Free The Housemistress by Keira Michelle Telford

Harcourt.”
    Over the course of the next hour and beyond, they converse in French. Rylie makes Carriveau laugh, not only with her stories, but also by butchering the odd word here and there, mixing up her prepositions, and stumbling over some of the more complex sentence structures. All in all, though, she demonstrates more than enough aptitude to warrant being included in Carriveau’s class, and the conversation flows so easily between them that the true objective of this tête-a-tête is very nearly forgotten altogether. Indeed, it’s not until Carriveau finds herself stifling a yawn that she thinks to check the time.
    “Goodness! It’s been almost two hours!” She looks twice at her watch, just to be sure it hasn’t stopped. “It’s nearly curfew!”
    “Well, how did I do?” Rylie smiles sheepishly. “Am I good enough for you? Do you want me?”
    Carriveau ignores the blindingly obvious double sens in both of those questions.
    “ Ton français est très bon .” She praises Rylie’s linguistic prowess, telling her how good her French is. “Perhaps you have no need of any private tutelage after all,” she threatens. “You already seem to have a firm grasp of things.”
    Rylie’s mind flashes back to the kitchen, cupping Carriveau’s tight derrière with both hands, wishing she’d had the nerve to squeeze.
    On that note, “My grasp could be firmer.”
    Continuing to ignore the lines being fed to her, even though she’s guilty of setting Rylie up for them, Carriveau keeps the focus on language.
    “I confess, I’ve enjoyed hearing you speak French. So seldom do I hear my first tongue outside of the classroom. Much less spoken well.” She holds Rylie’s gaze. “ Tu me fais frémir, ma chère .”
    Pouncing on the thinly veiled confession that Carriveau quivers in her presence—veiled in part by way of it being spoken in French instead of English, and partly by slipping it in alongside a legitimate appreciation for linguistic proficiency—Rylie feels brave enough to offer up an admission of her own.
    “ Tu es très gentille, Mademoiselle Carriveau .” She’s riveted by her Housemistress’s plump red lips. “ Quand je suis près de toi, je me sens —”
    You’re very nice, Miss Carriveau.
    When I’m close to you, I feel—
    Fearful of where that sentence might be going, Carriveau doesn’t let her get any further.
    “Oh, my sweet girl.” She scooches forward and presses her palm to Rylie’s cheek. “I’m afraid that you might’ve found a way into my affections already.” She drops her hand to Rylie’s lap, patting her thigh. “But we really must call it a night.”
    She slips on her shoes and gets up from the sofa without allowing Rylie any chance to respond, then prepares to show her eager pupil to the door. But although Rylie follows her off the sofa, the hesitant teen doesn’t take any steps forward.
    “Is there something wrong?” Carriveau doubles back.
    Now seems like as good a time as any to bring up one niggling issue that’s been gnawing at her since last night’s failed flirtation in her cubicle, so Rylie just spits it out.
    “ Putain means whore.” She looks away, scratching at an ink stain on her new cardigan. “You said it when you were helping me with my bed, and I know I gave the wrong impression when I stuck my arse out at you like a baboon in heat, but I don’t want you to think that I’m—”
    “I didn’t call you a whore.” Carriveau stops her from digging herself into a hole. “That’s one fairly literal translation of the word, but it’s used primarily as an exclamation in France.” She lowers her voice almost to a whisper, as if afraid that someone else might hear. “Like ‘fuck’, you understand? It wasn’t meant as an insult, only an exclamation of my surprise.”
    “Oh.” Rylie works that over in her mind, feeling daft for having fixated on it.
    “But still”—Carriveau takes Rylie by the chin and forces her to look up—“I