Page 23 of The Governess’s Carnal Temptation

Caroline need not be bothered with any of this. Determined, Lydia pulled out a new page, threw the old one in the bin beside her, and set out to write a letter. While she told her sister how much she loved and missed her – she let out the striking details of her present situation. She did not tell her who her employer was – only that he was a widowed duke whom she expected to see little. It was true. She had no intention of being too close to Nicholas.

Not because of Charlotte, but because… well, as she wrote, she glanced at her hand holding the quill and remembered the urge to touch him. She felt the brief warmth flash over her when she curled her hands around his wrist. It was a dangerous feeling because it reminded her of what she had felt in the past for this man and what she might be capable of feeling again.

No, it was too dangerous to be close to him, to even allow him to be her friend again. And neither the little girl’s deep-seated rage nor Nicholas’s presence would deter her. She had to do what she’d come here to accomplish. Help Charlotte.

* * *

Lydia walked down the long, dark hall, every step accompanied by the creaking floorboards and the howling wind that whipped around the old house's walls. Lightening flashed, illuminating the darkness, for the wind had blown out the beeswax candles in the sconces long ago.

“Hello?” Lydia called as she heard a woman’s cries coming from the darkened library. She made her way there, realizing she was not wearing shoes, and the cold nipped at her toes. “Hello?” she called again and paused.

“My child, my child,” a voice cried, and Lydia swallowed hard, feeling the tension in her chest as though someone was squeezing her heart. She went to the library and stepped inside, pausing at the entryway. Standing before the fireplace was a woman clad in a white nightgown that billowed even though there wasn’t a draft in the room.

Her long, blonde hair cascaded down her back, and her pale skin shimmered with the fireplace’s light. Tears glistened when Lydia stepped closer and raised her hand toward the woman.

“Ma’am?” she asked, uncertain.

“My child,” the woman repeated, holding a smooth woolen hat in her hand.

“Can I help you?” Lydia asked quietly when suddenly, without warning, the woman rounded on her.

“My child. My husband. Leave!” She hissed at Lydia, who jumped back just as the woman’s lovely face twisted into a death mask before her, and she crumbled to the floor.

Horrified, Lydia bumped into the wall behind her when

“Miss Haddington,” Mrs. Funny’s voice came out of a dense fog, and Lydia felt someone shaking her arm.

Lydia blinked and pushed herself up. She was in her chamber, in bed. She saw the older housekeeper standing over her with a candle holder in one hand, her dark eyes shining with concern.

“You were dreaming. A nightmare judging by the hollering,” the woman said, placing the candle holder down. Lydia pushed her hair out of her face and realized she’d been sweating with fear. She swallowed and swung her legs out of bed.

“I apologize,” she muttered. “I did not wish to alarm you.”

“Well, you did. That’s to be expected, though; everything is new for you, and given your history with His Grace…”

Lydia looked up, uncertain what the woman meant and not in any mood to discuss it. Mrs. Funny raised her hand. “I was not going to ask you about it. I happened to pass by and heard you shouting.”

Lydia relaxed her shoulder and pulled her wrap around her body, nodding as she looked out into the moonlight.

“I dreamed about a lady, blonde hair, pale…” She looked back at the housekeeper, who was unbothered by this strange statement.

“That sounds just like Her Grace, Louisa Steward, the late Duchess of Queensberry,” she nodded. A strand of brown hair had come to lose from the top of her head, and she tucked it behind her ear. “It’s that painting, I tell you. The one outside His Grace’s study. It’s haunting. I wish he’d move it. After everything—” She stopped herself, and Lydia looked up.

“After everything?” she asked, hoping the woman would shed light on Charlotte’s odd comments. But, alas, a most peculiar sound came to Lydia’s ear before she could. Something scurried across the floor nearby, and Mrs. Funny spun.

“Did you hear that?” The woman’s voice now carried an edge. Lydia slipped out of bed and nodded.

“Probably just a—”

She got no further, for Mrs. Funny let out a scream and grabbed onto Lydia’s arm. “A rat!”

Chirps and squeaks now accompanied the hurried scratching. Mrs. Funny gripped Lydia as though the Spanish Inquisition’s agents were at the gates. “Oh goodness gracious, Miss Haddington.”

“It is just a mouse, I am certain.”

“Indeed!” the housekeeper cried, and the small rodent appeared in a beam of bright yellow light before Lydia knew it. Mrs. Funny at once let go of her and, to Lydia’s amazement, mounted the chair by the fireplace. Lydia’s lips twitched with suppressed laughter. She was not one to take pleasure in anyone’s fear, but seeing the reserved, stoic housekeeper in a fit of terror over a tiny mouse – the sort that populated her father’s teashop in large numbers – amused her.

“What a sweet little fellow,” she cooed and stepped forward.