A Governess Under the Mistletoe
Highland Christmas, Book 2
By
Emma Prince
Copyright
A Governess Under the Mistletoe (Highland Christmas, Book 2) Copyright © 2020 by Emma Prince
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact emmaprincebooks@gmail.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. V1.0
Table of Contents
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Thank You!
Books by Emma Prince
Teasers for Emma Prince’s Books
About the Author
Want another historical romance story for FREE? Sign up for my newsletter and have “Aegir’s Daughter” (A Viking Lore Short Story) sent directly to you. Happy reading!
Chapter One
Late November, 1839
Edinburgh, Scotland
Blair MacTierney, Earl of Brenmore, closed his fist around the letter in his hand. The paper crumpled, causing the carefully inked words to disappear from view, yet they continued to ricochet through him like musket balls.
Bloody hell.
John Cullingham, Blair’s solicitor, slid another sheet across the oak desktop.
“You’ll notice in the fourth column the adjustment to wool prices,” Cullingham commented, rifling through still more papers. “Unfortunately, they’ve taken another downturn, but Brenmore could support at least another four hundred head of Cheviot sheep, if you choose to…”
Blair glanced up as the Englishman’s voice trailed off. Apparently his solicitor had finally noticed Blair’s sudden dark mood. The man cocked his sandy head, peering at Blair through rectangular spectacles. “Bad news?”
That was an understatement. Instead of responding, Blair passed the letter to Cullingham. “Tell me what ye make of this.”
Cullingham smoothed the paper and quickly scanned it. As he continued, his brows inched up.
“Were you aware that your relation had passed?”
“Nay,” Blair clipped. Truth be told, he’d known nothing of Douglas MacInnish, Earl of Glenrose, other than that he, and his Highland estate, existed. The Earl was one of his mother’s distant cousins, he thought.
“And you are the last living male in his line,” Cullingham said with a frown, scanning the letter once more, “but you aren’t to inherit?”
Blair exhaled. “A quirk of Scottish law.”
“Ah yes.” Cullingham adjusted his spectacles. “The young female ward mentioned here.” He shot Blair a quizzical look. “She is permitted to be named the heir. It seems I still have a few things to learn about the antiquated traditions that linger in your country’s legal system, my lord.”
“But what of the rest?” Blair demanded, shifting in his chair impatiently. “What of the claims upon me?”
Cullingham picked his words for a moment. “It appears to be a straightforward arrangement. The late Lord Glenrose’s daughter will inherit the title and estate when she comes of age. Until that time, you are to be her guardian, as well as the guardian of Glenrose’s two hundred and twenty-five parcels of land.”
Two hundred and twenty-five plots—which meant two hundred and twenty-five families to work them. Perhaps a thousand souls suddenly dependent on Blair. What was more, according to the letter, Lord Glenrose’s will had specified that Lavinia MacInnish, his only living heir, be twenty years old when she inherited. And that the lass was only ten now.
Bloody rotting hell.
Ten years of managing yet another Highland estate? Glenrose was undoubtedly in similar straits as Brenmore, along with the rest of the Highlands.
After scraping by for generations, property owners could no longer squeeze enough out of their rocky, recalcitrant lands to remain solvent. Crofters were being cleared from their small plots and acreages were consolidated to make way for more profitable uses of the land—mainly sheep grazing.
A heavy weight settled in Blair’s chest at the thought of what almost certainly awaited him as Glenrose’s guardian and executor.
“Can’t this be handled by someone in Lord Glenrose’s employ?”
Cullingham pursed his lips. “If you truly do not wish to take on guardianship of the estate, the late Earl’s solicitors could be deputized to see to the maintenance of the lands and the young Lady Lavinia’s upbringing.”
Muttering a curse, Blair pushed back from his desk and strode to the single window in his cramped study. He stared down at the damp cobbled street below.
When he’d left the Highlands ten years past, he’d thought it was for good. This modest residence, clinging to the edge of Edinburgh’s respectable quarter, hadn’t been meant as a long-term solution to his abrupt departure from Brenmore. But it suited the needs of a solitary man, and kept costs to the estate low.
Of course, taking on Glenrose would bury Blair under double the paperwork, not to mention Cullingham’s additional fees for the management of land leasing for sheep grazing. But damn him if that weren’t the real reason he hoped to find some loop or crevice that would allow him to slip out of this.
In fact, Blair wasn’t too busy to oversee a second estate—especially when all that was required of him in the keeping of Brenmore was the occasional decision about numbers of Cheviot per acre and how long to hold out for an improvement in wool prices. And he wasn’t in such dire straits that he couldn’t afford his English solicitor.
The truth was, he didn’t relish the chore that likely awaited him at Glenrose. Dismantling an estate wasn’t pretty business.
Depending on the state of affairs, the late Earl’s residence might be saved, but the families who’d worked the land
