Page 5 of The Governess’s Carnal Temptation

“The same. I bought his medicine with the money you sent last month, but the shop has not made much profit, and we are almost out.”

Lydia nodded and climbed the stairs. The floorboards creaked with each step. “I will find another placement, do not fret.”

Money had always been a source of strain for them. It wasn’t as though they were paupers. There was always bread on the table, and a good hearty stew warmed their bellies on cold winter nights. Yet, business was slow between their father’s illness and the ongoing war with France. It was this, the downturn in their profitability, which had inspired her to take employment as a governess in the first place. Now more than ever, they needed her income.

At the top of the steps, she turned to where her father’s bedchamber was. She paused and looked at the pitiful shape buried underneath a pile of blankets. Lydia stepped into the room and gasped at his gaunt face. He was asleep, but even at his rest, he did not look peaceful. The strain and worry had carved deep lines into his face, and she could tell by the way his fingers twisted that arthritis too had taken its toll on his body.

“Father,” she whispered, uncertain if she ought to wake him. He blinked, and his eyes sprang open as if he’d not been asleep.

“Lydia, you’re home,” he cooed, touching her cheek. His fingers felt cold and dry against her skin, and when she wrapped his hand in hers, she kissed it, feeling the thin skin that stretched over his bones without so much as an ounce of fat.

“I am. I… I lost my employment, Father. Forgive me.” Her voice hitched, and she looked away.

“There is nothing to forgive. You… Oh, my darling Lydia.”

“I told her that,” Caroline chimed in from the hall. “We’ll make do.”

“We always do,” her father reassured her and strained to sit up. Lydia placed her hand behind his back to help him up. He let out a groan before patting her hand. “I am the one who should apologize. I’m the one who’s meant to take care of both of you. I should have seen that you were married, with your own families. Instead, you are here, looking after me.” He shook his head in dismay, but Lydia quickly reassured him.

“It is no burden, Father. It has never been. Besides, if one of us were to marry, it should be Caroline. She is still young. I am hopelessly on the shelf.” She spoke without self-pity, nor was she looking for reassurances. She knew at eight-and-twenty. She was all but an ape leader. Not that she wanted to marry anyhow.

“You could find a man,” Caroline quickly said. “If you wanted to.”

“But I do not,” Lydia replied though suddenly a deep melancholy settled in her heart. She meant those words. She did not want to marry. She never again wanted to feel the pain she’d experienced when she’d realized Nicholas was not coming back for her, despite his promises. She saw his hazel eyes before her for a second, vowing his everlasting love. Back then, she’d let his words reassure her heart though her mind had known better.

Ultimately, her mind was right, and her heart was crushed to dust when she understood he would never return. Then as now, Lydia had to be strong. Her father and sister were the only reasons she’d managed to get through the pain, the aching longing, and the raging anger that had torn through her for months. Eventually, the glowing embers of her fury had grown smaller and gone out. In their wake, she’d been left with a profound sense of numbness; a numbness that had now become her friend.

It had reigned in her heart ever since. No matter how many young swains expressed an interest, she’d steadfastly refused ever to be courted again. No, she would never give her heart away again, and she would never allow a certain duke to invade her thoughts again.

CHAPTER TWO

Nicholas swirled the amber-colored liquid in the glass, watching it without ever taking his eyes off it. There was something so comforting and familiar about how the brandy made its rounds around the glass that sat heavy in his hand. So reassuring and yet, also intimidating, for he had been here before, in this very seat with this very glass in his hand only to wake on the floor, unsure how he got there.

Indeed he ought not to be drinking at all, especially not at ten in the morning. Yet, the brandy called his name, beckoning him forth with its promise of escape. Torn between his desire to resist the siren’s call and its undeniable pull, he lost himself momentarily when a gentle tap on the door drew him from his thoughts.

“Enter,” he called, and Mrs. Funny slipped inside. She stood, her hands clasped in front of her as the long chatelaine swayed gently near her rounded hips, weighed down by an assortment of keys. He noted how she eyed the brandy through narrowed eyes but said nothing.

“Mrs. Patmore has departed, Your Grace,” she said, her words tinged with regret.

“Couldn’t be persuaded to stay, I suppose?”

“Not for all the tea in China, Your Grace,” Mrs. Funny replied dryly. Nicholas laughed and shook his head.

“You offered triple the wage?” He considered how silly it was to offer such exuberant amounts of money to have someone look after his daughter. How had this child turned out this way, he asked himself though he already knew the answer.

“As you asked. Shall I go to the registry office and ask for another governess?”

Nicholas sneered, recalling his last visit to the place and the abysmal results of that endeavor. His stomach tensed, and he gave in to his urge. Drinking the brandy down, he paused to appreciate how it burned on the way down, warming his stomach. He sat the glass down with a bang and rose.

“By Jove, what am I to do with the child?” It was a statement more than a question, and he stepped to the window, his back to his housekeeper. There, in the garden, was his daughter. She sat in a patch of grass that would surely stain her canary-yellow dress. She worked on a daisy chain, her hands making quick work of it. Mrs. Funny joined his side, hands intertwined in front of her.

“May I speak freely?” She did not take his eyes away from Charlotte, though Nicolas turned, a wry smile on his lips.

“Of course. Always,” he replied gently. Mrs. Funny had been his grandfather’s housekeeper in the final years of his residency here. When Nicholas first arrived, a lad of not even eight-and-ten, he’d been terrified. Not that he told anyone this, but the truth was he’d shaken in his boots the entire journey here. The more he thought about taking on the dukedom and the responsibilities that came with it, the more anxious he grew.

While well-versed in math and capable of keeping books due to his work for Mr. Haddington, he had no idea how to be a duke. His mother hadn’t taught him, for she knew nothing of it, and his grandfather had ignored him all his life. Thus, he’d arrived at the grand manor he remembered only from his earliest memories, utterly uncertain. Mrs. Funny realized this despite his brave exterior and took him under her wing. It was odd, given that he was the Duke of Queensberry and thus her employer, but in many ways, the arrangement worked.

She, along with the trusted steward, Mr. Morris, guided him and helped him find his feet and, to this day, Nicholas remained grateful to Mrs. Funny. In many ways, the kindly housekeeper was the mother figure he’d craved ever since losing his mother at three-and-ten.