From Prejudice to Love (Preview)

Chapter One

Letter from Richard Langley, Earl of Hawkscombe, to his twin sister, Margaret Wilton

5 January, 1811

Dearest Pickle,

I am in receipt of your letter from 13 November and trust that your journey is going as smoothly as desired. Did I not detect more than a hint of apprehension in your missive regarding traveling from Jamaica by ship? Honestly, Pickle, I’m sure the Royal Navy is more than capable of transporting a decorated general and his wife without incident.

And speaking of the devil, how is Old Barleyhead anyway? Please give him my regards. I always knew the two of you would be a most appropriate match. You must never question my instinct about these things, dear sister. By the same token, you mustn’t fear that I am to be alone all my life. I appreciate your efforts and the efforts of your fine husband to find me a suitable mate, but I know my own heart. You mustn’t worry, sister, for your own sake.

Which brings me to my nephews. What’s his name and what’s his name. How are they? Have they asked about their Uncle Richard at all? I ask only because in your letter you mentioned that they cannot seem to stop their gobs for two minutes at a stretch. Surely they must have inquired about the exploits of your twin brother. I trust you’ve informed them of the time I bagged that tiger in India. You have no need to mention that he’d got into a barrel of fermenting ale at the time and was positively foxed by the time I happened upon him.

So, Thomas is ten, and if my math is correct, that means that Simon must have just turned six. How old I feel now, Pickle. Then again, we’ve shared a womb, darling. If I feel old, I can be sure I’m not alone. I do miss those boys. It seems like only yesterday they were climbing all over my person like two little monkeys. How wonderful it would be for me to see them again after five years. They must have quite a few stories to tell about their being stationed in Jamaica like two little junior generals. I cannot wait till you return home, stop by Bridewater, and drop those imps at my feet. I intend to dote on them as if they were my own.

Oh, I can hear you now, Pickle. You think I am pining for a wife and children of my own. ‘Tis a lie! I have no need for either. I shall join a monastery as of tomorrow. There, now it is settled. Fare thee well, sister.

Yes, my jesting about the matter reveals my true feelings more so than were I to come right out and say it. Again, darling, I shall find myself a suitable mate and you shall never have to worry about me again. And by the by, it may do you well to remember that it is I who is three minutes older than you! As your elder—therefore wiser—brother, I am responsible for your well-being, not the other way around. I have always looked out for you and always will. I did find you a husband, did I not? General John Fitzpatrick Wilton was the pride of His Majesty’s Army, and it was a distinct pleasure to serve under him. I knew as soon as my tour was over that there was none other whom I considered more worthy of the title “brother-in-law”. Please do not tell him I said that. You have enough problems dealing with those boys of yours. You don’t need a husband with a swelled head to go with them.

In closing, let me say that once again I have put my mathematical skills to the test and have calculated that, should I post this letter today, it shall arrive at your home not a moment before or after you do! You may count on it, dear Pickle.

And with that, I beg to remain,

Your loving brother,

Swabbie

Chapter Two

Richard Langley put down his pen, sat back in his chair, and glanced out of the window of his study. The mighty oaks, steadfast and tenacious, stood together like comrades in arms. He was grateful for their presence. They gave Bridewater mansion a medieval feel of security, and yet the place had none of the cold and dark associated with that bygone era. It was an inviting place, or so visitors had told him. Hedgerows trimmed and carved by delicate hands wound about the property, welcoming with green embraces all those who ventured into their domain. The earl’s study, located on the second floor of the house, afforded one the best view, in his opinion, of the acres upon acres of land of which he was so proudly Master.

He sealed the letter to his twin sister Margaret with a blot of wax and his personal stamp, then left it in the box for the afternoon post. Ayles would come and collect it sure as day. He got up and stretched, feeling the burn in his back from yesterday’s ride. This action roused Shogun, his three-year-old brown and white bulldog. Shogun raised his languid head, snorted all’s well to the air, and then succumbed to gravity once more and the lure of fitful, snoring sleep.

