Page 1 of The Governess’s Carnal Temptation

PROLOGUE

London, May 15th, 1802

“This is one of our best,” Lydia Haddington said as she hurried across her father’s little teashop on Bond Street. She walked past the desk where her father or Nicholas Steward usually sat and poured over the shop's ledgers. Her heart skipped a beat as she imagined her beloved Nicholas sitting there, eyes narrowed in concentration but always smiling cheerfully when she passed by.

“It looks lovely,” her customer, a grandly clad lady, said from her station by the counter. Lydia nodded, chiding herself for letting her thoughts wander so easily when she should have been paying attention to the shop.

Lydia was on her tiptoes, her right arm stretched out until her fingertips brushed up against the porcelain teapot on the shelf. It was her favorite, and the most expensive, in her father's teashop, delicately painted in sky-blue with white clouds around the top and yellow primroses along the bottom.

If not for Lydia’s long limbs, it would have been impossible to retrieve it without a stool. She removed it with great care, a plume of dust blowing into her face. She wrinkled her nose before setting the teapot down, desperate to avoid a sneeze. She didn’t want the customer to think they kept a dirty shop; the woman was a lady of high birth. It was evident from the fine muslin dress she wore, and the silk bonnet adorned with a gemstone that reflected the afternoon light streaming in through the windows.

Lydia brushed a strand of curly ginger hair behind her ear, cursing the pins that refused to hold her wild tresses at bay. She did not want to look unkempt when such an important transaction was about to take place.

“What a lovely piece,” the woman said in a high voice that bordered on shrill. She turned the teapot around in her hand and clicked her tongue. “Did your dear mother make this?” At the mention of her late mother, Lydia’s shoulders stiffened as the smile faded from her lips. She gulped down the lump in her throat and nodded.

“One of the last she made. We have matching cups, saucers, and a little milk pot as well. My father also sells sugar tongs.” Lydia stopped talking, not wanting to sound like a gabster.

The woman flashed a smile. “I’ll have the lot of it.” She beamed and bent at the waist so much that her fresh lemon scent enveloped Lydia. “I have a gentleman to impress on behalf of my daughter. An earl is courting her. I hope an afternoon spent sipping expensive tea and indulging in sweetmeats while listening to my daughter play the harp will inspire him to make an offer. You’ll understand when you’re older. Pray, how old are you now, Lydia?” Lydia smiled while her heart filled with a pleasant warmth that soon spread to her entire body.

“I am six-and-ten, my lady,” she said quietly. The woman pursed her lips.

“Older than I thought. You had better set your cap on a gentleman before you turn twenty; the longer you wait, the harder it gets. Mark my words.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head while Lydia carefully wrapped her purchases. “I ought to have married a duke rather than a mere viscount, but I waited too long. Do not make the same mistake, my dear.”

She let out a sigh, and then, as quickly as she’d appeared, she vanished again with her purchases, the chime above the glass door ringing with her departure. Lydia exhaled and was about to rush to her father to inform him of the profitable sale when the door flew open again. She spun around, hoping the lady hadn’t changed her mind, but a much more pleasant sight greeted her instead of the regal older woman. Her heart skipped a beat, and her lips curled into a bright smile as the young man she loved best in all the world burst through the door.

“I’m rich!” Nicholas Steward hollered as he flew into the little teashop. His hazel eyes were wide with delight, and his thick dark hair bounced up and down as he rushed toward her.

“Nicholas? What in the world…” Lydia’s words were cut off when Nicholas wrapped his arms around her and spun her around the room with such vigor, strands of red hair came loose and whipped into her pale face; her stomach fluttering with the delight of his nearness.

“I’m rich, Lydia. At last,” he repeated, out of breath from the exercise. When he set her down, Lydia tumbled backward into the shelf showcasing their assortment of teas. A tin can with earl grey wobbled precariously and then fell with a bang. Nicholas beamed at her, oblivious to the chaos he’d unleashed.

Aromatic spices filled the air between them. Lydia blinked, befogged by Nicholas’ behavior and even more so by his declaration. Rich? How? Her father's secretary had been working for the family for two years, and while he was a hard worker and earned his keep, he was far from wealthy, as evidenced by his threadbare pantaloons and worn felt hat atop a shock of dark-brown hair.

“What do you mean? Is this why you wanted to come see me?” She smoothed her muslin gown down, not wanting to wrinkle it as she didn’t have another to change into. Nicholas stepped forward; a whiff of peppermint comfit wafting into her face as he cupped her cheeks with his rough hands.

“Yes, I had to share this wonderful news with you before I told anyone else. Lydia Haddington, your future husband is rich. Which means you are rich. You and I shall be the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry; it’s finally happened!”

Lydia’s jaw grew slack. “Your grandfather?”

“The old codger finally stuck his spoon to the wall. Kicked the bucket. Departed this realm for good. Yes!” He curled his hand into a fist and gestured with as much delight as one might do upon winning a lucrative wager. Lydia knew Nicholas never cared for his cruel grandfather, and how could he? The old man had despised his daughter-in-law, Nicholas’s mother, and tolerated her only as long as his son lived. The moment Nicholas’ unfortunate father passed away from Scarlet Fever when the former was but a toddler, the Duke had thrown them out of his palatial Hertfordshire estate.

She’d heard the tale of the heartless old Duke many times. Each time Nicholas told her the story, he’d ended it by swearing that the moment he claimed his inheritance, he’d reclaim his familial home and restore it to its former glory with Lydia at his side.

Now, days before his seven-and-tenth birthday, it had happened. The Duke was dead and Nicholas was his successor.

“It will be glorious, Lydia. We shall live the way we deserve at last. No more scraping together every penny we can find to eat a decent meal. No more haggling with rude customers. It is all over. We shall be members of the bon ton and live like royalty.” His happiness lit up his already handsome face, and Lydia couldn’t help but feel the same intense burning love for him she’d felt from the moment he walked through her father’s door two years ago. She’d been too young to understand what this warm, tingling feeling meant, but now she did.

She loved and adored him. Nicholas was the one for her, just as her father had been the one for her mother. She’d envisioned their life together many times. The odd thing was, despite the picture he always painted of the future, filled with magnificent homes, expensive clothes, and all manner of luxury, hers was a different vision altogether.

She saw them living in a modest house, in charge of her father’s teashop, with enough money to be comfortable but without any extraordinary wealth. Lydia had never been rich nor longed for it. She’d been given an education and a loving home, which had been enough. The truth was that Nicholas’ sudden change in circumstance scared her. Lydia chewed her bottom lip and looked down at herself.

Her attire was that of a working-class girl, her hands showed the signs of years of scrubbing floors and cleaning shelves, and even though she was a young girl, she always felt far removed from the younger ladies of the ton who sometimes shopped here. She didn’t have that lightness, the silliness they exuded. Having to care for a grief-stricken father and a younger sister had robbed her of that levity. The only joy she had these days was when she and Nicholas snuck away together to enjoy secretive walks in the park or evenings spent looking at the stars.

A duchess? Me? No…

“Lydia,” Nicholas called and grabbed her wrist. “Do not look so sullen, please. This is a joyous day. The old dragon is dead, and I am a duke! Me!” He let go of her hand and pulled his worn burgundy waistcoat down. Lydia noted it was missing two buttons, but Nicholas looked like he was dressed fit for the King. “Can’t you just see it? Me as a duke? I shall be seated in the House of Lords.”

“I can see you as a duke. But me?” She shook her head, but Nicholas dashed to the door, turned the plain chalkboard around, and then the lock before she could say anything.