The Governess Who Stole His Heart (Preview)

Prologue

Water streamed from Olivia Marston’s raven hair as she emerged from the stream, Charlotte following behind her. “Tell us about him again, Aunt Barbara,” she called out eagerly. Her bare feet left wet prints on the sun-warmed rocks as she moved. “Oh to have a love so pure… I dream of it.”

Aunt Barbara’s pen paused over the letter she’d been writing, her hand trembling slightly as she looked up from her perch beneath the ancient beech tree.

Olivia could see her eyes lighting up, and she shook her hair out, the cold of the water forming goosebumps on her pale skin.

“Which story would you like to hear this time?” Barbara asked, though Olivia suspected she already knew the answer.

The girls had been insatiable since she’d first mentioned him, as if they could somehow make up for years of not knowing by demanding every detail now. In the stream behind them. Olivia’s ten-year old brother, Henry continued to fish, his line catching the late afternoon light as he cast it into a deeper pool.

“The one about the beech trees,” Olivia said, dropping onto the checkered blanket beside her aunt. “When you told each other how you felt.” She wrapped her arms around her knees, leaving damp patches on her muslin dress. Her eyes sparkled with the possibility of romance.

Charlotte settled on Barbara’s other side, gentler than her friend but no less eager. “Please, Miss Barbara? It’s my favorite. A real-life love story.”

Though a fair bit more affluent than them, Charlotte had become like family to Olivia and by extension, Barbara too.

The pen slipped from Barbara’s fingers, rolling across the half-finished letter. She didn’t move to retrieve it, instead letting her eyes drift to the horizon where the Devon hills rolled endlessly toward the sea.

“We were younger than you are now,” she began, her voice taking on the dreamy quality it always did when she spoke of him. “We were just seventeen, though we thought ourselves terribly grown up. There was a hill near his family’s estate, covered in beech trees much like this one.”

“Was it very romantic?” Charlotte asked, her eyes sparkling. Having grown up with Olivia and her brother, Charlotte had become more of a sister than a mere friend—not only to her and Henry, but to their aunt as well.

A laugh escaped Barbara’s lips, surprising Olivia with its strength. “Hardly! I was terrified, convinced I’d made a horrible mistake in agreeing to meet him there. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold onto my skirts as I climbed that hill.”

“But he was waiting for you,” Olivia prompted, already knowing this part of the story by heart, her dark eyes eager.

“Yes, he was waiting.” Barbara’s fingers traced the edge of her letter, and Olivia wondered if she was reminiscing on a time gone by. “Standing beneath the largest beech tree I’d ever seen, looking as nervous as I felt. The moment he saw me, though, everything changed. The fear simply… melted away.”

She paused, closing her eyes and Olivia frowned. Her aunt did not realize that she noticed, but she’d been getting dizzy spells lately. Something that concerned her.

“Aunt Barbara?” she prompted carefully, and Barbara opened her eyes with a forced smile.
“He’d carved our initials into that tree before I arrived. B and E, surrounded by a rather lopsided heart. I pretended to be scandalized by such a permanent declaration, but in truth…” She pressed a hand to her chest, where an old ache lived. “I would never admit it, but I was thrilled.”

“And that’s when he told you he loved you,” Charlotte whispered, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell of the story.

Barbara nodded; her gaze distant. “We both did. The words tumbled out all at once, like we’d been holding them back for so long they’d developed a life of their own. We stood there afterward, hardly believing we’d finally said it, while the beech leaves rustled overhead, and the summer wind carried the scent of heather across the hills.”

“It sounds perfect,” Olivia sighed. Then her expression darkened. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t marry. Was it really just because you were poor?”

The question hung in the air like the afternoon heat. In the stream, Henry’s fishing line cut through the water with a soft swish, marking time as Olivia waited for the answer.

“Poverty was part of it,” she said finally, her voice carrying a weight the girls had never heard before. “But there was more. Someone… someone who didn’t approve sent a letter. They threatened to harm my family if I didn’t leave.” Her hands clenched in her lap, crumpling the edge of her unfinished letter. “I was young and scared. I did what they asked.”