Richard massaged a knot in his neck. Langley, he said to himself, you’re old. He laughed out loud at this. Twenty-nine was not old by anyone’s standard. But to be sure, there was something about years without a wife at his side that made him feel as though the years themselves had sped up while he himself aged according to God’s laws. It was this strange paradox that made him contemplative at certain times—for instance, when the pains of yesterday’s ride burned in his lower back.

He would find a bride, and one that suited him. With his father and mother gone, and he the sole master of this fine house, he was beholden to no one. There would be no marriage of convenience for him. He’d narrowly escaped two of them. He’d had the temerity to oppose his father both times and was heartily proud for doing so, no matter what the old man had had to say about it.

Now, back to business, he thought, and sat back down to settle some affairs that had come to his attention by post the previous morning. Recent tariffs on grain had slowed business in some areas and outright dashed it in others. It was time to get down to it and divert his exports elsewhere. There were no problems for Richard Langley, merely a list of the next things to do.

He was in the midst of penning a terse letter to his export manager when Fenwick Cheever entered the room. The personal secretary to the earl was five years his senior, and relished the wisdom that five extra years on the earl had afforded him. On more than one occasion, Fenwick Cheever had found himself at the end of a serious enquiry about some trade decision or deal. He’d told the earl once—he’d had his tongue loosened by several cups of brandy at the time—that he felt as though he were the grand vizier for some Arabian Nights caliph. He was paid handsomely enough, the earl had responded.

He was right in thinking himself as such, bloated salary or not, Richard had thought often. Indeed, the man’s presence was always a comfort. As it was now.

“Fenwick, you glorious man, what can I do for you?”

“M-m’lord…?”

“Yes?” said Richard, staring down at his missive, “what is it?”

“M’lord,” Fenwick said again, this time louder.

When Richard looked up, he was startled to see Fenwick Cheever in a most distressed state. The man’s pate, normally a smooth, white dome with tufts of scraggly hair about the temples, was moist with perspiration. It was bitingly cold outside, and several parts of the house were unreached by fireplaces—like the one from which Fenwick had just come—were otherwise avoided by most of the staff, save for those who traversed them hurriedly, chuffing into cupped hands as they did so. But this man standing before him had not hurried. He was not panting, and yet he was sweating. His face was not urgent, and yet bore signs of something hidden.

“Good God, man, are you alright?”

“No, milord.”

“Are you ill?”

“No, milord.”

“Well for Heaven’s sake, Fenwick, what is the matter?”

The secretary moistened his lips with a dull, dry smack, and took a deep breath.

“The HMS Beacon, traveling en route to England, was caught in a storm some one hundred miles south of Greenland.”

Richard felt his heart sink in his chest.

“The ship’s rigging faltered and she listed and foundered, milord. There were…” Fenwick’s face tightened. “There were no survivors.”

Chapter Three

Jeremy Duncan, valet to his lordship, laid out his employer’s things, frowning at the strip of black cloth that would serve as an armband. Perhaps he could tuck this piece of accoutrement away somewhere. Perhaps his lordship would not think of it this day. It had been two months since the dreaded news of his beloved twin’s passing reached his ear. When would it be over? Surely there was something in the man that would not let him end his mourning a moment too early, for his sister’s sake. To do so would be to admit he’d moved on without her. There had been some grace in the tragedy, at any rate. The man’s nephews had been spared a watery grave.

It was a story that could have filled seats at a melodrama. The ship destroyed during a hellish tempest. The father cast overboard whilst trying to procure a lifeboat for his wife and children. Then, mother and children go over, and mother finds a splintered piece of crate for the children to float on. There is no room for her on the slab, and so she stays in the water, treading while her children shiver. Her dress becomes weighted down, and her strength gives out, and she sinks while her children fall into icy slumber.

