants were scurrying about, whispering excitedly. She distinctly heard the words “wedding” and “special license” and “poor thing has no idea what she’s in for.”
The goose had waddled across their path, fixing Prudence with an accusing glare that suggested it knew exactly what sort of chaos she had brought to Hallowford Hall.
Lord Dravenhurst’s study was exactly what Prudence would have expected of a dissolute rake. Rich leather furnishings, bookshelves filled with volumes she suspected were not fit for modest eyes, and a drinks cabinet that appeared better stocked than most taverns. The lingering scent of brandy and expensive tobacco hung in the air.
He released her arm and moved to pour himself a drink, not bothering to offer her one. “Now, Miss Fairweather, what did you wish to discuss?”
“You know perfectly well!” Prudence fought to keep her voice level. “This… this ridiculous assumption that we are to be married! You must correct it at once!”
“Must I?” He sipped his brandy, regarding her over the rim of the glass with eyes that seemed to see straight through her carefully constructed facade of propriety. “And why would I do that?”
“Because it is not true! Because I am here as a governess, not a… a bride!”
“You were straddling me in the garden in full view of my entire household, a respected nun, and a dozen impressionable orphans,” he pointed out with maddening calm. “In the eyes of society, your reputation is utterly ruined unless I marry you.”
Prudence felt the blood drain from her face. He was right, damn him to the deepest pits of hell. Her impeccable reputation—built over years of irreproachable behavior—was in tatters. No respectable family would hire her now. She would be cast out, destitute, forced to rely on the charity of her disapproving relatives.
“This is all your sisters’ fault,” she muttered. “They built that infernal contraption deliberately.”
“My sisters,” Lord Dravenhurst said, setting down his glass, “have driven away seven governesses in the past year. I suspect they hoped for similar success with you.”
“Instead, they’ve saddled you with a wife,” Prudence said bitterly.
To her surprise, Lord Dravenhurst laughed. “I wouldn’t say ‘saddled.’ You’re rather easy on the eyes, Miss Fairweather, especially with your hair down like that.”
Self-consciously, Prudence reached up to her wild mane. Without her pins and combs, the heavy chestnut waves fell past her shoulders in a manner most inappropriate for a woman of her position.
“You’re mocking me,” she accused.
“Not at all.” His gaze was suddenly intense, almost predatory. “I find that prim exterior of yours intriguing. I wonder what else lies beneath all those buttons and propriety.”
Heat bloomed in Prudence’s cheeks. “You are being deliberately inappropriate.”
“I’m a rake, darling. It’s what I do.” He moved closer, and Prudence found herself backing up until her shoulders met the bookcase. “Besides, if we’re to be married, we should at least discover if there’s any… compatibility between us.”
“We are not getting married!”
“No?” He was close now, too close. She could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more masculine. It made her head swim in a most alarming manner. “Then how do you propose to salvage your reputation? Your good name? Your future?”
Prudence’s mind raced. There had to be a solution, a way out of this nightmare. “Perhaps… perhaps we could simply explain that it was an accident. Your sisters’ prank gone awry.”
“And who would believe that?” He planted one hand on the bookshelf beside her head, effectively caging her in. “A flying settee? A respectable governess launched through a window? It sounds like the plot of a farce.”
“It is a farce,” Prudence whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a wild thing seeking escape. “A tragic farce in which I am unwillingly cast as the heroine.”
Something softened in his expression. “Not so tragic, surely. I’m considered quite a catch, you know. Handsome, titled, wealthy… my only flaw is a tendency toward debauchery, and perhaps a tragic past involving a Hungarian circus, a case of mistaken identity, and a troupe of performing bears.”
Prudence blinked. “…Bears?”
“Did I say bears? I meant trained wolves. My memory of that traumatic time is naturally hazy.” He waved a dismissive hand. “The point is, marriage to me would secure your future. You’d want for nothing.”
“Except respectability,” Prudence countered. “You are known throughout England as a libertine of the first order.”
“Ah, so my reputation precedes me.” He looked pleased rather than ashamed. “How flattering.”
“It was not intended as a compliment!”
“Yet I choose to take it as one.” His smile was slow, deliberate, and devastatingly effective. Prudence felt it like a physical touch, trailing heat along her skin.
“My lord,” she said, striving for firmness despite the tremor in her voice, “I came here to instill order and discipline in your sisters’ lives. Not to become entangled in scandal.”
“Too late for that, I’m afraid.” His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered there with blatant interest. “But I promise you, being my viscountess would be far more enjoyable than corralling those three hellions my grandmother foisted upon me.”
“I am a governess,” Prudence insisted. “It is my vocation, my purpose.”
“And a fine governess you’ll make for our future children,” he replied, undeterred. “Think of it as a promotion. From managing my sisters to managing my entire household.”
“You are impossible!”
“So I’ve been told. Frequently. By numerous women.”
“I can well believe that!”
The door to the study burst open before Lord Dravenhurst could respond. Simmons the butler stood there, his dignified bearing at odds with the excitement in his eyes.
“My lord, I’ve taken the liberty of sending for Reverend Thornfield. He can be here by tomorrow morning with the special license. The cook is already planning the wedding breakfast, and Mrs. Winters is airing out the mistress’s chambers.”
Prudence made a sound like a strangled goose.
“Thank you, Simmons,” Lord Dravenhurst said smoothly. “Your efficiency is, as always, unparalleled.”
As the butler withdrew, closing the door behind him, Prudence sagged against the bookshelf. “This cannot be happening.”
