Free The Governess Affair by Courtney Milan

We’ll find a new one, just as good.”
    “You don’t understand!” Freddy looked about the entry. “You’ve never understood. I have only ever had one safe place—these rooms—and now you’ve taken them from me.”
    Freddy reached down and picked up the tired valise that stood next to the table.
    “Listen to yourself,” Serena said. “You want me to hide, just like you do—hurt once, never risking anything else again. You won’t be satisfied until you’ve brought me down to your level.”
    Freddy’s eyes flashed. Her lips pressed together, and in that moment, Serena had the horrible, awful feeling of having said too much. Freddy hurled the valise at her. It traveled only a few feet, lacking the basic capabilities to sustain long flight, and landed in a discordant crumple of leather and buckles.
    “Do you not understand what happened to you?” Freddy glared at her. “You suffered a fate worse than death, and still you—”
    “I am alive,” Serena said. “My child is alive. I intend to carry on living. Can you say that much?”
    At that, Freddy swiped her hand across the side-table, tipping it over. It fell with a resounding crash.
    Serena stepped forward and bent awkwardly to right the furniture. Her sister let out a sniff. “Oh, don’t bother,” she said crossly. “I’ll clean it up. I always do clean up after your messes. You would do it wrong, anyway. Go and dally with an entire company of men. I don’t care.”

Chapter Seven
    A T ELEVEN O’CLOCK precisely, Serena was met at her bench by a man she had never seen before. He looked precisely the sort of man she would have imagined as the Wolf of Clermont a month ago—tall and muscular, eyes set close together, neck disappearing into broad shoulders.
    “Miss Barton?” he asked.
    Serena stood, folding the list of housing advertisements that she’d been perusing.
    “I’m to show you around the back.”
    She followed. It was foolish to be nervous. She’d talked with Mr. Marshall before. But not since he’d kissed her. Not since he’d discovered she was pregnant with another man’s child, and he’d drawn back.
    He led her around the street and into a mews in back. From there, they ducked into the servants’ entrance in one of the white stone houses. The door opened onto a cellar. This he passed through swiftly, taking her up several flights of a narrow stair, and from there, into a richly carpeted hall, paintings on the walls.
    All around her, the surroundings echoed wealth and generations of power—everything that had aligned itself against her. This was what she’d been fighting against. Not just the Duke of Clermont, or Mr. Marshall, but an entire country’s worth of opinion. She was as nothing compared to this sort of power—nothing more than a single grain in an entire sack of wheat. Nobody cared whether kernels wished to be ground into flour. It didn’t matter if she spoke or stayed silent; she had no voice either way.
    Well, it mattered to her.
    The servant came to a stop in front of a door, and Serena drew in a breath.
    Her escort rapped on the door, once.
    “Come in,” a voice said.
    The man beside her opened the door. He held it for her, expectantly, and she realized that he wasn’t going to be entering with her.
    She stepped into the room. Big strides. Head high. Breathe, she reminded herself. She was in an office—or at least she assumed it was an office. It could have been a library, with those books on the shelves. But there was paper everywhere—not only strewn about in loose stacks, but also set in cunning little shelves and tied up with different colors of cotton tape, all of which seemed to have some meaning. Blue there, yellow here, red spread out on the desk.
    She couldn’t see Hugo—the high back of the black leather chair was turned to shield him.
    “Well, Mr. Marshall,” she said, walking into the room with more bravery then she felt, “So this is where you crush hopes and shatter dreams.”
    “Very