Page 1 of The Moonstone Governess
Chapter One
Moonstone Landing
Cornwall, England
July 1823
Brenna Angel pausedin her early morning walk along the heights of Moonstone Landing to stare at the stranger she had seen at this very spot for three days in a row now. He sat upon an exquisite black steed, sweeping his gaze across the meadow of red poppies that swayed in the gentle breeze and ended at the edge of the nearby cliffs. From his vantage point, he could also see the quiet village in the distance and the expanse of crystal-blue waters of their cove shimmering in the morning light beyond. “There is no finer view. Don’t you think, sir?”
At first, the man appeared surprised by her presence and that she had spoken to him. But then he arched an eyebrow and dismounted to approach her. He was quite handsome and bigger than she’d realized, for her head barely reached his shoulders now that he stood beside her. His shoulders were nicely broad, too.
“I was going to pass the same remark to you. Do you walk here every morning, Miss Angel? Or am I wrong in presuming you are the elusive Brenna Angel?”
“I do enjoy a walk most days. Not in rain or snow, however. Who are you, if I may be so bold as to ask? And what makes you say I have been elusive?”
He laughed. “Other than the fact you have avoided me this entire week? Not to mention ignoring Mr. Priam, who happens to be Moonstone Landing’s finest land agent, or so he terms himself.”
“He is a persistent fellow, I will allow,” she replied with good nature, supposing it was time to take the measure of this handsome lord everyone in the village had been talking about. He was likely Viscount Claymore, and it was time to discuss what he wanted from her.
“So can I be persistent, Miss Angel.” His voice was cultured, but there was a determined edge to it. Although he was dressed casually, there was no mistaking his clothes were of the finest cut. Savile Row, no doubt. The white lawn of his shirt was as crisp and white as a wintery snowfall. His riding breeches were a buttery color, and the material appeared as soft as the fur of a newborn fawn.
His eyes were as blue as the sea stretched out in glistening splendor before them. Since he wore no hat, Brenna had a full view of his dark blond hair, which appeared clean and freshly washed as the sun beamed down on it and the wind gently rustled through those lovely strands of burnished gold.
Yes, this viscount, Lord Claymore—if this was indeed him—was quite good looking, which put her more on her guard. He was a man used to getting his own way by charm and seduction. She did not wish to be another of his conquests, albeit merely of the business kind.
“I suppose you are one of the posh London set presently ensconced in my cousin’s hotel, the Kestrel Inn,” Brenna said, keeping her voice bland, although her stomach was now twisting in a knot. “Are you the viscount or merely his lackey?”
“Are you always so blunt?” He arched his eyebrow again, but this time cast her an engaging smile along with it. “I expect you know exactly who I am. Do I look like any man’s lackey? Your cousin, Thaddius Angel, is an excellent proprietor, and also an unmitigated gossip. Did he tell you about me? Or was it your uncle who tattled?”
“Which uncle? I have seven currently residing in Moonstone Landing, to be precise. But it was none of them. My family knows how to be discreet.”
“Are you suggesting they do not gossip?” He laughed heartily. “Give me some credit, Miss Angel. I cannot walk down the high street without encountering an Angel curious about my business, nor can I sneeze without it being reported throughout the village within a minute of its occurrence.”
She emitted a lilting laugh in response. “Perhaps you are right. But in this instance, it was Mrs. Halsey, the owner of the local tea shop, who warned me about you, my lord.”
“Warned you? What have I done lately to earn my bad reputation?”
“Lately? It seems you are constantly rubbing people the wrong way.”
He frowned. “Other than an unfortunate mishap with my phaeton, which was not my fault at all, what have I done to rankle anyone?”
“I think it is more what you havenotdone. By this I mean ingratiate yourself into our village life. You’ve been coming here for several years now, and yet you and your elegant friends continue to hold yourself apart from everyone. Are you surprised the ill feeling has amassed over the course of your visits?”
“I see you are well informed, but Mrs. Halsey’s information is a little out of date. I no longer go by the title of viscount.” He gave a sweeping bow. “Daire Claymore, formerly Viscount Claymore and now Duke of Claymore.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” she said with sincere sympathy.
“Sorry? What for?”
“Your gain obviously means the former duke has passed on. I thought he might be someone dear to you.”
She saw a shadow cross over his eyes as he said with unsuppressed bitterness, “He was not.”
“Ah, I see.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.”
She had angered him, although she was not certain why a polite expression of sympathy for the former duke should rile him. Who understood these London lords? She expected him to turn on his well-heeled boots and stride back to his horse now that he had taken offense.
