Page 1 of His One and Only Lady

That man is an ogre!

What an impossible predicament you find yourself in, Faith. I know how much you anticipated your new position as an amanuensis for Lord Kellinggrave. He only retained you because he lost a wager, you say? I do believe his lordship is a despicable knave for misleading you.

For what it is worth, I applaud your intrepidness and gumption. Do not let the scapegrace chase you away. I know you, Faith, and you shall make an excellent scrivener. His lordship shall learn as much if he puts aside his masculine prejudices.

I hope to visit you and Chasity, Joy, Mercy, and Faith soon. My tenure with the Ceddes family is ending as Pomeroy is off to Harrow and the girls to boarding school this autumn—the poor dears. After eight years, I’ve grown very fond of the children and shall miss them dreadfully.

But alas, time ticks relentlessly onward, and I must search for a new position even while I’m at the Mumfords’ house party. I shall pray I never have an employer as impossible as your Lord Kellinggrave.

~Miss Purity Mayfield, in a letter written

en route to the Mumfords’ to Miss Faith Roth

Mottford Hall, Essex, England

Home of the Earl and Countess of Mumford

22 August 1818 — Mid-Morning

Bliss. Pure, sublime bliss.

Purity Mayfield tilted her face into the sun’s soothing rays and gave a contented sigh. Humming the ballad she’d sung to her wards that morning, she relaxed into the comfortable, cushioned chaise lounge—one of several in the cozy garden. Apparently, none of the other houseguests who’d arrived over the past couple of days had discovered this magical retreat yet.

To be honest, she wasn’t exactly one of the elite haut ton guests. Nevertheless, she felt as privileged as one at that moment. Glancing around the isolated enclosure, Purity smiled.

Her cherished privacy might be partially due to the ten-foot-tall beech hedge surrounding the charming square and its distance from the manor house. She’d accidentally come upon the hedgerow’s arched opening while walking the greens farthest from the opulent mansion.

A few feet from her, across the verdant grass paralleled by rust-colored brick pavers lay a square pond. An angel wearing a strategically placed loincloth for modesty’s sake topped a two-tiered burbling fountain.

For the moment, this enchanted haven was all hers to enjoy. No quieting energetic children, wiping noses, gently but firmly reminding her charges to mind their manners, or doing the often unreasonable bidding of her employers.

For a few coveted minutes, it was just Purity, the fish, a few bees, and a mild August morning sun.

She eyed the entrance with a mixture of trepidation and expectation.

Surely this heaven was too perfect to last.

The reluctance of the upper ten thousand to part with their plush mattresses before noon also likely explained why no others had joined her in this picturesque retreat.

That was perfectly fine with Purity.

More than fine, in truth.

In general, the upper class had little use for servants except how the menials made their elite lives more comfortable and convenient. Respect, consideration, and basic politeness were reserved for those of the same social standing as members of le beau monde—not the lower orders.

As a governess, Purity fell somewhere between the servants and the family she worked for. She wasn’t included in either, and it made for a rather lonely existence—apart from her time with the children in her charge.

As accomplished as she was at appearing subservient and compliant, there were moments she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her ungracious opinions to herself or stifle a disrespectful, if honest, retort.

Her current employers, the Viscount and Viscountess Ceddes, were challenging on the best day and intolerable on a bad one. She’d long since learned to recite in her head, “a soft answer turneth away wrath,” over and over.

Never mind how much she might fume after a disagreeable encounter. Her position, and thus her future, depended on an acquiescent and submissive demeanor.

Neither trait came naturally to her.

She’d often wondered if either of her parents—she had no idea who they might be—had possessed a tenacious nature too. Or which she’d inherited her riot of curly hair from.

Shading her eyes with her hand, Purity spied a squirrel cautiously creeping across the grass. Sitting on its haunches, it darted its black-eyed gaze here and there, its tiny little nose twitching all the while. The darling thing would advance a couple of feet, flick its fluffy red tail, and repeat its anxious perusal.