By the grace of God, the captain of the ship, heeding not to that vile dictum that a captain should go down with his vessel—for life must endure no matter what—chanced upon the children while searching for survivors, and dragged them into his lifeboat. An apt name for that most humble of vessels.

Duncan ran his hand over the fine silk. Were such things even useful to a dear one’s memory? They lived in the heart, after all, not on the arm. He held the thing aloft, inspecting it for any signs of stain or lint, then, on impulse, went to the top drawer of his lordship’s armoire and threw it in.

He heard the lord approaching, and began to shuffle in place. Jeremy Duncan stood debating internally, his mind afire. As his lordship’s footsteps progressed to within three feet of the door to the room, Duncan gave in to his ingrained sense of morality—not to mention his much-later-in-life ingrained sense of duty—and retrieved the cloth from the drawer, laying it out with the other clothes.

“Hello, milord,” he said cheerfully. “And how are you this morning?”

“I’m well. Thank you, Duncan,” came the perfunctory response.

It was a question only a fool would ask, thought Duncan. The man had not smiled for two months. He’d lost weight as well. His normal six feet of height was nothing without the robustness of chest that the man had formally possessed. He appeared shaven and shorn, as always, with the auburn hair of his lineage catching spare rays of early morning sun and glowing like embers. But anyone could see, as Jeremy Duncan saw now, that the neatness of the man’s appearance only served to smooth out the rigid angles of his suffering. The man had a tattered soul within him, and it was as clear as the late winter frost that glazed the expanse of the lawn outside.

“I was thinking, milord, that a nice dinner with some friends would be the ticket.”

“Indeed, Duncan. And you should take it. You’ve certainly earned it. Where will you go? To Chadwick’s in Sittingborne?”

Duncan swallowed hard. “Actually, milord, I was speaking of you.”

The earl turned to him with a quizzical look. “I?”

“Yes, milord. I was thinking perhaps a nice dinner with some friends would enliven your spirit.”

“The sun has set upon my life, Duncan. There is no one that can enliven my spirit.”

“Yes, milord.”

Duncan dressed his employer without another word. When it came time for the armband, his doubts about his lordship’s regard for that particular piece of fabric were set right—the earl held out his arm without even so much as a glance to make sure the thing was there laid out for him. Duncan affixed the fabric and brushed off his suit.

“You’re looking terrific as always, milord,” the valet lied.

“Thank you, Duncan. I’ll see you after luncheon. I’m to make an appearance at the court to settle affairs with my export manager. I’ll need to look a swell of the first stare, if you know what I mean.”

Duncan smiled. “Of course, milord.” Perhaps there was a shade of the man left in there after all.

“Oh,” said the earl with a snap of his fingers, “I almost forgot. My nephews are coming to live here. I’m to be their guardian.”

“Oh,” replied Duncan, “well, that’s certainly good news, eh?”

“It is, Duncan,” said the earl, his eyes stony.

“You know, Duncan, it’s strange…”

The valet waited for the man to continue, and when he saw that the earl was lost in thought, he said, “How so, milord?”

“Hm?”

“You said it was strange. How did you mean it, milord? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Oh, I merely meant that it’s strange that I wished to see them again after these many years. And here they are coming to me in this fashion, under these circumstances.”

“Yes, milord,” replied the valet, and dusted off the armband thrice more for good measure.

Chapter Four

They’d hadword that the carriage would be arriving around eleven in the morning. Ayles the butler, under strict orders to make sure the house was ship-shape, commanded the staff like an Admiral. Servants scurried to and fro, narrowly avoiding collisions without so much as a pardon or a thank you, and all was properly oiled at Bridewater because of it.

At precisely a quarter to the hour, Richard stood outside the house, the butler at his side.

“Ayles, my good man,” Richard said leaning over, “you’ve done this house honor with your service over the past twenty-four hours.”

“I was only doing my duty, milord,” the man replied stiffly.

