Miss Sara collins
Sweet Sara Collins is one of the founding members of the Governess Club. But she has a secret: She doesn't love teaching. She'd much prefer to be a vicar's wife and help the local community. But this quiet mouse doesn't want to upset her friends, and she resolves to help in whatever ways she can.
Nathan Grant is the embodiment of everything that frightens Sara. Which is why she can't understand why the handsome but reclusive and gruff man is so fascinating to her. When Sara decides it's time to take a chance and experience all that life has to offer, Nathan is the first person she thinks of.
Will Sara's walk on the wild side ruin her chances at a simple, happy life? Or has she just opened the door to a once-in-a-lifetime chance at passion?
Book #3 of The Governess Club series: Sara is available for pre-order now, releasing on September 2, 2014!
Kindles: amazon.ca amazon.com amazon.co.uk
Nook: barnesandnoble.com
Kobo: chapters.indigo.ca
Nathan Grant is the embodiment of everything that frightens Sara. Which is why she can't understand why the handsome but reclusive and gruff man is so fascinating to her. When Sara decides it's time to take a chance and experience all that life has to offer, Nathan is the first person she thinks of.
Will Sara's walk on the wild side ruin her chances at a simple, happy life? Or has she just opened the door to a once-in-a-lifetime chance at passion?
Book #3 of The Governess Club series: Sara is available for pre-order now, releasing on September 2, 2014!
Kindles: amazon.ca amazon.com amazon.co.uk
Nook: barnesandnoble.com
Kobo: chapters.indigo.ca
My inspiration (a.k.a who i modeled the characters after)
Bryce Dallas Howard as Sara Collins. |
Rupert Penry-Jones as Mr. Nathan Grant. |
Teaser!
bad first impressions...
They had been waiting in the sparse room for nearly twenty-five minutes before she heard a tapping out in the corridor. It drew closer and Sara turned her head to the door, wondering what was causing the sound. A gold tip struck the floor at the threshold and Sara’s eyes followed a black shaft upwards to a matching gold head shaped into the form of a wolf’s head. The head was loosely grasped by lean fingers, confident of their ability to control the cane.
Her eyes continued to rise, taking in the brown coat, striped waistcoat and snowy white cravat before reaching the gentleman’s face. Her eyes widened in recognition and her breath caught in her throat when she realized that the man was none other than the stranded traveler from a few days prior.
Up close and stationary, his icy blue eyes were even paler and at this moment, the blood-shot orbs exuded barely concealed disdain that made her even more aware of their lack of invitation to visit. She barely registered the ants in her throat for she was too riveted on his face.
Her eyes ran over his Norman features, taking in his sharp cheekbones and straight nose. His mouth was an uncompromising line over a powerful chin. Hair the color of wheat lay in masculine disarray on his head with slightly darker sideburns threatening to encroach further down his prominent jawline.
His eyes mesmerized her. They were the color of a clear winter’s sky, the complete circles of white surrounding his pupils solidifying the impression of ice lining his gaze. Small creases stretched out from the corner of his eyes, matched by ones bracketing his mouth, flexing with every little grimace he made. Sara wondered if Mr. Pomeroy noticed the amount of strain the man was experiencing.
Unconsciously, Sara rose from the sofa with the desire to run her hand over his face and smooth those lines away, comforting him. Where that thought came from, she did not know.
Mr. Pomeroy’s voice broke the spell. “Good afternoon sir. Are you Mr. Grant?”
Sara saw his eyes flicker over the young vicar, assessing him in at a glance. He looked at him for several moments in silence. “I am Grant,” he finally replied, his voice even and impersonal.
The vicar bowed in greeting. “Welcome to Taft, sir. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Charles Pomeroy, the vicar.”
“I am not a church going man, Mr. Pomeroy.” Despite the rudeness of his statement, his intonations were deep and well-bred, sending a foreign sensation down Sara’s spine.
The only reaction Mr. Pomeroy displayed was a slow blink. He continued to smile. “While that saddens me, this is more of a social call than a spiritual one. The only connection this visit has to the church is that I am the vicar. I merely wished to welcome you to Taft.”
Mr. Grant inclined his head once. “Thank you. You may leave now.” He turned on his heel and his cane struck the floor as he moved to the exit the room.
The vicar spoke quickly. “Permit me to introduce Miss Collins. She lives on the neighboring estate, Ridgestone, with her friends and is an active member of the parish. She is always willing to help out wherever she is needed.”
Mr. Pomeroy beamed at her and Sara curtsied, still not shifting her gaze from the newcomer.
Mr. Grant stilled and slowly turned on his heel again to face his visitors. His eyes focused on her, this time examining her closely. His focus dropped to her slippers peeking out from under skirts before moving insolently up her body, pausing to linger on her generous hips and bosom before coming to rest on her face.
The shock of his perusal jolted Sara out of her trance. The usual self-consciousness reared its head and she flushed, dropping her head to study the floor. The ants in her throat were noticeable this time.