Olivia’s arm slipped around her aunt’s waist. “That’s horrible! Did you not tell him why?”

“No,” Barbara whispered, the single word holding decades of regret. “That’s the most tragic part, you see. Not losing him, though that was devastating. The real tragedy was leaving without a word of explanation. Without a fight. Without…”

Barbara’s voice trailed off and Olivia tightened her hold around her as she teetered, evidently losing her balance.

“Aunt Barbara?” She spoke nervously. Her aunt’s face turning a pale hue frightened her, the note thereof evident in her voice. “Should I call for Henry and tell him we ought to leave?”

“No, dear. Just… just give me a moment.” Barbara closed her eyes as she leaned back against the tree. Olivia waited, her heart racing wildly within her chest as she watched the woman she so loved become so utterly weak.

Aunt Barbara’s hand moved first, to an unfinished letter she had been holding. It fluttered in the wind. The afternoon sun illuminated the words she’d written, making them seem to float above the paper: “My dearest E—” She quickly folded it before the girls could see, tucking it into the pocket of her dress.

“You never told us his name,” Charlotte said quietly, glancing at Olivia before looking back at Barbara. “Was it Edgar? Or Edmund?”

A ghost of a smile touched Barbara’s lips. “Some secrets ought to be kept, my darlings. Though I suppose it hardly matters now.”

Olivia frowned at this, for it was far too sad to accept.

From the stream came the sound of splashing, followed by Henry’s triumphant laugh. “Got one!” he called out, holding up a gleaming trout that caught the sunlight like a silver coin.

“Well done!” Barbara called back, seemingly grateful for the distraction. Olivia knew that for her aunt, Henry’s presence had always been a comfort, especially since her illness had begun to worsen. Though the girls loved her, Henry brought a lightness to the house that had not been there before.

Olivia, however, wasn’t so easily deterred from her questions. “But surely you could have found a way to be together? If you loved each other so much…”

“Love isn’t always enough,” Barbara said, her voice gentle but firm. “Sometimes life presents us with impossible choices. We do what we must to protect those we care about, even if it breaks our hearts in the process.”

“I would have fought,” Olivia declared with all the fierce certainty of youth. “I would have found whoever wrote that horrible letter and made them sorry they’d ever threatened my family.”

Barbara reached out to brush a strand of damp hair from Olivia’s face, her touch lingering on her niece’s cheek. “You remind me so much of myself at your age. That same fire, that determination to right every wrong.” She sighed, letting her hand fall back to her lap. “But time has taught me that some battles can’t be won through sheer force of will. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is walk away.”

“But you regret it,” Charlotte said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Barbara’s admission hung in the air between them. “Every day since. Not the choice itself—I still believe I did what was necessary to protect my family. But the way I did it…” She shook her head, pain flickering across her features that had nothing to do with her illness.
“The silence,” Olivia whispered, understanding dawning in her eyes.

Barbara nodded. “The silence. The questions I left unanswered. The pain I must have caused him, disappearing without explanation.” Her voice grew stronger, taking on an urgency that made both girls lean closer. “Promise me something, both of you. Whatever life brings you, whatever choices you face—don’t let fear steal your voice. Speak your truth, even when it’s difficult. Especially when it’s difficult.”

Henry’s footsteps approached, bringing with him the fresh scent of river water and the proud display of his catch. But before he reached them, Barbara spoke once more, her voice soft.

“You see, my darlings, that’s the secret I’ve learned too late: love isn’t just about grand gestures or perfect moments beneath beech trees. It’s about courage. The courage to speak when silence would be easier. The courage to fight for what matters, even when victory seems impossible. And sometimes…” She pressed her hand against the letter in her pocket, feeling the weight of words yet unwritten. “Sometimes it’s about finding that courage even after thirty years have passed.”

“Look what I’ve caught for supper!” Henry announced, holding up his prize. Water dripped from the fish’s scales, creating dark spots on the blanket. “Though I dare say we’ll need more than one to feed this hungry lot.”

“It’s a beautiful catch,” Barbara said, but her voice was faint, almost distant. Her face was ghostly pale once more, her voice weaker than it had ever been.

