Page 1 of The Governess Teaches A Duke (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #34)

"Your Grace, I have news. News that will bring you joy, and news, Your Grace, that will bring sorrow, for which I am most sorry."

Thomas Denby, the Duke of Avondale, already knew what news the doctor brought. He had heard the cries of his staff. The hushed but distressed whispering of the doctor and his butler. And most distinctly, the wails of a newborn child. His child.

"In a single moment, I have gained a child and lost a wife.

Is this the news you speak of?" Thomas’s voice was hollow, and he barely recognised it.

Only wed a year and so soon with child, the time had passed quickly, and he had been happy.

Content. Blessed. To wed and produce an heir was one's duty, and his sweet bride Anne had been raised to be a duchess.

Her own father was a duke. Now he was widowed and solely responsible for this new life.

"I am so very sorry, Your Grace. My heart weeps in sorrow."

"Thank you, Doctor. Is the child a boy or girl?"

"A girl, Your Grace. A healthy and beautiful baby girl."

He heard the slight tremor in the doctor's voice, and he could not blame the man.

It would be hypocrisy to do so, as when he had heard the word girl—to his shame—he had been disappointed.

Wallowing in the selfish moment a little longer, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to rationalise his thoughts.

A girl meant he would need to remarry, to try to produce a male heir. The next Duke of Avondale.

Slowly, Thomas opened his eyes and saw the doctor still standing there, watching him solemnly. Thomas gave him a curt nod of dismissal. There was no will in him to extend any polite courtesy. Walking over to the table, he poured himself a claret, swallowing the bitter liquid in one motion.

"Your Grace?" He turned to see his butler, Mr Jones, in the door.

"What is it?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"The babe has settled, if you would like to meet her?" he heard the hopeful plea, and instead of feeling shamed by his coldness, it emboldened him.

"No. Please inform the rest of the staff that I wish to be alone until I advise otherwise."

He heard Mr Jones walk away and picked up the bottle of claret to pour himself a second drink, but before he could do so, a raging fire erupted inside him, and he threw the bottle at the wall with a roar of anger.

The shattering glass echoed through the haze of his fury.

Or was it grief? All he knew was that, in a single moment, he had been given one life and had had another taken away.

And now he alone was responsible for this new life.

His daughter. What did he know about raising a daughter?