She turned to flee, but halted in the act. He was somewhere in the room. She could feel his presence more than she could see or hear him. He lurked in the shadows like any predator, watching her. Waiting.
“Governess,” she announced to the chamber at large, gathering what remained of her dignity and honor both.
“Pardon, Tornpill?”
She glared into the night, wishing she could see him. “If you cannot recall my name due to your advanced age, you may refer to me as Governess.”
“Mmm. And why would I do that, depriving myself of the enjoyment of goading you, Turnblossom?”
Denying him her response, she stalked from the room, followed by the mocking dissonance of his disembodied chuckles.
*
“Lady Honora and Lady Constance,” Jacinda addressed the empty chamber where she was meant to be teaching her pupils French. They had breakfasted early, all the better to begin the day and their studies. And yet when she had arrived at their schoolroom following their morning meal, her pupils were nowhere to be found.
The drapes at the floor-to-ceiling, eastward-facing windows of the chamber twitched, first on the right side and then the left.
“You are in the window dressings,” she announced. “I see them moving. There is no point in further subterfuge, my ladies.”
A low, thunderous sound reached her ears then, emerging from somewhere within the cavernous elegance of Whitley’s townhouse. It sounded like a roar at first. She stilled, listening. How odd.
The din took shape.
“Miss Governess!”
Dear heavens. Surely it could not be… no, it would not be… dissolute as he was, surely the Duke of Whitley was not hollering from somewhere within his stately edifice as if he were a farm laborer calling across a pasture.
“Miss Go-ver-ness!”
She pressed her lips together, staring at the drapes that had begun to twitch wildly, accompanied by the sound of stifled girlish giggles. Jacinda glared in the direction of her concealed charges. “What have you done to distress His Grace, my ladies?”
No answer was forthcoming from the drapes.
The only response she did receive was yet another bellow, this time even louder than before. “Miss Go-verness!”
Jacinda heaved a sigh. “I will address this with the two of you directly,” she warned before spinning on her heel and exiting the chamber.
There was really no other word to aptly describe it. The Duke of Whitley was hollering for her like a madman. And perhaps he was. Mayhap she had allowed her body’s traitorous reaction to a handsome man to blind her to the truth. Pray God she would never again need to conduct a covert operation involving lunatic dukes with more looks than wits and a brace of naughty minxes as her charges.
By the time she reached the breakfast room, she was breathless and irate, prepared to deliver His Grace a dressing down of the first order. She stopped still at the sight of him, elegant in a blue coat and snowy white cravat, his dark hair carefully combed. By the bright light of day, with some rest and sobriety in his favor, the Duke of Whitley was a sight to behold.
But it wasn’t the duke himself that commanded her ultimate attention.
Rather, it was the creature dangling from his fingers.
“Your Grace?” she asked breathlessly. Needlessly.
“Governess,” he clipped, his voice dripping with ice, his gaze equally dismissive as it raked her head to foot and presumably found her serviceable brown gown as lacking as her person. “Would you care to explain how it is your charges placed a dead rodent alongside my breakfast plate this morning without your notice?”
Drat those girls.
But most importantly, damn the Duke of Whitley. Last night, with his fiery body atop hers and his hands and mouth on her skin, he had made her feel—for one wicked moment—as if she were the only woman in the world. By the bleak light of morning, he pinned her with a supercilious sneer that he likely reserved for pickpockets and swindlers. He was treating her as a servant. As his servant. Which was what she was, for now.
Recalling herself, she offered him a curtsy. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Please accept my apology. How may I rectify the matter?”
His lip curled with further disgust. “You may begin by disposing of this outrage, and then you may proceed with maintaining control over your charges. I did hire you to manage them, did I not Miss Governess?”
Manage them. She suppressed a shudder. Not one blessed thing about the wild young ladies who had been riding down the stairs on silver salvers yesterday suggested they were the least bit manageable.
The duke snapped his fingers. “Miss Governess? Take this away at once.”
Jacinda forced her feet to move toward the odious man, schooling her features into an expression of contrition. “Yes, of course I shall do away with it forthwith, Your Grace, and once more, please accept my sincere apologies on behalf of myself and my charges.”
Nicholson, who had danced attendance upon His Grace’s breakfast with an admirable stoicism until that moment, stepped forward. “If I may, Your Grace, I shall remove the offense at once. There is no need for Miss Turnbow to handle the carcass.”
“Yes,” insisted the duke, his voice ringing through the room with enough command to stop the butler in his tracks. “There is every need. Miss Governess, do what you have been hired to do. Nicholson, do not ever gainsay me again, or you will find yourself on the street without reference. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I pray you forgive me for the affront, Your Grace,” Nicholson said, and melted back into his position standing sentry.
Jacinda was certain she had not, in fact, been hired to dispose of dead rodents. But she had not taken on this unwanted position to displease the Duke of Whitley or give him cause to dismiss her, or for that matter, to take notice of her in any fashion.
She was here to gain the proximity necessary to comb through his correspondence and to translate any enciphered messages in his possession. She was here to help Kilross discover what had truly occurred on the day the Marquess of Searle was murdered, and in so doing, keep Father’s position secure.