Olivia noticed first. “Aunt Barbara? You’ve gone quite pale.”

“Perhaps we should head back to the house,” Henry suggested, already setting down his fishing gear. The concern in his voice was carefully measured, but Olivia could hear the underlying worry.

“No,” Barbara said, her voice straining to be firm. “No, I’d like to stay a bit longer. The air is so sweet here.” She drew a deep breath, and Olivia looked at her full of worry.

Charlotte’s arm was around her waist now, steady and protective. “Then at least let me fetch your medicine from the house. Doctor Spencer said—”

“The medicine can wait,” Barbara interrupted, her hand moving to the letter in her pocket. “There’s something more important I need to tell you.” She withdrew the folded paper with trembling fingers, holding it out to Olivia. “Would you read it for me, dear? My eyes aren’t what they used to be in this light.”

Olivia took the letter carefully, as if handling a precious artifact. She unfolded it, smoothing the creases with gentle fingers. Her eyes widened as she read the first line.

“’My dearest Edward,’” she began, then stopped, looking up at her aunt in surprise.
“Go on,” Barbara encouraged softly.

“’After thirty years of silence, I find these words almost impossible to write. But my time grows short, and there are truths that must be told before it’s too late. The day I left without explanation was the greatest mistake of my life—not the leaving itself, which I still believe was necessary to protect my family from those who threatened harm, but the silence. You deserved to know why.”

Olivia’s voice faltered. Charlotte leaned forward, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Even Henry had gone still, the forgotten fish dripping quietly onto the blanket.

“I’ve learned that the person who sent that threatening letter has been dead these past five years,’” Olivia continued reading, her voice growing stronger. “Their power to harm anyone died with them. And so, at last, I can tell you everything. Though I suspect it comes too late for us, perhaps knowing the truth will bring you some peace. It has taken me far too long to understand that peace is what I’ve been seeking all these years, not just for you, but for myself as well.”

Barbara closed her eyes as Olivia continued to read. She hesitated only for a moment, but at the subtle movement of Barbara’s hand, she continued.

“’I never stopped loving you,’” Olivia read, her voice catching slightly. “’Not for a single day in all these years. Every beech tree I’ve encountered has been a reminder of that perfect afternoon when we were young and believed love could conquer anything. Perhaps, in its way, it did. For though we were parted, that love has lived on, shaping both our lives in ways we may never fully understand.”

Barbara breathed heavily, her eyes finally founding Olivia’s once again.

“My child,” she whispered, her breath coming in short gasps now. “I… I must ask that you deliver that letter.”

“Deliver the… Aunt Barbara, I don’t understand?”

Olivia felt wetness staining her cheeks as her aunt lay a soft hand against her skin. There was no need to say much more, she knew now. Her aunt knew that she was on borrowed time—and she nodded silently, a promise to deliver the letter that meant so much.

Even if it were far too late.

Chapter One

Two Years Later—Hampshire, England

“For heaven’s sake, must you continue with that incessant tapping?”

The sharp words cut through the rhythmic clatter of carriage wheels, startling Olivia from her thoughts. She realized she’d been drumming the letter against her knee, its corners softened from careful handling. The seal remained unbroken, the name “Edward” still clearly visible in her aunt’s elegant script.

She could hardly believe that she was on her way to Hampshire. The day when she had first seen the letter, when Aunt Barbara had written it, seemed as though it were a different universe rather than a mere two years in the past.

She had all but forgotten about it, until her aunt’s untimely death… which felt like mere days earlier. Was it already five months? The grief still felt so fresh. Her heart still ached with mourning at the thought.

Looking up, she met the irritated gaze of the gentleman sitting across from her. He was handsome—devastatingly so, if she were being honest—with dark hair and aristocratic features currently arranged in an expression of supreme annoyance. She’d caught herself stealing glances at him throughout the journey, though she’d rather die than admit it now.

“I apologize if my fidgeting disturbs your peace, sir,” Olivia replied, matching his clipped tone. “Though one might argue that the jolting of this hackney coach makes any hope of true tranquility rather optimistic.”

