A Widowed Duke’s Disguised Governess (Preview)

Chapter One

The black mourning dress felt foreign against Eliza’s skin as she sat in her father’s study, the fabric scratching her throat like a noose. Three days. The words echoed in her mind, hollow and merciless. Three days before everything vanishes.

Mr. Hartwell, the family solicitor, shuffled through papers with the efficiency of a man who had delivered such news countless times. His spectacles caught the weak afternoon light streaming through the windows of the house that would soon belong to someone else.

Eliza’s hands remained folded in her lap, the long sleeves of her dress concealing the angry red scar that twisted along her right forearm—a permanent reminder of twisted metal and screams that still haunted her dreams.

“The debts are considerable, Miss Sinclair,” Mr. Hartwell said, his voice as dry as autumn leaves. “Your late father’s investments with Lord Hale proved … unfortunate. When the arrangement collapsed, it left your family’s finances in ruins.”

Lord Hale—Philip. The name struck her like a physical blow, though she kept her expression carefully composed. Once, she had whispered that name with breathless anticipation. Now it tasted like ash and betrayal.

“How much?” The question escaped before she could stop it.

Mr. Hartwell cleared his throat. “Nearly fifteen thousand pounds, I’m afraid. The estate, the London house, all furnishings and personal effects will be seized to satisfy the creditors. Even then …” He trailed off delicately.

“Even then, it won’t be enough,” Eliza finished quietly.

Beside her, Alice Wood—now Alice Matthews after her recent marriage—reached for Eliza’s hand. Her touch was warm, steady, everything Eliza felt she was not. “There must be something,” Alice said firmly. “Some provision—”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Matthews. Your cousin’s situation is … precarious.”

Precarious. Such a civilized word for complete and utter ruin.

The solicitor continued speaking—something about liquidation and remaining debts—but his words blurred together like watercolors in rain. Eliza stared at her father’s desk, at the inkwell she had knocked over as a child, leaving a permanent stain on the mahogany. Had her father looked at that stain every day and thought of her? Had he worried, in those final moments before the carriage wheels lost their grip on the rain-slicked road, about what would become of his daughter?

“Miss Sinclair?” Mr. Hartwell’s voice cut through her reverie. “Do you understand the gravity of the situation?”

She lifted her chin, drawing on reserves of strength she wasn’t certain existed. “Perfectly, Mr. Hartwell. Thank you for your … thoroughness.”

Something flickered in the older man’s eyes: surprise, perhaps, or respect. He gathered his papers with practiced efficiency. “I shall return tomorrow to oversee the initial inventory. Good day, Miss Sinclair, Mrs. Matthews.” He bowed stiffly and departed, leaving behind only the faint scent of tobacco and the weight of absolute finality.

The silence stretched between them until Alice rose and stepped to the window, her dark hair catching the fading light. “Three days,” she murmured.

“Yes.” Eliza’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

“And Lord Hale? Has he … have you heard anything?”

The question she had been dreading. Eliza closed her eyes, remembering the last time she had seen Lord Hale. He had been all charm and gentle promises then, speaking of spring weddings and the fine home they would make together. That was before the business arrangement with her father soured, before the accident, before the letters stopped coming entirely.

“Nothing.” The word carried the weight of abandonment. “Not since the funeral.”

Alice turned from the window, her blue eyes bright with indignation. “That callous—” She caught herself, pressing her lips together. “Forgive me. But his behavior is unconscionable.”

Eliza almost laughed at the understatement. Unconscionable seemed too mild a word for a man who professed love one moment and vanished like morning mist the next. But what had she expected? That Lord Hale would rush to her side when her fortune disappeared? That he would offer his hand to a penniless woman whose family name now carried whispers of scandal?

She had been such a fool.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Eliza said, though the lie sat bitter on her tongue. “Nothing matters except …”

Except what? Where did one go when the world collapsed? What did one do when everything familiar became foreign in the span of a heartbeat?