“Miss Collins.” His deep voice floated over to her, cold and devoid of emotion.
“Mr. Grant.” Her reply was little more than a strangled whisper.
His next words were directed at Mr. Pomeroy. “Is the church in need of anything? A new steeple or hymnals, by any chance?”
“Of course the church will accept any generosity offered,” the vicar replied. “There are always needs to be met in the community.”
“Poor orphans and all that, hmm?”
"Um.” Sara could see Mr. Pomeroy shift in the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat. “There is no orphanage in the area, but I could make inquiries into the closest one, if you wish to patronize one. Or one of a specific nature, if you have a particular cause in mind.”
“And what incentive am I to be offered?”
“Excuse me?” Sara couldn’t see the vicar’s face, but judging from his voice, the question surprised him.
“What will you offer to induce me to part with my money?” Mr. Grant asked, his voice remaining even and impersonal. Sara saw his fingers flex around his wolf’s head cane. They gripped the head so tightly his fingers were turning white.
“The Bible teaches that good works are their own reward,” Mr. Pomeroy replied.
“So no private pew? No dedication in my honor?
“Well, there may be –”
“Or perhaps some intimate time with a certain parishioner who is always willing to help out wherever she is needed?”
Sara’s head snapped up at that comment and she felt all the blood drain from her face. Heavens, she did not just hear that.
Silence reigned, his words echoing in the quiet, confirming that he had indeed said it. Mr. Pomeroy’s eyes darted to her, his eyes widening.
“Um,” he cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up. “I did not say that. I would never suggest something so immoral.”
One side of Mr. Grant’s mouth tilted in a sardonic smile. “I have heard far more immoral suggestions from men of God.”
Mr. Pomeroy did not back down. “Yet I would never suggest something so immoral, sir, and it is inappropriate for you to make such a comment. I believe you owe Miss Collins an apology.”
Mr. Grant took a step towards him, the tap of his cane ringing in the room. “You enter my home uninvited with an unmarried woman, make vague innuendo with poorly chosen words, and you have the audacity to speak to me of impropriety? The apology is yours to make.”
Cold violence was seeped into his words, lowering the temperature even more. The innuendo he claimed Mr. Pomeroy made clearly struck a nerve with the man.
Mr. Pomeroy was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was with a quiet, calm voice, a vicar’s voice. “I do not know what occurred in your past to make you so cynical sir, but even in my short time in Taft, I have appreciated the innocence and sincerity of the area. People here do not have ulterior motives. When we offer something as simple as a neighborly welcome, then that is all being offered. I regret that you cannot accept this at face value and pray that you may find in this community the healing your soul needs.”
Mr. Grant returned his gaze to Sara, his mouth twisting into that sardonic smile again. “I daresay this is exciting for you, is it not? To have two men defending your honor?”
Sara did not answer; she could not. She had no words for such a situation.
He looked at Mr. Pomeroy. “You found your way in here; you can find your way out.” He spun on his heel and left the room, leaning heavily on his cane. The tapping receded down the corridor.
After several beats of silence, Mr. Pomeroy looked at Sara. “I deeply regret you were exposed to that, Miss Collins. Once again I find myself setting a new precedent for horrible visits.”
Sara dropped her head again, grasping her hands in front of her. She heard the vicar move and felt him draw near to her. His voice was gentle when he spoke to her again, his near presence a welcome warmth after the chill of the experience. “Come, I will take you home.”
She nodded and accepted his escort out of Windent Hall.
Her eyes continued to rise, taking in the brown coat, striped waistcoat and snowy white cravat before reaching the gentleman’s face. Her eyes widened in recognition and her breath caught in her throat when she realized that the man was none other than the stranded traveler from a few days prior.
Up close and stationary, his icy blue eyes were even paler and at this moment, the blood-shot orbs exuded barely concealed disdain that made her even more aware of their lack of invitation to visit. She barely registered the ants in her throat for she was too riveted on his face.
Her eyes ran over his Norman features, taking in his sharp cheekbones and straight nose. His mouth was an uncompromising line over a powerful chin. Hair the color of wheat lay in masculine disarray on his head with slightly darker sideburns threatening to encroach further down his prominent jawline.
His eyes mesmerized her. They were the color of a clear winter’s sky, the complete circles of white surrounding his pupils solidifying the impression of ice lining his gaze. Small creases stretched out from the corner of his eyes, matched by ones bracketing his mouth, flexing with every little grimace he made. Sara wondered if Mr. Pomeroy noticed the amount of strain the man was experiencing.
Unconsciously, Sara rose from the sofa with the desire to run her hand over his face and smooth those lines away, comforting him. Where that thought came from, she did not know.
Mr. Pomeroy’s voice broke the spell. “Good afternoon sir. Are you Mr. Grant?”
Sara saw his eyes flicker over the young vicar, assessing him in at a glance. He looked at him for several moments in silence. “I am Grant,” he finally replied, his voice even and impersonal.