Beside her, Henry barely suppressed a smile, while the other gentleman across from them—who had been engaged in pleasant conversation with her brother-in-law for the past hour—let out a warm chuckle.

“You must forgive my friend,” he said, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. “Elliot tends to forget his manners when he’s been trapped in a carriage for too long. I’m Lord Turner, by the way, and my taciturn companion here is the Honorable Elliot Carrington.”

“Miss Olivia Marston,” she replied with a polite nod. “And this is my young brother, Henry.”
“A pleasure,” Lord Turner said, then gestured to the letter still clutched in her hand. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been keeping rather careful watch over that correspondence. It must be quite important to warrant such attention.”

Olivia’s fingers tightened slightly around the paper, feeling its familiar weight. The morning light filtering through the carriage windows caught the edge of the seal, making it glow like a drop of blood.

“It was my aunt’s last wish,” she said quietly, the words bringing with them a fresh wave of grief. “That this letter be delivered directly into the hands of… someone she lost touch with long ago.”
“How terribly romantic!” Lord Turner exclaimed, leaning forward with genuine interest. “A final message to a long-lost love, perhaps? The sort of thing one reads about in novels.”

“The sort of thing one reads about in poorly written novels,” his friend muttered, though his dark eyes flickered to the letter with the first hint of curiosity he’d shown all morning.

“It’s not romantic at all,” Olivia countered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “It is about setting right an old wrong. About giving voice to truths that remained unspoken for far too long.”

“And this requires you to personally traverse half of England?” Lord Carrington asked, one eyebrow raised in elegant disdain. “When the postal service exists precisely for such purposes?”

The morning sun chose that moment to emerge fully from behind a cloud, streaming through the window and illuminating his features in a way that made him look like a classical statue—beautiful, but cold. Olivia forced herself to look away, focusing instead on the passing Hampshire countryside. Her heart raced and she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm it.

“Some things,” she said carefully, “are too important to be entrusted to chance. My aunt carried these words in her heart for thirty years. The least I can do is ensure they reach their intended recipient, whatever the cost in personal inconvenience.”

“Thirty years?” Lord Turner whistled low. “That’s quite a wait for a letter to be delivered.”
“Quite an inexcusable wait, I’d say,” Lord Carrington commented drily. “Though I suppose that makes a few more days of delay through proper channels hardly significant.”

Olivia felt heat rise to her cheeks, though whether from anger or something else entirely, she couldn’t quite say. “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand, my lord.”

“Someone like me?” His voice had taken on a dangerous edge that made Henry shift uncomfortably beside her.

“Yes, someone like you,” Olivia continued, lifting her chin slightly. “Someone who clearly views matters of the heart with the same cold efficiency as a business ledger.”

The coach hit a rut in the road, jostling them all. Lord Carrington’s knee brushed against hers for the briefest moment before he withdrew it as if burned. His jaw tightened, and she could see a muscle working beneath the smooth skin.

“And you view me as what, precisely?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. “A heartless automaton, incapable of understanding the grand romantic gestures that apparently require young ladies to embark on ill-advised journeys across the country?”

“Elliot,” Lord Turner warned, but his friend ignored him.

“I view you,” Olivia said, meeting his gaze steadily, “as someone who has never known the kind of love that makes foolishness seem like wisdom.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Outside, the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses’ hooves marked the passing seconds as Lord Carrington stared at her, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Henry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should—”

“No, no,” Lord Carrington interrupted, his eyes still locked with Olivia’s. “Do continue, Miss Marston. I find myself fascinated by your expertise on matters of the heart. Tell me, does this profound wisdom come from vast personal experience, or merely from an overconsumption of circulating library novels?”

“Carrington!” Lord Turner’s voice was shocked. “What has gotten into you, my friend?”

But Olivia was already speaking, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “It comes, sir, from watching my aunt spend her final days writing this letter. From seeing the regret in her eyes when she spoke of thirty years of silence. From understanding that sometimes the greatest act of love isn’t in grand gestures at all, but in finally finding the courage to speak the truth, even if it comes too late.”

The coach fell silent save for the creaking of leather and wood. Even the countryside beyond the windows seemed to have gone still, as if holding its breath.