Alice crossed the room and knelt beside Eliza’s chair, taking both her hands. “Listen to me. You are not alone in this. William and I, we won’t let you—”

“I won’t be anyone’s burden.” The words came out sharper than intended, but Eliza couldn’t take them back. She had been raised to be ornamental, useful only as long as she came with a dowry and connections. The idea of living on charity, even from beloved relatives, made her stomach clench.

“You’re not a burden, you’re family.” Alice’s grip tightened. “But I understand your pride. I do. Which is why …” She paused, seeming to gather courage. “William heard something yesterday. At his club. There’s a position available.”

Eliza blinked. “A position?”

“A governess position. At Ravenshire Hall.”

The name meant nothing to Eliza, but Alice continued with growing enthusiasm. “His Grace, the Duke of Averleigh, requires someone to educate his son. The boy is eight years old, apparently quite spirited. The previous governess departed rather … abruptly.”

“Alice, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Why not? You’re educated, well-spoken, and excellent with languages and literature. Your French is far better than mine.”

“I know nothing of being a governess!” Eliza stood abruptly, pacing to the fireplace where dying embers cast dancing shadows. “I’ve never worked a day in my life. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“You’ll learn. You must.” Alice rose as well, her voice taking on the firm tone Eliza remembered from their childhood when Alice had decided something must be done. “The alternative is … what exactly? You have no money, no prospects, no family beyond William and me.”

The brutal honesty stung, but Eliza couldn’t deny it. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the fabric of her dress pulling tight across the healing scar. “A governess,” she repeated softly.

“Mrs. Whitlow—the housekeeper at Ravenshire—is known to William’s family. If I wrote to her tonight, explained your circumstances with appropriate discretion, she might agree to an interview.”

An interview. For a position that would take her away from London, away from everything she had ever known. Away from the possibility that Philip might …

No. That hope died with her parents on that rain-soaked road.

Eliza turned back to Alice. “What do you know of his grace?”

Alice hesitated. “He’s … said to be quite reclusive. A former military man, I believe. His late wife died some time ago, along with his brother. He rarely appears in society.”

“And the child?”

“As I said, spirited.” Another pause. “William heard he’s proven rather … challenging for previous governesses.”

Despite everything, Eliza felt a flicker of curiosity. She had always been good with children, had spent countless afternoons entertaining the young cousins at family gatherings. How difficult could one eight-year-old boy be?

“Where is this estate?”

“In the countryside, some hours north of London. Quite isolated, by all accounts.”

Isolated. The word should have been daunting, but instead, Eliza found it oddly appealing. No familiar faces to witness her fall from grace. No chance encounters with former acquaintances who would look at her with pity or thinly veiled satisfaction. No risk of seeing Lord Hale with whatever suitable heiress he had no doubt already begun courting.

“Would you truly write to this Mrs. Whitlow?”

Alice’s face brightened with hope. “This very evening, if you wish it.”

Eliza looked around her father’s study one final time, memorizing details that would soon belong to strangers. The leather-bound books that had sparked her love of reading.

The portrait of her mother above the mantelpiece, painted in happier days when scandal seemed impossible and the future stretched bright with promise. The window seat where she had spent countless hours dreaming of romance and adventure.

Perhaps this was her adventure, though it bore no resemblance to the fairy tales she had once imagined.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Write to her.”

 

Dawn crept across the sky with reluctant fingers, painting the world in shades of gray that matched Eliza’s mood perfectly. She had barely slept, her dreams a tangle of carriage wheels, Philip’s face, and the sound of her mother’s laughter, now forever silenced.

The house felt different in the morning light, already less like home and more like a museum of memories she could no longer claim. Servants moved through the halls with careful quiet, their eyes avoiding hers with the discomfort of those who knew their positions hung by threads.

Eliza had just finished a tasteless breakfast when the knock came on the door. She heard hushed voices in the foyer, then Alice’s quick footsteps in the corridor.

“Eliza!” Alice burst into the morning room, her cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. “A letter’s arrived. From Mrs. Whitlow.”