Ayles was a thin, reedy fellow whose thin body and elongated limbs often gave the impression that the man was much taller than he was. At the top, a long neck gave way to a head like an inverted teardrop, with a face drawn as if there was something concealed in the mouth within the upper lip. When he spoke, it was in full tones, if somewhat higher-pitched as befitting a man of his reedy stature.

“I trust their rooms are in order?”

“All is well at Bridewater, milord.”

“Good show, Ayles.”

“Yes, milord.”

Richard nibbled his lip for a moment. “Ayles?”

“Yes, milord?”

“You were never married, were you, old chap?”

“No, milord.”

“Ever think about it?”

“Think about it, milord?”

“Yes, Ayles. Haven’t you ever thought about marriage?”

The butler gave a near-imperceptible shrug. “Never seemed to matter much, milord.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine today, milord.”

Richard turned to him with astonishment. “Today?”

“Yes, milord,” came the stoic reply.

“Well then, a joyous day to you, Ayles. I wish I’d known, I’d…”

He stopped, realising that he had needed Ayles on this day more so than any other in recent time, and to give him the day off would have been madness.

“No matter, milord,” came the stiff reply.

“What I meant was, Ayles, is that I wish there was something I could do in celebration of a man and his fine service.”

“You have other things to worry about, milord.”

“I suppose so. At any rate, thirty-nine is an age where a man should have at least considered the prospect of marriage, don’t you think?”

“If I may, milord, I consider myself dedicated to my work. Perhaps to a faulty degree. But I wake up in the morning with a spring in my step, and it is because I know that I am right where I would like to be. Bridewater is more than a place of employment, and more than a home. It is the thing that brings me happiness. Were I to marry and, say, have children, I would have to leave Bridewater.”

“You would be welcome here, Ayles, always. As far as I’m concerned, you have a job for life here.”

“That is not what I meant, milord, if I may. I would have to leave Bridewater in my heart. I could not bear to divide my attention in that manner.”

“Why, Ayles, you sound like a man in love with ahouse.”

To this the butler did not reply, for the carriage was approaching.

#

The carriage pulled up to the house. Richard took a breath in anticipation and Ayles straightened his waistcoat.

Out stepped a husky man in a blue frock coat laced with gold buttons, the dress of the Royal Navy. Richard could tell he was a captain. He was grizzled about the temples, his face pockmarked and hard. He stepped forward and removed his peaked cap, revealing the rest of the grey hair that was tossed about in every conceivable direction, as if each strand was a crewman in mutiny. His eyes, green and grey, were soft and pleading.

“Lord Hawkscombe,” he said with an officious bow.

“Captain Falsworth,” said Richard, offering his hand to shake.

The captain took it hesitantly.

“I am heartily sorry,” he said, his voice grated by wind and salt, “for the loss of your dear sister and her husband. I can’t help but feel responsible.”

“Nonsense, man,” said Richard. “As far as I and the rest of England are concerned, you are a hero. The stories of your heroism in the face of such a tragedy have been widely circulated. You have no enemies here, sir.”

“Thankee, milord. And now, I’d like to present your nephews to you if you don’t mind.”

“Please do.”

The captain turned to the carriage and gestured with his arm.

One boy emerged slowly, and another, smaller boy, emerged second. Both seemed as if they suspected the foreign air to be noxious and looked around with wide eyes and suspicious sniffs.

Richard felt hot tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He fought to compose himself.

They looked like their mother. Dearest Margaret. How he missed her so.

“Come, come,” Captain Falsworth prodded gently. “Come on, then. Your uncle, he doesn’t bite.” He chuckled. “There’s a couple o’ good lads.”

The boys approached with slow timidity and huddled closely to the captain.

“There we are.” He clapped the taller of the two on the shoulder. “This one here, he’s a fine one. A real spitfire. He’ll make an officer one day, mark my words.”