“Oh, but it is.” Lord Dravenhurst stepped back, giving her space to breathe again. “It seems my staff has decided for us.”
“Your staff does not dictate whom you marry!”
“No, but they do dictate the smooth running of this household, which has been in chaos since my sisters arrived.” He ran a hand through his golden hair, momentarily looking less like a dissolute rake and more like a man with genuine concerns. “Perhaps this is for the best. My sisters clearly need a woman’s guidance—”
“Which I was hired to provide as their governess!”
“—and I need a wife to lend an air of respectability to my household. The timing is actually rather perfect.”
“Perfect?” Prudence’s voice rose dangerously. “You call this perfect? I am to be forced into marriage because of a flying settee!”
“When you put it that way, it does sound rather absurd.” His lips twitched. “But think of the story we’ll tell our grandchildren.”
Prudence’s vision actually blurred at the edges. The idea of children—of how children were made—with this man caused her internal organs to perform gymnastics that would have impressed the most accomplished circus performer.
“I cannot marry you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am engaged to another.”
It was a lie, but a necessary one. Surely even Lord Dravenhurst would respect a prior claim.
His expression darkened instantly. “Are you indeed? And who is this fortunate gentleman?”
“Mr. Everett Pembroke,” Prudence invented wildly. “A most respectable gentleman of modest means but impeccable character.”
“Pembroke,” Lord Dravenhurst repeated, rolling the name on his tongue as if tasting it. “I don’t believe I know him.”
“He is not of the ton,” Prudence said quickly. “But he is a good man, and we have an understanding.”
“An understanding,” Lord Dravenhurst echoed. “Not a formal engagement?”
“It is… complicated.”
“I find that hard to believe, Miss Fairweather. You seem like a woman who abhors complications.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you lying to me?”
Prudence drew herself up to her full height, which still left her a good foot shorter than him. “I most certainly am not! Mr. Pembroke and I have been corresponding for months. He is to call upon me next week to formalize our arrangement.”
Lord Dravenhurst studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her astonishment, he threw back his head and laughed.
“What,” Prudence demanded, “is so amusing?”
“You, my dear governess, are a terrible liar.” He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. “Your cheeks flush pink, your left eye twitches slightly, and you can’t quite meet my gaze. There is no Mr. Pembroke, is there?”
Prudence deflated like a punctured balloon. “No,” she admitted miserably. “There is not.”
“I thought as much.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “So, it seems we are back where we started. You need to salvage your reputation, and I need a viscountess.”
“There must be another way,” Prudence pleaded.
The study door opened again, this time revealing the three Markham sisters. Lady Imogen carried a bolt of white silk, Lady Ophelia clutched what appeared to be a book of wedding sermons, and Lady Penelope held a crown of hastily woven daisies.
“We’ve started on your wedding clothes,” Lady Imogen announced, holding up the silk. “This was meant for new draperies, but it will make a lovely gown.”
“I’ve found the perfect biblical passages for the ceremony,” Lady Ophelia added. “All about submission and obedience.”
“And I’ve made you a practice crown for the rehearsal!” Lady Penelope bounded forward and placed the daisy chain atop Prudence’s disheveled hair. “The real one will be roses, of course.”
Behind them, the goose waddled into the study, fixing Prudence with its malevolent gaze before settling itself comfortably beside Lord Dravenhurst’s desk like a malevolent paperweight.
Prudence looked from the eager faces of the sisters to Lord Dravenhurst’s amused countenance to the judgmental stare of the goose, and felt something inside her snap like an overtaxed violin string.
“This,” she announced to the room at large, “is a nightmare from which I cannot seem to awaken.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Dravenhurst said cheerfully. “It’s merely the beginning of a great adventure.”
“I do not want an adventure,” Prudence said through clenched teeth. “I want order, discipline, and an existence free from flying furniture and imperious geese!”
“Too late,” Lady Penelope said with the brutal honesty of youth. “You’ve landed on Phineas, and now you have to marry him. That’s how it works in all the novels Ophelia reads in secret.”
Lady Ophelia blushed furiously. “Penelope!”
“Well, it’s true! The heroine always falls on top of the hero, and then they have to get married, and then they do all sorts of things that make the pages stick together—”
“Penelope!” Lord Dravenhurst and Lady Ophelia cried in unison.
Prudence closed her eyes and prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. When no such divine intervention occurred, she opened them again to find all three siblings watching her with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.
“I need air,” she said faintly. “Excuse me.”
She fled the study, the daisy crown still perched atop her wild hair, the goose watching her retreat with satisfaction gleaming in its beady eyes.
Behind her, she heard Lord Dravenhurst say, “Well, sisters, it seems you’ve finally found a governess who might actually survive the experience. Though in fairness, she’ll be doing it as my viscountess rather than your teacher.”
“Does this mean we don’t have to learn geography anymore?” Lady Penelope asked hopefully.
“Oh, you’ll learn geography,” Lord Dravenhurst replied, his voice fading as Prudence hurried down the corridor. “You’ll simply be learning it from your new sister-in-law.”
Prudence broke into a run, her practical boots echoing on the marble floors of Hallowford Hall. She had come seeking order and found chaos. She had come as a governess and would leave as a bride.
The Viscount Dravenhurst wanted to marry her.
The thought sent a wholly inappropriate shiver down her spine—one that had nothing to do with horror and everything to do with the memory of his broad chest beneath her palms and the heat in his blue eyes as he’d looked at her.
“This is a disaster,” she whispered to herself. “A complete and utter disaster.”
From somewhere behind her came the sound of triumphant honking. The goose, it seemed, agreed wholeheartedly.