Eliza’s teacup rattled against its saucer as she set it down. “Already? But you only posted your inquiry last evening.”

“I know. William took it to the coaching office himself to ensure it would go with the earliest post.” Alice waved the sealed letter like a flag of victory. “Mrs. Whitlow must have replied by return. She requests your presence at Ravenshire Hall tomorrow for an interview.”

Tomorrow. The word struck Eliza with the force of an avalanche. Everything was moving so quickly, as if the world itself had conspired to thrust her toward this new path before she could lose her nerve.

“That seems … unusually prompt,” Eliza said awkwardly.

Alice’s expression sobered slightly. “Yes. William said the same thing. He suspects they may be quite desperate for a suitable candidate.”

“Desperate enough to hire a woman with no experience?”

“Desperate enough to consider one, perhaps. Especially one with your breeding and education.” Alice sauntered to the window, watching the frost melt from the glass. “Though there may be a reason for such desperation.”

Eliza joined her at the window. Outside, winter was gathering its breath across the London streets, promising harder days ahead. “What sort of reason?”

“Well …” Alice lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Mr. Matthews made some discreet inquiries. It seems His Grace, the Duke of Averleigh, is known to be rather … formidable. Cold. Withdrawn. And the child—Master Henry, I believe his name is—has gained something of a reputation.”

“What sort of reputation?”

“The previous governess lasted barely a month. The one before that, three weeks. There have been incidents, apparently. Pranks. Disruptions. One poor woman was found locked in the nursery overnight.”

Despite her circumstances, Eliza felt a smile tug at her lips. “Master Henry sounds spirited indeed.”

“You’re not concerned?”

“He’s eight years old, Alice. However challenging he might be, surely he’s simply crying out for attention and proper guidance.” She paused, considering. “Besides, what choice do I have? I can hardly be particular about the temperament of my potential charges.”

Alice studied her for a long moment. “There’s something else we should discuss.”

“Oh?”

“Your name.”

Eliza blinked. “My name?”

“Think, dearest. The Sinclair name is now associated with a financial scandal. If Lord Hale’s treatment of your family becomes widely known—and these things do have a way of spreading—your reputation will precede you wherever you go.”

The truth of it hit like a physical blow. Of course. She was not merely penniless now; she was potentially unmarriageable, unemployable, a cautionary tale whispered in drawing rooms across London.

“What do you suggest?”

“A slight alteration. Something close enough to feel natural, but different enough to avoid immediate recognition.” Alice bit her lip, thinking. “Sinclair could become … Fenton, perhaps? Elizabeth Fenton has a pleasant sound.”

Elizabeth Fenton. The name felt foreign on her tongue, but perhaps that was fitting. The girl who had been Eliza Sinclair—pampered daughter, cherished heiress, beloved of a baron—was gone as surely as if she had died in that carriage alongside her parents. Elizabeth Fenton would be whoever she chose to make herself.

“Elizabeth Fenton,” she repeated softly. “Yes. I think that will do nicely.”

Alice squeezed her hand. “A fresh start, then. Away from all this heartbreak and scandal.”

A fresh start. The words carried more hope than Eliza dared to allow herself, but she clung to them, nonetheless. Tomorrow she would travel to Ravenshire Hall and face whatever challenges awaited. She would meet His Grace, the formidable Duke of Averleigh and his reportedly impossible son. She would begin a new life with a new name, carrying nothing but the clothes on her back and the scars—visible and otherwise—that marked her as a survivor.

Outside the window, snow began to fall in earnest, blanketing London in pristine white. Eliza watched the flakes dance past the glass and tried to imagine herself as Elizabeth Fenton, governess. The image felt as insubstantial as the snow itself, but perhaps that was enough for now.

Perhaps that was everything.

