by Lenora Bell
Working with steam and combustion must be dangerous.
Whenever she thought about his hands, warmth ignited in the pit of her stomach.
He’d lifted her so easily, circling her waist in an iron grip. And when his fingers had brushed her calf, the touch had spread through her whole body like wildfire.
Right here, in this very room, a commanding duke had knelt at her feet.
Not something she’d ever pictured happening to her.
None of this was how she’d thought her life would progress.
She pushed one of the locomotives and it slid along the rail, its wheels somehow staying on the tracks.
Her life in London was supposed to have been a difficult and trying one.
The engine under her fingers ran smoothly along the tracks, passing trees and country estates.
At Mr. Folsom’s house she would have been little more than a nursemaid. Her bed would have been tucked into the garret. She would have dined on leftovers.
But here . . . she lifted the model engine off the tracks.
Here, she’d gone off the rails of her prescribed life. Living in luxury, treated with respect.
This was completely new terrain, uncharted and filled with both great potential . . . and even greater pitfalls.
Pretending to be upper class. Letting the duke assume that she’d been educated at an elite private academy.
Sin by omission.
She didn’t like telling untruths. Especially ones that could land her in prison for deceiving a duke.
But she had to take the risk. She needed to buy enough time to search for Mr. Shadwell and ask him why he’d come looking for her at Underwood.
Without warning, a hulking shape loomed behind her and large arms hugged her, pinioning her wrists together in front of her navel.
“What are you doing sneaking about my library, Perkins?” a deep, gruff voice asked.
So much for avoiding the duke.
Chapter 7
Mari twisted in his arms, trying to break away, but he held her easily, one of his large hands trapping both her wrists.
“Are you a spy?” he demanded.
“Pardon? Of course not! I’m a governess. I thought we established that yesterday.”
“A spy from a rival railway company. Or perhaps from one of the fire brigades.” His arms tightened around her, drawing her back against his solid warmth. “Very clever. Send a lady who’s just my kind of temptation to steal my secrets.”
His kind of temptation?
Her heart fluttered in her ribcage, trying to escape her chest.
“I’m not a spy,” she said. “I’m here to instruct your children although I won’t be much use in that endeavor if you squeeze me to death.”
He dropped her wrists but didn’t move away. “My apologies. You’re not a spy. You’re merely a governess.”
She bristled. “That’s right. An ordinary, commonplace governess.”
He bent closer, his breath fanning her cheek. “I thought you said you would wear voluminous smocks, Perkins.”
“My trunk was stolen, Your Grace. If you wish me to wear shapeless smocks, you’ll have to provide them. But just so you know, your footmen appear to be singularly undistracted by me.”
His low laughter struck a chord somewhere deep inside her. She liked making him laugh.
“How dare they be undistracted?” he asked.
“Well I didn’t expect them to be. You’re the one who had that wrong-headed notion.”
Probably she should step away now. But she rather liked the feel of his body behind her. His proximity was somehow more comforting than threatening.
Really, what she wanted to do was lean backward and fit herself more closely against him.
If he wrapped his arms around her, it might feel like the first safe place she’d ever known.
And she who makes a sheep of herself, becomes prey to the wolf.
She stepped away and turned to face him.
If his presence behind her had made her heart race, his front view was even more devastating to a girl’s composure.
Rumpled chestnut hair falling over silvery eyes. No coat to speak of. And his cravat was undone, looped loosely over his neck with the ends dangling over a wedge of bare chest.
Bare. Chest.
This was precisely why she must avoid him. This heat that shimmered through her body. The way she couldn’t tear her eyes away from that tantalizing glimpse of bare flesh.
A sudden longing to find a dagger and cut off his shirt buttons, as he’d slit through her bootlaces, gripped her mind.
He’d had a good, long look at her ankles. Shouldn’t she be allowed to see his chest? She could rip the rest of the shirt. Rend it in two.
The rhythmic pulse visible in the shadow of his throat was proof that he was merely a man. Flesh and blood, sinew and bone. Warm and strong and inviting.
