Page 42 of The Governess’s Carnal Temptation

Nicholas chuckled. Though shame washed over him at the same time, a perfect example of the contradiction that was his character now. He could find humor in his filing, yet he’d rather anyone had found him like that but her. Well, it would have been worse had it been Charlotte, he supposed, but on the scale of things, this was about as bad as it could have been.

“I was surprised to see you in such a state,” she added, and a lump formed in his throat so thick he wasn’t sure he could swallow it down even if he tried.

“I am aggrieved you saw me like this. The truth is I...” he chewed the inside of his lips as his eyes sought refuge in the swan’s beauty. He couldn’t look at her as he told her the truth about last night. Though it was not her judgment he feared, but rather her pity. Seeing Lydia pity him would crush him entirely as he’d always wanted her to think him strong and capable.

“The truth is, I’ve long struggled with limits regarding wine and spirits. I’m afraid they have become a crutch for me over the years. Once, when I first became duke, they only aided my merriment. Then, I realized that drinking also temporarily absolved me of my guilt over...” he clamped his lips shut and looked at her from the side, unable to quite face her.

He saw her swallow hard as tension crept into her shoulders. She knew what he meant and understood his guilt over abandoning her had haunted him. It needn’t be spoken out loud, as Lydia knew.

“After a while, I drank more and more. To forget, to feel better, to sleep, to tolerate the judgment of my associates. It did not get out of control until after my wife died. I completely lost control after I buried her.”

His jaw wobbled. Nicholas felt her eyes lingering on him and heard her even breathing. Mixed with the wind weaving through the trees and the gentle rippling on the lake, it lulled him into a strange, tranquil mood that made it possible to share these things with her.

“Your grief must have been immense,” she said gently, but he heard the question buried in her statement.

“Not just grief. Remorse.”

She shifted slightly toward him so that their legs almost touched. They would have been connected if he’d moved half an inch, but he didn’t dare. Not right now, when he showed her his darkest side and revealed the festering wounds within his soul.

“I became a shadow of myself, more so than before. I’ve been working hard to overcome this flaw in my character, and I managed rather well, although there are times I cannot resist, such as last night. The truth is, I never want to return to how I was after Louisa died.”

Lydia took an audible breath.

“What happened between you? I cannot help but remember what Charlotte said on my first night here.”

“When she said I did not care for her mother? No, wait. She said I killed her.” He scoffed and looked at the blue sky where birds soared. “She was not entirely wrong. Naturally, I did not kill my wife.”

A shadow hushed over her face, and he wondered if she’d ever considered it possible. The mere thought she might have was like a punch to the gut. “Of course not,” she quickly said as if she’d realized her face betrayed her.

He flashed a false smile to cover his hurt and folded his hands between his knees. When next he spoke, he pressed them together until his bones hurt. Anything to redirect the paint to somewhere other than his already tormented heart.

“Louisa and I were not a love match. She was kind, pleasant to be with, but she was...” he shrugged, searching for words that did not sound callous. “She was not the woman I would have chosen had I not become a duke. She was not what my heart desired.”

He let his gaze linger on Lydia, knowing she had to understand she was what his heart always wanted.

“Then why did you marry her?” she asked without intonation.

“Because she was a lady of the ton, she was what was expected of me. As a duke, I had to have a wife of noble birth to give me children. It was a marriage of convenience for both of us. Her father had invested in a mining venture that went sore and needed money. We both got what we wanted in exchange. But Louisa? She got stuck with a man who could not love her.”

Silence filled the space between them as she waited, and he sought the courage to carry on.

“She tried to win my heart. She learned about tea because she knew I once worked in a tea shop. She grew chamomile and lavender out here in the garden. At first, I humored her; we brewed tea together, can you imagine?” He let out a pained chuckle. He didn’t want to tell Lydia that he had forced Louisa to stop, not because he didn’t appreciate her but because brewing tea, inhaling the aromatic steam, always conjured up images of Lydia, rather like a witch’s potion. It had hurt too much.

“She played music for me, read to me. Bought books she thought I’d like. She tried, but I could not love her. Instead, I escaped to London under the pretense of business, returning only once a month to... well, to see about an heir.” His cheeks burned, and he looked away though Lydia did not avert her eyes.

“When she was with child, at last, I thought things might change. I might learn to love her as she was carrying my baby.”

Lydia moved beside him, and her visage changed. This was not a comfortable topic for either of them. He had to tell her what he felt, however.

“And did it work?” she asked, the discomfort thick in her voice.

“We were cordial,” he said with a small shrug. “We civilly spoke to one another; we kept each other company. It was pleasant. Not the life I imagined I would have, but tolerable.”

It pained him to know he spoke so lowly of Charlotte’s mother, but it was true. Theirs had been an arranged marriage that had found the same fate many such unions did. It had been a series of unhappy compromises, nothing more.

“I did think we’d be a family once Charlotte was born, however unorthodox. Alas, she did not survive the birth. And my spirit broke entirely when we buried her.”

Lydia wetted her lips, her eyes fluttering as though he didn’t know what to say.