She could not allow herself to forget the man responsible for the death of Searle, their great national hero, was none other than the man bellowing at her to cart off the mouse he still held dangling from his long fingers.
Reminded of the magnitude of her position, she hastened forward, calmly taking a linen napkin from the beautifully dressed table and wrapping it about the mouse. Though she meant to tug it from Whitley’s grasp and spin to take her leave, the duke had other ideas. He held firm to the tail of the thing, refusing to relinquish it.
“Look at me, Miss Governess,” he ordered in a quieter tone that nevertheless demanded obedience.
She did not wish to look directly upon his face. Or to meet his eyes. She had been focused solely upon the dead mouse. She caught her lip between her teeth and made her gaze slip past the napkin-enshrouded rodent to the duke’s arresting form.
How was it possible that a man so darkly beautiful could also be a traitor who was the heartless architect of his best friend’s painful demise? Her eyes dipped to his mouth, the sculpted bow of his upper lip. That mouth had been upon her skin, and all the secret places it had touched in the night burned now as if scalded. The reminder of the liberties she had allowed him stole her breath.
Little wonder there had been so many whispers about his conquests. He was the male Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships. Also, the face of madness and avarice, the face of cruelty and despair, of betrayal and treason, she reminded herself firmly. A man who was not to be trusted. One to whom she must never succumb.
Her chin rose. “Yes, Your Grace? How may I be of service to you?”
Her cheeks flushed immediately after the last question fell from her lips, for she had not intended to impart them with any hint of suggestion. She was doing her utmost to remain unnoticed. To be as uninteresting as a wall covering. To do as she was a
sked, feign humility, and obtain the documents Kilross required. His mouth quirked, as if acknowledging the double entendre she had not intended. His eyes, gray-flecked with blue she could discern now that she stood so near, burned into hers. “First, I expect you to remove this abomination. Secondly, you shall bring my sisters to me for their reckoning. Thirdly, and I do insist upon this, Miss Governess, both you and Lady Constance and Lady Honora will dine with me each evening, at which time I shall be regaled by the progress they have made. Last but most assuredly not least, each morning, you will report to me in my study. I require a daily summary of the previous day’s lessons, along with your assessment of the progress my sisters are making.”
Beneath the folded linen square, the body of the mouse was a repulsive lump that her fingers curled about. She tugged again, hoping he would release the tail and allow her to retreat to the safety of the schoolroom. He held firm.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, tamping down her inner defiance, for it had no place there.
His eyes raked her form, lingering on first her lips and then her breasts. “If another event such as this occurs, you will be sacked without reference. There will be no future dead mice alongside my plate. Am I perfectly clear?”
She bowed her head so he could not see the fire sparking in her eyes. So she could hide the stubborn clench of her jaw. “You have my promise, no more such indignities shall be perpetrated upon you by my charges, Your Grace.”
“You will meet my gaze when you address me, Miss Governess.” His curt, clipped baritone struck her like a lash.
Jacinda closed her eyes and exhaled a calming breath before raising her head, careful to erase any evidence of her true feelings from both her gaze and expression. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
He flashed her a smile that could only be described as feral. “Yes, everything that happens within these walls is precisely as I wish. Endeavor to remember that, Miss Governess.”
Without warning, he released his grip upon the rodent’s tail, leaving her with a fistful of dead mouse that slapped into the modest fall of her gown. The weight of the thing, lifeless and lumpy like a small sausage, was enough to make her suppress a gag. “I will recall that, Your Grace. Thank you, sir.”
When she would have left, he stopped her. “I have not yet dismissed you, Miss Governess. Do not think to flee now that you have the mouse in hand.”
Jacinda ground her molars together and forced a polite smile to her lips at the same time. She would not allow him to see how much he affected her. How much his arrogance enraged her. “I do beg your pardon, Duke.”
“You are forgiven your haste this once, but be advised, I do not tolerate disrespect from any of my servants. From this moment forward, you will not depart from my presence unless you have asked and I have given you leave to do so. Am I understood?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace,” she answered through gritted teeth. Just barely, she stifled the urge to ask him if it was permissible for her to breathe without his approval.
“Excellent. You are dismissed now.” He sent her another savage smile. “I shall see you and my sisters at dinner.”
She offered a one-handed curtsy, still clutching the mouse in her right hand. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
As she carried her unwanted burden away and escaped from the room and his arrogant presence, she could not help but be grateful for the icy detachment Whitley had treated her with this morning. She must never again allow him such familiarity or liberties with her person. To do so would only invite ruin and shame. Last night had been an aberration that would never be repeated, one she ascribed to the darkness and her shock at being discovered.
Far too much was at stake. She could not—nay, she would not—let Father down.
Frowning, she marched back to the schoolroom, holding the mouse carcass outstretched as she went. Lady Constance and Lady Honora were devils in skirts, but she was anything if not determined. Once given a task, it was her nature to not only complete it but to see it accomplished to the very best of her ability. A true governess she may not be, but she did have her own share of backbone.