She’d never had such wicked thoughts. At least not about a real, live duke. She may have imagined herself as the heroine of a few romantic novels.
To cover her confusion, she pursed her lips and gave him a disapproving look. “Must you always leap to these drastically inaccurate assumptions about me, Your Grace? I’m neither a temptress with designs on your footmen, nor a spy with designs upon your engineering plans. I’m a plain, unassuming governess.”
He grinned. “If you’re plain and unassuming, then I’m a ruddy chimney sweep. You must admit the situation could be misconstrued. First you crush my model engine, and now you’re sneaking about my private rooms, examining the model of my railway. You looked guilty.”
“I’ll admit nothing of the sort.”
“Then why are you here?” he asked, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt to cover his wrists.
“I found the children’s bookshelves to be sadly lacking in scope for the imagination. And filled with moralizing tripe. Dr. Pritchard’s Catechisms. Really, Your Grace. I expected better of you.”
“Uh . . .” His chin ducked toward his neck. “Who is Dr. Pritchard?”
“The most priggish, sanctimonious fool to ever set quill to paper and compose fire-and-brimstone morality lessons for children. I found his teachings written upon the blackboard in the nursery. It is small wonder the twins run away.”
“Are you lecturing me, Perkins?”
Good lord. She was lecturing a duke. That would never do. No one wanted a governess to exhibit any backbone.
“I do apologize for my stridency, Your Grace.” She cast her gaze demurely to the carpet. “It’s only that I hold a strong belief, based on personal experience, that children respond better to encouragement than censure.”
He was silent for so long that she raised her head and encountered that steady, unnerving gaze of his.
“Never apologize for stridency, Perkins. You’ve a valid point to make. I’m ashamed to admit that I had no idea the children were being subjected to the sanctimonious Dr. Pritchard.”
A different kind of warmth seeped through her at his words. No one had ever wanted to hear her true opinions before.
He swiped a hand at the library shelves. “Take all the books you want. But leave the model engines alone.”
“I thought the children might like to play with them.”
“For the love of . . . they’re not toys,” he said. “The children most certainly cannot play with them. I use the model engines to visualize my designs before they are built on a larger scale.”
“But you must admit they do look like toys.”
He scowled down at her. “I’ll admit nothing of the sort. They’re models of a very serious and historic undertaking, I’ll have you know.”
“But they’re just so cunning and delicate.” She knew she was playing with fire but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “And those adorable little gentlemen in their teensy top hats . . .”
She stopped speaking because he appeared about to combust.
“Someday I’ll bring you to my foundry, Perkins. Believe me, the words adorable a
nd teensy will never cross your impertinent lips.”
She liked the sound of someday.
It sounded longer than one week.
“I should like that.” She gave him a teasing smile. “I’m sure your engines are ever so formidable and impressive.”
Like everything else about him.
“Extremely formidable.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “And impressive.”
Were they still talking about steam locomotives? Something about the mischievous glint in his eyes and the way he was perusing her lips made her think they weren’t.
Then what were they discussing . . . ? Oh.
Mari had been raised in a school for girls. She’d heard a whispered thing or two about male . . . engines.
Was he flirting with her? It was wrong, of course, and should be stopped immediately.
And yet . . . she’d never been flirted with before.
It was exhilarating. As though she were walking along the edge of a cliff.
Danger calling to the pit of her stomach.
Warning her away and daring her to jump at the same time.
“I suppose it would depend on the perspective.” She flicked her gaze lower, daringly close to his breeches. “And it would probably require flattering lighting.”
His snort of laughter caught her off guard.
“There’s more to you than meets the eye, Perkins.”
“My name is Miss Perkins, if you please. I won’t be referred to solely by my surname.”
“It’s the done thing,” he said in a clipped tone.
“It may well be the done thing to reduce your servants to surnames, to view them as necessary items of furniture, meant to support your weight and never bend or break, but I find it demeaning.”