Chapter Two

The ink blot spread across the ledger like spilled blood, rendering the morning’s careful calculations illegible. Alexander, Duke of Averleigh, tossed his pen down in frustration and leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples with the weariness that had become his constant companion.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, staring at the ruined page. The estate reports scattered across his mahogany desk seemed to mock him with their neat columns of figures—tenant rents, crop yields, household expenses. Numbers that Thomas would have handled with ease and grace, duties that should have felt natural after two years of practice.

The estate had thrived under Thomas’s guidance. Under Alex’s stewardship, everything felt like it was in a state of slow decay, despite his best efforts. His older brother had possessed an intuitive understanding of ducal responsibilities, had made the complex business of managing a vast estate look effortless. Alex felt like he was drowning in ledgers and legal documents, playing a role for which he had never been trained.

He pushed back from the desk and strode to the tall windows that overlooked the east gardens, seeking respite from the suffocating weight of inadequacy. Outside, he caught sight of a familiar figure engaged in what could only be described as aggressive play.

Henry, his eight-year-old son, was tormenting one of the kitchen maids, roughly pulling her apron strings and dodging her increasingly frantic attempts to retrieve her cap from his grasp. The boy’s movements were deliberately forceful, almost violent in their intensity.

Alex sighed deeply, thinking of how the recent governess had quit just three days prior. Miss Hartwell had fled Ravenshire Hall after Henry had somehow managed to release a family of mice into her bedchamber. Her shrieks had echoed through the corridors for what felt like hours, and Alex supposed he couldn’t entirely blame her for her hasty departure.

Henry had his mother’s light brown hair and those unmistakable green eyes—Georgiana’s eyes. Sometimes, when the light caught the boy’s face just so, Alex could see his late wife so clearly it took his breath away. Those were the moments when the weight of his failures as both duke and father pressed heavily upon his shoulders.

Thomas would have known exactly how to handle the boy. Would have been stern but kind and would have found the perfect balance between discipline and affection. Thomas would never have allowed his son to terrorize the staff while hiding away in his study like a coward.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted his brooding thoughts. “Enter,” he called, not bothering to turn from the window.

“Your Grace.” Mrs. Whitlow’s voice carried its usual note of barely concealed disapproval. The housekeeper had served the family for nearly three decades, had helped raise both Thomas and Alex from boys to men.

“What is it, Mrs. Whitlow?” Alex remained at the window, watching Henry continue his torment of the poor maid.

“I’ve received word that a new governess is expected this afternoon.”

Alex groaned audibly. “Ah yes, another brave soul prepared to enter the battlefield.” He turned to face the older woman, noting her iron-gray bun and hands clasped tightly at her waist. “This will be the seventh in as many months. Let us hope that this one lasts longer than the others—though I confess my expectations are not particularly high.”

Mrs. Whitlow’s expression remained neutral, though Alex caught the slight tightening around her eyes. “The girl comes with a special recommendation, Your Grace. Mr. Wood, the town clergyman, wrote personally on her behalf.”

“Mr. Wood, you say?” Alex raised an eyebrow. The clergyman was not given to frivolous endorsements. “And what particular qualifications does this girl possess?”

“Apparently, she is well read, Your Grace.”

Alex snorted derisively. “How refreshing. And what kind of nonsense might she teach Master Henry this time? Poetry, perhaps? Romantic novels?” He shook his head dismissively. “You know my requirements, Mrs. Whitlow. The lesson plans I’ve prepared are not to be altered under any circumstances. Mathematics, Latin, geography, deportment—the boy needs structure, not frivolous pursuits.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Whitlow replied evenly. “Shall I conduct the initial interview, or would you prefer—”

“I’ll come down to assess the girl myself when she arrives,” Alex interrupted, the words escaping before he could consider them fully. It was unusual for him to involve himself directly in household staff appointments—that was Mrs. Whitlow’s domain. But Mr. Wood’s personal endorsement was highly unusual, and given the urgency of the situation with Henry, perhaps a more direct assessment was warranted.

Mrs. Whitlow’s eyebrows rose slightly on this departure from routine. “Very good, Your Grace. I shall inform you when she arrives.”