The pair of minxes in her charge were not going to avoid repercussions for their little prank. Up the stairs and down the hall she went, her mind formulating her battle strategy. She, too, could be positively Machiavellian when the need arose.
Apparently, the hoydens had believed they had managed to scare her off for the rest of the morning, for when she threw open the schoolroom door, they were giggling, each bearing a salver tucked beneath her arm.
“My ladies,” she snapped, lifting the napkin-enshrouded creature in her hand and shaking it in their direction. “I do believe you left something behind in the breakfast room this morning.”
Their giggles died in unison, eyes going wide. They had the same unique gray eyes as the duke, and it truly was disconcerting staring at that gaze in female form. Jacinda shook herself from the thought and gave the dead mouse another shake. “Well? Have neither of you anything to say for yourselves?”
The girls shared a wide-eyed glance, almost as if to express their mutual disbelief they had been caught. It was apparent to Jacinda that Lady Constance and Lady Honora had been running wild and running the household both. Belowstairs was rife with talk of the previous duke if one was clever and knew when and where to listen. Whitley’s brother had been a drunkard with little time to spare for his sisters, who in the absence of parents, entertained themselves by making mischief.
But their past did not excuse their abominable behavior, and here was her line to draw. They could either reach an understanding, or she would begin to retaliate.
She assessed them with a calm she did not feel. “If neither of you shall tell me who placed this dead mouse at His Grace’s chair, I shall cut it in two and place one half upon each of your pillows.”
Lady Constance’s brows shot upward. “You would not dare to do such a thing.”
“Maintain your silence and your defiance and we shall see.” Jacinda gave the girls her most menacing frown. “You have until the count of five to unburden yourselves. One. Two. Three. F—”
“We both did it,” Lady Honora admitted, her expression turning sheepish. “Con stole the mouse from Cook’s trap in the kitchens and then she distracted the footmen and Nicholson whilst I left it upon the table.”
“Excellent.” A triumphant smile chased away her frown. “Come along with me, then, both of you.”
Lady Constance’s expression grew wary. “Where are we going?”
She quirked a brow. “We are holding a mouse funeral, and the two of you shall be doing the honors. I do hope you know where to find a spade. Now who wishes to carry the unfortunate thing? I believe I have had quite enough of carrying him about.”
“You are the youngest,” Lady Honora told her sister. “You carry it.”
Naturally, Lady Constance protested. “But I already carried it through the kitchens and all the way through the house to Crispin’s seat at the table.”
“My ladies,” she interrupted. “Time is wasting, and soon this wretch will begin to stink.”
“Oh, very well,” Lady Constance grumbled, flouncing forward to accept Jacinda’s offering.
Jacinda’s smile grew, a feeling of immense satisfaction blossoming inside her. Now this, at least, was progress.
Chapter Five
Why had he insisted upon his sisters and the flame-haired governess joining him for dinner? It was the fifth consecutive evening of foregoing his club in favor of dining at home with the hellions that were his sisters and the woman charged with correcting their ways. The fifth day of excruciating torture wherein the minxes chattered, acted inappropriately, the governess hid her fiery locks beneath an ungodly mobcap, and he pretended not to recall the silky smoothness of Miss Governess’s creamy skin upon his tongue.
Crispin stabbed at the unfortunate slab of Westphalian ham on his plate.
“Lady Honora,” the governess’s soft, husky voice rose above the gentle
din of cutlery on Sèvres porcelain, “would you care to inform His Grace about the lessons you received today?”
He issued an unnecessary, fierce cut to his already eviscerated ham. Damnation, why did even the sound of her voice make his cock twitch in his breeches? Somehow, he had imagined, lost in the depths of his own arrogance, that spending time in the woman’s presence, flanked by his sisters, would lessen the effect she had upon him. But having her at hand and treating her coolly did not force his inconvenient attraction to her to abate. But gentleman was not a role he played well, and he had been wrong. Thoroughly, stupidly, utterly wrong.
That night in his study when he had almost lost his bloody wits and lifted her skirts had left him enraged. Determined to prove he could inure himself to whatever hold it was she had upon him. But even the efforts she had undertaken to make herself as unnoticeable as possible were wasted upon him. Beneath her drab brown muslin, he knew the seductive flare of her hips, the softness of her thighs parting to welcome him. Hidden behind her matronly fichu and far too much lace, he knew her bosom swelled high and lush and full. He knew her nipples would harden, beg for more.
“The dancing master arrived,” Honora said sullenly. “He is an evil, beady-eyed little French weasel, and I do not like him.”
Miss Governess gasped in outrage, her rosebud-pink mouth opening in such fashion that Crispin could not help but envision his cock sliding home within it. He stuffed a bite of ham into his mouth, feeling every bit of the animal that he had become. It was wrong to lust after a female in his household he had hired as the governess for his innocent—though admittedly wild—sisters. But he could not summon even a pinch of outrage as he made Miss Governess his sole concentration. Those lips quivered. He longed to lick them.
“Lady Honora, your conduct is not becoming of a lady. Please apologize to His Grace and the table at once.”
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 5