Richard leaned down. “Hello, Thomas,” he said to the older one. “I’m your Uncle Richard. I suppose you don’t remember me, do you?”

The boy stared in silence.

“And you, Simon,” he said to the younger one, “how are you?”

There came the same response.

Both children were well-fed, red-cheeked and bright. But there was a cloud that hung over both. Richard knew the nature of that cloud, and it made his heart sick for the boys.

“I told them,” said the captain, “in the carriage, I told them, ‘You see that there? That’s your new home. What do you think of that?’ Neither one o’ them ever saw any house like that. Oh, your sister’s house, my lord, that was a beauty. I was friends with General Wilton, you see, and visited him once or twice there. But that house was a dwarf compared to this one. I pointed and I said, ‘What do you think?’ And this little one here, Simon, he says—what did you say to that, Simon?”

The boy stared at Richard without acknowledging the question.

“He said, ‘Does the Cyclops live there?’” Here the captain burst into a wet, chesty laugh. “I said, ‘No, there ain’t no Cyclops here, don’t you worry about that, little swab.”

“Swab?” said Richard, feeling another pang in his heart.

“Oh, that’s what we called him on deck. You see, the general had employed the boys. Simon here was a swab and Thomas—oh, he was the best powder monkey you ever did see employed in the service of His Majesty’s Navy. Er, uh, milord, is there something wrong?”

“No,” said Richard, clearing his throat. “It’s just that, well, their mother and I had these silly pet names for each other. You know how it is with siblings.”

“I’m afraid not, milord. My brother and sister both succumbed to consumption when I was a lad and my parents never had another.”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry,” said Richard, feeling the cloud darken even more over his house. “At any rate, I called her ‘Pickle’, on account of that she was full of vinegar, you see. And she called me ‘Swabbie’ because I was always spit and polish and could never abide slovenliness of any kind.”

“Well,” said the captain with the same chesty laugh as before, “say hello to your Uncle Swabbie, then, lads!”

This comment by the captain elicited a small smile from the younger child.

“Won’t you stay for luncheon, Captain? I’d be honored if you would.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I must decline, milord. I’m needed elsewhere today.”

“Pity, Captain. Then I shall bid you safe travels and a good life. And thank you, sir, for doing all you could to rescue these boys.”

“Yes, sir,” was the solemn response.

They shook hands and parted, the captain donning his cap and giving each boy a clap on the shoulders. Richard thought he detected a moistness about the man’s eyes.

“I’ll go and see to the arrangements,” said Ayles, obviously wanting to afford Richard a moment alone with the boys.

“Must you go, Ayles?”

“I must, milord,” he said, and quickly departed.

They stood and stared silently at one another—three strangers.

Chapter Five

Richard sat down in his study and gazed out of the window for a moment. There was one person who would understand his situation. And so he took up his quill, dipped it, shook it once, and began to write.

Dear Pickle,

I’m at a loss at the moment and the only person who might have offered any help in the matter is gone. Of course, it is not lost on me that were you here to begin with, I would not have this problem on my hands. Such observations are beneath me, I realise, but that is neither here nor there. The truth of the matter is that I am at a loss and need your guidance.

I wish you were back with us, Pickle. I miss you terribly.

Where to begin?

The boys arrived with Captain Falsworth a week ago. They were in good shape, I’m happy to report. I cannot believe how much they resemble you, dear sister. They bear your stamp in another way—in stubbornness. I suppose you knew that already. I suppose I am not going to tell you anything you do not know. But forgive me nonetheless, Pickle, for I am going to write it out anyway.