After the housekeeper departed, Alex attempted to return to the estate reports that demanded his attention. Why could he not focus on his work? His mind kept returning to the problem of Henry—the boy’s escalating behavior, the parade of failed governesses, his own inability to bridge the widening gap between them. Seven governesses in as many months. The situation was becoming untenable.

He forced himself back to the ledgers, gripping his pen tighter and bending over the accounts once more, determined to complete at least some productive work before the afternoon’s appointment. The figures swam before his eyes, profit and loss statements blurring together as his thoughts continued to wander despite his best efforts.

The familiar weight of self-recrimination settled over his shoulders. Here he was again, failing to measure up to his brother’s memory, allowing his attention to scatter when duty demanded focus. Thomas had been the golden son—heir to the dukedom, beloved by all who knew him, naturally gifted at everything he touched.

Alex had been content in his brother’s shadow, had chosen the army precisely because it offered him purpose without the burden of impossible expectations. He had been a good soldier, perhaps even an exceptional one. His men had respected him, followed him into battle without question. War, at least, had made sense. The enemy was clearly defined, the objectives straightforward.

Fatherhood and dukedom offered no such clarity.

He stepped to the sideboard where a crystal decanter caught the afternoon light, amber liquid promising temporary respite from his churning thoughts. His hand hovered over the stopper for a long moment before he pulled it away. It was barely past noon, and drowning his inadequacies in brandy would only compound his failures.

Instead, he returned to the window, watching Henry with a mixture of pride and despair. The boy had inherited more than his mother’s eyes: he possessed her fearless spirit, her infectious laugh when he was happy, her complete disregard for propriety when adventure beckoned. Traits that had made Georgiana irresistible were proving rather more challenging in an eight-year-old who seemed determined to drive away every governess in England.

The irony was not lost on him. He had fallen in love with Georgiana’s vivacity, her refusal to be contained by society’s expectations. Now he found himself trying to mold their son into a perfectly behaved young gentleman, as if structure and discipline could somehow protect the boy from the pain that came with caring too deeply.

A commotion in the garden drew his attention back to the present. Henry had apparently escalated his game, and the kitchen maid looked genuinely distressed now. Alex should intervene. His hand shot toward the window latch before he stopped himself.

The memory of their last confrontation rose unbidden—Henry’s small face crumpling when Alex had raised his voice, the way the boy had stepped back as if expecting a blow that would never come.

Alex had seen that look before, in his own childhood mirror, when his father’s cold displeasure had filled their interactions. He had sworn he would be different. He would not rule through fear and distance as his father had done.

But he didn’t know how to be different. Every attempt at discipline seemed to drive Henry further away. Every word felt wrong in his mouth, too harsh or too weak, never the balanced guidance Thomas would have provided. So, he did nothing, trapped between the father he refused to become and the father he didn’t know how to be.

The questions circled in his mind as he forced himself back to the desk once more. He had to stop this useless rumination. He had reports to review, correspondence to answer, decisions that could not wait for his scattered attention to settle.

But even as he picked up his pen again, Alex found his thoughts returning to the afternoon’s task. This Miss Fenton—or whatever her name might be—would arrive soon enough. Mr. Wood’s recommendation suggested she might be different from the others. Perhaps she would finally be the one to reach Henry, to bridge the chasm that seemed to widen between father and son with each passing day.

Or perhaps she would flee like all the rest, leaving him to face yet another failure in his growing collection of inadequacies.

The sound of carriage wheels on gravel eventually penetrated his brooding. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—half past two. The new governess had arrived with admirable punctuality, at least. Perhaps that boded well for her staying power, though he had learned not to place too much faith in first impressions.

Alex straightened his cravat and smoothed back his dark hair, catching his reflection in the window glass. The man who stared back at him bore little resemblance to the carefree second son who had once charmed London’s drawing rooms. Two years of grief and responsibility had carved new lines around his hazel eyes, had added silver to his temples despite his thirty-six years.

