Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One by Jessica Spotswood Page A

“Let Miss Cahill go inside before she catches a chill!”
“Indeed, Miss Cahill, we know what a delicate flower you are,” Paul teases.
I roll my eyes and give a very unladylike snort. “Indeed.”
“So you forgive me, then?” His hand grips mine, burning warm even through the kid gloves that separate our skin.
“Of course.”
Paul’s eyes search mine. “May I call on you tomorrow afternoon?”
My heart beats faster. As an old friend? Or as a potential suitor?
When I asked whether he was back to stay, and he said we’ll see —what did that mean? Does he intend to court me in earnest? The sense of panic that’s been battering at me for the last few months eases just a little.
I’m suddenly very aware that he is still holding my hand.
“Yes. Only”—I wrinkle my nose—“the house may be in a bit of an uproar. Our new governess is arriving in the morning.”
“Governess?” Paul’s eyes go wide. “Lord help her. How many have you gone through?”
“This is the first, thank you. Father’s been tutoring us, but he’s going to be away most of the fall. And how do you know we haven’t become exceedingly polite young ladies while you were gone?”
Paul brings my hand to his lips, turns it over, and presses a kiss to the bare bit of skin at my wrist. He’s held my hand dozens of times over the years, boosted me up onto horses and into trees. This is entirely different. It leaves me gaping at him, mouth open like a ninny.
He winks at me and doffs his hat. “Because I know you . See you tomorrow, Cate.”

CHAPTER 4
“SHE’S HERE!” TESS CALLS. “SHE’S here!”
    She and Maura scamper out the front door before I can stop them. Father and I follow, with more decorum but just as much curiosity. Our carriage is rattling slowly up the potholed drive with the new governess inside. I’m not optimistic. After all, Mrs. Corbett recommended her, didn’t she? I’d wager she’s some sheltered convent girl, brought up by the Sisters to earn her livelihood teaching dull, demure young ladies to become dull, demure wives. I’m expecting a prim miss given to sprouting platitudes.
    So I’m quite surprised when the carriage door is flung open and Sister Elena hops out without even waiting for John to hand her down. She swishes up to the porch, taffeta petticoats rustling, moving as though she owns the place.
Maura was right. Sister Elena is pretty—no, beautiful—with smooth brown skin and black ringlets peeking out from beneath her hood. And she’s fashionable—as fashionable as the Brothers’ strictures will allow. Her dress has a wide bell skirt in a soft pink that reminds me of Mother’s peonies. A pleated black silk cummerbund draws attention to her small waist, and black velvet slippers adorn her feet.
“Sister Elena, welcome,” Father says, stepping forward. “We’re glad to have you. These are my daughters, Catherine, Maura, and Teresa.”
“Cate, please,” I correct.
“And Tess.” Tess is half hiding behind me, her blond head resting against my shoulder.
“Certainly. If we’re to dispense with the formalities, you must call me Elena. I’m so glad to meet you all.” Elena smiles, her chocolate eyes tilting up at the corners. “I’m certain we’ll get along famously. I’ve always been fast friends with my pupils.”
Father looks relieved, but I bristle at her boldness. She doesn’t know a thing about us, and Regina Corbett’s bosom friendship hardly recommends her to me . Father inquires after her journey, whether the inn she stayed at last night was satisfactory, whether she might like to see her room and freshen up before they discuss our curriculum, while my temper commences a slow boil.
Elena can’t be more than a few years older than me. She’s a member of the Sisters, which means she spends much of her time walled up in their cloisters in New London. What can she teach us about the world or about catching a husband?
I remember Paul’s words from yesterday— Lord help her