To begin, Thomas is a bit more adventurous than his younger brother. He has a natural curiosity about everything. I sometimes think his eyes see more than what appears to them, if you know what I mean. There’s a way he has of tilting his head to one side when he regards something—a piece of sculpture, the newel on the bannister, et cetera—that puts me in mind of some great thinker pondering the mysteries of the universe in the ripples of a pond. At first, both boys were extremely reticent, but they’ve begun asking questions, which I regard as progress of a kind. Their questions are unrelenting. Thomas especially, with his curious nature, has a tendency to inquire about anything and everything. Why does the carpet in the passage not reach from end to end? Why does the doggie wag its tail in that way when he sees me? And so on.

Simon has not said but two words to me since the boys’ arrival at Bridewater. I fear, my darling, that his terrible ordeal aboard that ship and the awful fate of his parents has taken a toll on him. I would say the same holds true for Thomas. However, being the elder of the two, Thomas is perhaps inclined to show a somewhat braver face.

I do so wish I could get through to them. Alas, they see me as a stranger, and I cannot say I blame them for it. I am a stranger, for all intents and purposes.

I told them the story of how I bagged a tiger in India. They were rapt, as expected. But I am not a very keen storyteller and it seems my plot was full of holes. It wasn’t a moment after I was finished that Thomas began his questions. “Why wasn’t the tiger charging me if he’d seen me there?” His belly was full of alcohol, I replied. “Like rum?” asked little Simon. (What education travel on a naval ship has for young boys!) I said yes, precisely, like rum. Then Thomas piped up, “But if that was the case, then you didn’t really bag the beast at all, did you Uncle Swabbie?”

Captain Falsworth is to blame for that dreadful nickname. But I suppose they would have come by it sooner rather than later.

(A word on Captain Falsworth. You’ll be happy to know, Pickle, that I’ve pulled some strings and got him an official citation for his courage.)

At my inability to field any further questions by the two rascals, I found myself once again confronted by two reticent faces. It is my belief that even at such a young age they are keen to notice the source of my unease and awkwardness, but lack the ability to counter it with ease of their own.

And so, I am at a loss with these children. I fear I have let you down, Pickle. I am heartily sorry for it.

To this end, I have decided it is in the boys’ best interest that I hire a governess to care for them in my stead. They are sorely in want of a woman’s gentle yet firm hand and caring nature. I am too gruff, too set in my ways as a bachelor, and too unschooled in childrearing to undertake this task all on my own.

I can hear you now, Pickle. I should be married, you say. Well, to that, I say that I regard a wife as a bit more than someone upon whom I may unload a burdensome child when the ‘going gets rough’, as the Americans say.

At any rate, I have put out an advertisement and we begin interviewing for the position tomorrow.

I have only now just realised that I’ve told you again and again that I am at a loss. ‘Tis true, I am at a loss. But it is not for what to do next. That, as you see, is clear to me. But I am at a loss as to what to do when I look into their eyes and see the soul of my sister pleading for release.

I miss you, Pickle. You were light in a dark world. I remain

Your loving brother,

Swabbie

Richard put down his pen with a soft sob and pushed the letter away from him.

Chapter Six

Fenwick came into the office and announced, “Mrs. Emma Grippe, milord.”

They were several interviews into the process so far, and so far none had seemed in the least bit promising. There were former charwomen with no experience with children, spinsters with too much experience with girls and not enough with boys, a German girl that did not speak any English at all, a French maid with a tittering laugh that seemed more interested in the size of the house than her duties as governess, and on and on they came.

But with all the varied applicants that paraded in and out of the office throughout the day, nothing could have prepared Richard for the force of nature that barreled into the room, knocking poor Mr. Fenwick Cheever to one side in the process.

“Name’s Grippe with two p’s, milord, and they both stand for precision,” she said with a voice like ten thunderstorms.

“Indeed,” said Richard, regarding her curiously over the tops of his spectacles.

She was a stout woman in a slate-colored Spencer jacket pulled tightly around her ample frame. This she wore over white muslin, which seemed to flow stiffly from her like water from a frozen fountain. Her face was round and solid, meaning there was nothing there to fit anything but the permanent scowl of discipline.