The vicar bowed in greeting. “Welcome to Taft, sir. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Charles Pomeroy, the vicar.”
“I am not a church going man, Mr. Pomeroy.” Despite the rudeness of his statement, his intonations were deep and well-bred, sending a foreign sensation down Sara’s spine.
The only reaction Mr. Pomeroy displayed was a slow blink. He continued to smile. “While that saddens me, this is more of a social call than a spiritual one. The only connection this visit has to the church is that I am the vicar. I merely wished to welcome you to Taft.”
Mr. Grant inclined his head once. “Thank you. You may leave now.” He turned on his heel and his cane struck the floor as he moved to the exit the room.
The vicar spoke quickly. “Permit me to introduce Miss Collins. She lives on the neighboring estate, Ridgestone, with her friends and is an active member of the parish. She is always willing to help out wherever she is needed.”
Mr. Pomeroy beamed at her and Sara curtsied, still not shifting her gaze from the newcomer.
Mr. Grant stilled and slowly turned on his heel again to face his visitors. His eyes focused on her, this time examining her closely. His focus dropped to her slippers peeking out from under skirts before moving insolently up her body, pausing to linger on her generous hips and bosom before coming to rest on her face.
The shock of his perusal jolted Sara out of her trance. The usual self-consciousness reared its head and she flushed, dropping her head to study the floor. The ants in her throat were noticeable this time.
“Miss Collins.” His deep voice floated over to her, cold and devoid of emotion.
“Mr. Grant.” Her reply was little more than a strangled whisper.
His next words were directed at Mr. Pomeroy. “Is the church in need of anything? A new steeple or hymnals, by any chance?”
“Of course the church will accept any generosity offered,” the vicar replied. “There are always needs to be met in the community.”
“Poor orphans and all that, hmm?”
"Um.” Sara could see Mr. Pomeroy shift in the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat. “There is no orphanage in the area, but I could make inquiries into the closest one, if you wish to patronize one. Or one of a specific nature, if you have a particular cause in mind.”
“And what incentive am I to be offered?”
“Excuse me?” Sara couldn’t see the vicar’s face, but judging from his voice, the question surprised him.
“What will you offer to induce me to part with my money?” Mr. Grant asked, his voice remaining even and impersonal. Sara saw his fingers flex around his wolf’s head cane. They gripped the head so tightly his fingers were turning white.
“The Bible teaches that good works are their own reward,” Mr. Pomeroy replied.
“So no private pew? No dedication in my honor?
“Well, there may be –”
“Or perhaps some intimate time with a certain parishioner who is always willing to help out wherever she is needed?”
Sara’s head snapped up at that comment and she felt all the blood drain from her face. Heavens, she did not just hear that.
Silence reigned, his words echoing in the quiet, confirming that he had indeed said it. Mr. Pomeroy’s eyes darted to her, his eyes widening.
“Um,” he cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. Taking a deep breath, he drew himself up. “I did not say that. I would never suggest something so immoral.”
One side of Mr. Grant’s mouth tilted in a sardonic smile. “I have heard far more immoral suggestions from men of God.”
Mr. Pomeroy did not back down. “Yet I would never suggest something so immoral, sir, and it is inappropriate for you to make such a comment. I believe you owe Miss Collins an apology.”
Mr. Grant took a step towards him, the tap of his cane ringing in the room. “You enter my home uninvited with an unmarried woman, make vague innuendo with poorly chosen words, and you have the audacity to speak to me of impropriety? The apology is yours to make.”
Cold violence was seeped into his words, lowering the temperature even more. The innuendo he claimed Mr. Pomeroy made clearly struck a nerve with the man.
Mr. Pomeroy was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was with a quiet, calm voice, a vicar’s voice. “I do not know what occurred in your past to make you so cynical sir, but even in my short time in Taft, I have appreciated the innocence and sincerity of the area. People here do not have ulterior motives. When we offer something as simple as a neighborly welcome, then that is all being offered. I regret that you cannot accept this at face value and pray that you may find in this community the healing your soul needs.”
Mr. Grant returned his gaze to Sara, his mouth twisting into that sardonic smile again. “I daresay this is exciting for you, is it not? To have two men defending your honor?”
Sara did not answer; she could not. She had no words for such a situation.
He looked at Mr. Pomeroy. “You found your way in here; you can find your way out.” He spun on his heel and left the room, leaning heavily on his cane. The tapping receded down the corridor.
After several beats of silence, Mr. Pomeroy looked at Sara. “I deeply regret you were exposed to that, Miss Collins. Once again I find myself setting a new precedent for horrible visits.”
Sara dropped her head again, grasping her hands in front of her. She heard the vicar move and felt him draw near to her. His voice was gentle when he spoke to her again, his near presence a welcome warmth after the chill of the experience. “Come, I will take you home.”
She nodded and accepted his escort out of Windent Hall.
Want to read more? Order links at the top of the page!
