Page 18 of The Governess’s Carnal Temptation

“I will not, for it was the truth. She won’t last a month. Look at her. She is fragile, and one only needs to look into her eyes to see her weakness. She will not last. You had best order the maids to pack my bags now,” she said, dropping onto her pillows, ignoring Lydia.

Pack her bags? Lydia blinked, confused at the statement. She looked at Nicholas and saw the vein at the center of his forehead pulsating. Instantly, she stepped forward and did the one thing she’d avoided doing this entire time. She touched him. She knew she had to because, in all their years together, she’d known when his vein popped as it did now; there was little else she could do to soothe him.

It worked, and he turned his head at the sudden touch. His lips parted, and he glanced at her hand on his forearm. Lydia meant to speak up, to intercede on the girl’s behalf, but when she felt the outline of his arm under her hand, she could not speak. This connection that had once been so usual between them felt familiar and soothing. So much so that she did not want to remove her hand even though she knew it was wrong and improper.

It wasn’t until she felt the little girl’s eyes on her that Lydia dropped her hand and pulled her shoulders back. “Your Grace,” she said, determined to address him properly in front of his daughter. “I think perhaps if you leave Lady Charlotte and myself alone to get to know one another, I can convince her that I am neither frail nor easily discarded.”

She met his eyes, realizing she hadn’t looked him like this since her arrival here. They were the eyes of the man she’d once loved, who’d broken her heart. And yet, looking into them was like looking into an open wound. There was pain where once there’d been joy, sorrow where there’d been love. What had happened to him in these past twelve years? How had he become the man he was now?

She swallowed when he nodded, interrupting her thoughts.

“Very well. You are right. I shall leave you to it. Please see me later,” he said, turning his attention to Charlotte. “And you. Behave.”

With that, he turned to the door and left them. When the door slammed shut behind him, Lydia looked at Lady Charlotte, but the second her eyes met the girl’s, her blood froze for the little lady carried on her lips a smile that could be described as coldly devious.

CHAPTER NINE

Nicholas made his way to the library but could not remain there for longer than a quarter of an hour. His anxiety about whatever was happening in the classroom would not let him. Thus, he returned, determined to ensure all was well. When he reached the heavy oak door, he stood and stared at the golden door handle. He tapped his fingertips together and ground his teeth, conflicted about what to do. He knew Lydia was strong and capable, but he had a nagging feeling that his daughter and her devilish ways might prove too much for her.

Nicholas wrapped his hand around the door handle and was about to push it down when he heard Lydia’s voice coming through it. He pressed his ear against the smooth wood, eager to hear.

“…if you think so, then prove me wrong,” Lydia said. Charlotte replied something, but he could not make out her words.

A moment later, the click-clack of Charlotte’s little half-boots came through the gap between the door and the floor, and Lydia’s soft steps followed. Chairs were pulled out, then Lydia spoke again.

“Just three lines, please,” she said, and Charlotte sighed. However, her voice sounded again, this time in halting French. Nicholas let go of the door. How long had he been standing there? He wasn’t quite sure. He knew he should take heart, given he’d heard the two getting to work immediately, but he did not. Nicholas knew too well that Charlotte could sometimes pretend to be a reasonable little girl only to turn on her governesses when they least expected it.

Sometimes he wondered just how his daughter had become so scheming. So cold. But then again, he had to remind himself that he already knew the answer. It was his failings, his shortcomings.

He turned and made his way down the hall toward his study, hoping against hope that this time it would be different. That this time, Lydia would succeed and that she would stay. He had to admit; he’d hoped that by her agreeing to stay on, even if just for Charlotte, he could win back some of what they’d once had. Some of that closeness, that friendship.

He’d hurt her deeply; he knew it. She had nothing but contempt for him and made it clear how little she thought of him. And yet, he couldn’t deny that even though she looked at him with hurt and fury, just having her near reminded him of what had been.

That morning at breakfast, for the briefest of times, he’d felt as though he were back in her father’s little teashop when the world was full of possibility and promise. He’d remembered their many shared meals and laughter. Their evenings spent together in the alley behind the house, seated on a little bench where they’d look at the sky and spot the constellations while indulging in his ill-gotten sweetmeats.

He'd craved the simplicity of his past, and a part of him hoped to rekindle at least some of their friendship. Lydia's warmth and humor, her ability to cheer him up even on his darkest days.

Nicholas made a left turn toward his study but came to a halt before entering. He cast a glance behind him at the painting that hung across from his study door. When he saw the youthful, smiling face of Charlotte's mother, his late wife, his heart clenched.

He recalled the day she had posed for the painting. They hadn't been married a year, and she was still full of hope and he was still the boy Mrs. Funny admired. Despite the fact that this new man, the one he would become, had already lurked in the shadows.

She hadn’t known what was to come. His lovely young wife. She'd been content and enthralled by life as a young duchess.

Nicholas could not take his eyes off the young woman’s face. She looked so happy, so full of joy. The future, their future, had been promising. Little did she know that her life would be nothing like she had imagined.

Once, the painting hung in the drawing room, but as he hardly ever used it, he’d asked his servants to move it to this spot across from his study. If he kept his door open, he could see the painting from his desk. Anyone calling on him would think it was there as a memorial of a grieving husband to the woman he’d lost.

Nicholas knew better.

It was a reminder. But not of the woman he’d lost. It was a reminder of the man he’d been and the man he’d turned into. The painting ensured he never forgot how far he’d strayed from the young man he’d once been.

As Nicholas stared at the painting, his cheeks twitched for before his very eyes, the lovely face twisted, and her big blue eyes filled with tears. Louisa’s lush, red lips quivered. Nicholas’ breath came rapidly, and he tumbled back against the door, grasping his heavily starched cravat.

“Nicholas...” he heard her small voice, as vulnerable as an injured sparrow, choked with tears. “Please.”

Nichola squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face furiously with both hands. No. The memories could not haunt him to this day. He would not allow it. He gulped hard and turned as he rushed into his office and slammed the door shut.

At once, he stalked to the open window, wrapped his arms around his lower waist, and bent forward as that morning’s breakfast threatened to reappear. Why did he torment himself? He should have the picture moved again. Surely ten years of self-inflicted punishment were enough. No, he shook his head. It was not enough.