“I’m three times married, milord, and I buried all three of them without a single tear shed amongst the lot. They were lieabouts, you see, and I don’t abide lieabouts. In fact, I have no love for sloth of any kind, being a God-fearing woman. I believe that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. I believe that children are ripe for temptation at every turn and it is the job of God-fearing women like myself to make sure the devil don’t get any part of them. And if that means scaring Old Nick away with the blunt end of a ruler on the backside, then so be it. I didn’t get this far in life having buried three husbands by being careless.”

Richard cleared his throat. “Well then. Er, have you any experience with children?”

The woman’s eyes went wide, revealing haloes of milky white around the stone black pupils. Her mouth formed an o shape, and she looked as if she were about to scream. She shut her mouth and her eyes went back to their normal size. She then let out a breath through her nose that sounded like the hiss of a cauldron a-boil.

“Lord Hawkscombe,” she said in measured tones, “I have six children, all of whom have grown to be successful young men and women in their own rights. The boys all became merchants and lawyers. The girls married merchants and lawyers. If it weren’t for my rodded hand and my icy resolve not to let the whims of the devil get the better of them—what with three lieabouts for husbands—they would have, each and every one of them, wound up on the streets for sure!”

“Pardon me, Mrs. Grippe,” said Richard, “I did not mean to offend.”

“Oh, no offense taken, milord. I believe a woman ought to assert her accomplishments these days. Too many women lumbered with lieabout husbands don’t realise that it is they who ought to take up the rod and be the lady of the manor, as it were. If they were only like me. Precise, a lover of administering discipline, and a caring nurturing sort—for you see, milord, I love the little dears. It is for this reason that I must stand erect in the face of sin, and there ain’t no more fertile ground for sin than in the sweet little darlings.”

She accentuated this last point by pounding her fist on Richard’s desk

She cleared her throat. “Pardon me, milord,” she said sheepishly. “I’m passionate about my work.”

“I can see that,” said Richard. “Well, Mrs. Grippe, I’ve a great many applicants to see today. I shall bid you farewell for today. You will be hearing from me.”

Mrs. Grippe straightened in her chair. “If you don’t mind, milord, I’d like my answer now please.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You say you have a great many applicants to see. I appreciate that. Your Lordship is a busy man. But I am a busy woman, milord, and I believe we will save us both a great deal of time—not to mention heartache on the part of one of us—if you were to give me an answer regarding my employment.”

“Mrs. Grippe,” Richard said firmly, “I have given you my answer. I am a busy man and will contact you as soon as I have made a decision. Good day!”

Mrs. Grippe huffed and rose from her chair, barreling past Fenwick and leaving the scent of jasmine in a great wake behind her.

“Next,” said Richard, dreading the rest of the day.

---

“From Prejudice to Love” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Molly Riordan is a beautiful young lady with Irish roots. Being a tenacious girl, she chose to take education into her own hands after losing her father. So, from a very young age, she has been working her way up in educating younger children. But little does she know that her life is about to change drastically when she gets interviewed by a handsome Earl for the position of the new governess for his orphaned nephews. Will she deny the tender feelings she will start having for her charming employer, fearing they could complicate her work? Or will she let her heart decide what is the right choice?

Richard Langley is the Earl of Hawkscombe and lives a peaceful life until he receives word that his twin sister and her husband have perished in a tragic accident. When he surprisingly learns that their two boys made it alive, he considers it his duty to take them as his own. However, he could never expect that choosing to hire the Irish governess he initially looked down upon would make him question his own values like no one has ever before. Will he let his prejudice aside, look deep into the lady’s beautiful soul and accept her unconventional methods? Or will he decide that his perfect match should fit into society’s standards and rules?

Just when Molly and Richard start getting closer to each other, Molly’s sophisticated former employer is about to arrive at the estate, and things will get truly complicated. Who will eventually succeed in capturing the Earl’s heart?

“From Prejudice to Love” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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