The small scar through his left eyebrow—a souvenir from his army days—seemed more pronounced now, giving his face a permanently stern expression.

He wondered briefly what this governess would make of Henry’s behavior, whether she would see past the misbehavior to the lonely child beneath, or simply add herself to the list of those who had given up on the boy.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Mrs. Whitlow appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “Your Grace, the new governess has arrived. Shall I show her to the blue drawing room?”

Alex nodded curtly. “Give me five minutes, then bring her up.”

As Mrs. Whitlow departed, Alex gathered the scattered estate reports and set them aside. It was merely an interview with a governess, another in a long line of unsuccessful appointments. Mr. Wood’s recommendation was the only reason to hope this one might prove different. If she could somehow reach Henry where six others had failed, the awkwardness of conducting the interview himself would be a small price to pay.

He took a steadying breath and prepared to meet yet another candidate in what was beginning to feel like an endless, futile search for someone who could help his son—and perhaps, though he barely dared admit it, help him find his way back to being the father Henry deserved.

 

Chapter Three

The carriage wheels ground against gravel as they turned onto the long drive toward Ravenshire Hall, each revolution carrying Elizabeth Fenton further from her old life and deeper into uncertainty. Through the frost-etched window, she caught her first glimpse of what would either be her salvation or her doom.

The estate rose before her like something from a Gothic novel—all gray stone and sharp angles, its towers reaching toward the pewter sky with an almost defiant grandeur. Bare-limbed trees lined the approach, their skeletal branches creating intricate patterns against the winter light. Snow had begun to fall in earnest now, dusting the landscape with pristine white that somehow made the hall’s weathered facade appear even more austere.

As they drew closer, Eliza could see signs of neglect that spoke of deeper troubles within. Ivy clung to the cold stone walls with desperate tenacity, its brown winter tendrils creating dark veins across the building’s face. The gardens that flanked the main entrance had long since faded to dormancy, their carefully planned borders now little more than suggestions beneath the accumulating snow.

Paint peeled from window frames, and several shutters hung at odd angles, giving the grand house an almost melancholy air.

She clutched her small traveling bag tighter, forcing herself to focus on beginnings rather than endings. This place would be her fresh start, her chance to prove that Elizabeth Fenton could succeed where Eliza Sinclair had only known failure. The weight of her father’s debts, Lord Hale’s betrayal, and her parents’ tragic death—all belonged to another life, another girl who no longer existed.

The carriage lurched to a halt before the main entrance, and Eliza stepped down onto the snow-dusted drive. The cold air bit her cheeks, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of approaching winter and something else—woodsmoke from the hall’s many chimneys, perhaps, or the musty smell of old stone and even older secrets.

As she gathered her skirts and looked up at the imposing facade, movement in an upper window caught her attention. A figure stood silhouetted against the glass—tall, with dark hair that caught what little light filtered through the clouds. Even from this distance, she could sense the weight of observation, the intensity of unreadable eyes studying her arrival.

The figure remained motionless for several heartbeats, and Eliza found herself unable to look away, held by something she couldn’t name.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure vanished from sight, leaving only empty glass and the growing conviction that she had just been assessed and found wanting. Was that the duke? Her new employer, already forming opinions about his latest governess before they had even been properly introduced?

The massive front door opened with a groan that seemed to echo through the very bones of the house, and a woman emerged to greet her. Mrs. Whitlow was exactly as Eliza had imagined from Alice’s descriptions—a stern-faced woman of middle years with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her black dress was impeccably maintained, and her posture spoke of decades spent managing household affairs with rigid efficiency.

“Miss Fenton, I presume?” Mrs. Whitlow’s voice carried the crisp authority of one accustomed to being obeyed without question.

“Indeed. Thank you for this opportunity, Mrs. Whitlow. I am most grateful for your consideration.” Eliza kept her tone respectful but confident, determined to make a favorable first impression.

“Come along then. The afternoon grows short, and there is much to discuss.”