Lord Carrington was the first to look away, his gaze dropping to his perfectly polished boots. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its sharp edge. “Your aunt… she never sent word to this person in all those years?”

“No,” Olivia said softly, running her thumb along the letter’s worn edge. “She was threatened, you see. Forced to choose between her heart and her family’s safety. She chose family, but the cost…” She shook her head, remembering Barbara’s face in those final days. “The cost was higher than she ever imagined.”

“And now you carry her words,” Lord Turner said gently, “hoping to finally bridge that silence.”
“Yes.” Olivia offered him a grateful smile. “Though Lord Carrington clearly thinks me foolish for doing so.”

“Foolish is perhaps too harsh a word,” the man in question said after a moment, surprising them all. His voice had taken on an odd quality, almost hesitant. “Impractical, certainly. Risky, given the current state of the roads. But…”

He trailed off, his gaze catching on the letter again. Something passed across his features—a shadow of some old pain, gone so quickly Olivia might have imagined it.

“But?” she prompted, finding herself leaning forward slightly despite her earlier anger.
The coach swayed as they rounded a bend, sending a shaft of sunlight across his face. For a moment, he looked younger, more vulnerable, as if some carefully maintained mask had slipped.

“But perhaps not entirely without merit,” he finished, his voice so quiet Olivia had to strain to hear it over the carriage wheels. Then, as if catching himself in some inadvertent revelation, he straightened his shoulders and added more briskly, “Though the post would still have been far more sensible.”

“Ah, there’s the Carrington we know and tolerate,” Lord Turner said with a laugh, breaking the tension that had built in the cramped space. “Heaven forbid he allow a moment of sentiment to pass unremarked.”

Olivia found herself studying Elliot Carrington’s profile as he turned to glare at his friend. There was something there, beneath the carefully maintained facade of indifference, that made her wonder what experiences had taught him to guard his heart so carefully.

“I hope,” she said softly, causing him to turn back to her with surprise, “that you never have cause to understand exactly why I’m making this journey, my lord. Because to understand it would mean you, too, had known the kind of regret that haunts a person until their dying day.”

The words seemed to strike something in him. His expression shifted, the mask cracking just enough to reveal a glimpse of genuine emotion before he schooled his features back to careful neutrality.

“Your aunt,” he said after a moment, his voice surprisingly gentle. “Was she at peace, in the end? After writing the letter?”

The question caught Olivia off guard. She looked down at the sealed paper in her hands, remembering Barbara’s face after she’d finally finished writing—the mixture of exhaustion and serenity, as if setting the words on paper had lifted some great weight from her soul.
“Yes,” she answered. “I believe she was.”

Henry, who had been quietly observing the exchange, reached over to squeeze her hand. Though he was barely an adolescent, Olivia knew her young brother had noticed much more than he let on.

“Then perhaps,” Lord Carrington said carefully, as if testing the weight of each word, “your quest is not entirely foolish after all.”

Their eyes met across the carriage, and for the first time since the journey began, there was no antagonism in his gaze. Instead, Olivia saw something that made her heart skip—a flash of understanding, of recognition, as if he too knew something about unspoken words and lingering regrets.

The moment stretched between them, charged with unspoken possibilities, until Lord Turner’s voice broke through once again.

“I say, is that smoke ahead? Looks like there might be trouble on the road.”

They all turned to peer through the windows. Sure enough, dark smoke was rising above the trees in the distance, and the distinct sound of shouting could be heard over the rumble of carriage wheels.

Lord Carrington’s entire demeanor changed in an instant, his body tensing like a soldier preparing for battle.

“Remain quiet,” he commanded, and ordered Henry to shift closer to his sister.

Olivia clutched the letter tighter, her earlier irritation with Elliot forgotten in the face of this new threat. As if sensing her concern, he turned to her, his expression fierce and determined.

“Whatever happens, Miss Marston,” he said in a low voice meant only for her, “I give you my word that your aunt’s letter will reach its destination.”

The coach began to slow as the shouting grew louder, and Olivia found herself wondering if perhaps she had misjudged Elliot Carrington entirely.