“Miss Perkins, you’re welcome to pillage my bookshelves, but then be so kind as to leave me in peace. I’ve had a very long and disappointing day.”
He stalked to his desk.
She’d been dismissed. Which was better than being besieged, wasn’t it?
A dim part of her brain wasn’t too sure about that.
Edgar turned up the lamp at his desk. He’d come to the library to work on his engine design, and his mind had caught fire, not with engineering solutions, but with a blaze of attraction.
He couldn’t just reason it away, the tingling at the base of his skull, the itching in his palms. The heightened awareness.
Not just an awareness of her body, though that was pleasing enough—slender, yet curvaceous, garbed in the same black gown but with a white apron over the top.
Not simply her beauty. Her quick tongue and even quicker mind.
The way she spoke to him without flattery or deference.
He liked her intelligence and fearlessness.
Something new. Something worth knowing.
First the tender scene he’d witnessed with the children and then the achingly perfect feel of her slim curves pressed against him.
Can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?
To think about anything other than Miss Perkins’s pert backside, he got out his paints and began coloring the wheels of a model engine.
Or at least he attempted to paint them. His brush kept missing the mark whenever his gaze wandered back to Miss Perkins.
She was taking her time choosing books for the children.
When she ran her finger across leather-bound spines, he felt the caress on his own skin.
Touch me. Choose me.
She bent at the waist, holding the lamp close to view books on a lower shelf.
How could a simple white apron be so seductive? The narrow straps that crossed over her back ended in a big white bow.
The point of uniforms was to make people conform.
Miss Perkins conform to a silent, diffident role? Never.
She was still bending over, presenting him with a splendid view of her gift-wrapped arse.
His brush slipped. “Damn.”
She straightened, pursing her lips to puff a curl away from her cheek. “Is anything the matter, Your Grace?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” he muttered.
Except that he’d painted the inside of his wrist blue instead of the engine wheels, like an addlepated fool. He grabbed a rag and wiped his arm clean.
When he looked at her he heard drums beating in the distance, advancing with the warning of war. The battle for dominion over these forbidden thoughts.
A war against wanting to know her better.
Obviously he wasn’t going to accomplish anything this evening. Not with her in the room.
She lifted her small stack of books. “I’ll bid you good-night, Your Grace.”
She was halfway across the room when the top volume caught his eye. He rose from his desk. “I wouldn’t use that particular volume of poetry if I were you.”
She glanced at the book. “Why not?”
“Because it was written by the twins’ mother. The woman who hid their existence from me for nine years. The woman who abandoned them.”
Her cheeks paled. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I had no idea.”
“What fiendish, unseen hand directed you to that book, I wonder?” he asked.
“What fiendish hand forced you to keep it on your shelves, I wonder?” she rejoined.
She had a point. He was quickly learning that she usually did.
He’d thought he was in love with Sophie, with the heedless passion only a very naïve, very foolish young pup could feel. It must have been some lingering attachment to the memory of his first, ill-fated love that had kept the book on his shelves.
A passion that had torn his family apart.
A love that had nearly destroyed his life.
“I’m not sure,” he finally answered her, shaking himself out of his painful memories. “It was a mistake.”
“Perhaps the children would like to read her poetry. It may be their last remaining link to her.”
“No,” he said unhesitatingly, harshly.
“Well it was merely a suggestion,” she replied in an affronted voice.
“Sophie left them with only a hired nurse to care for them. They could have died, and I never would have known.”
“I’ll return the book to the shelves.”
“Please don’t. Just . . .” He held out his hand. “I’ll dispose of it. It’s of no consequence now. It’s in the past.”
Yet the past wouldn’t stay buried.
It stared at him accusingly from Adele’s eyes. Sophie’s eyes.
Not good enough for husband.
Not good enough for father.
She handed him the slim volume and he set it on a table.
“I gather your late wife, er . . .” Realizing she’d made a blunder, Miss Perkins paused. “I mean to say, your late—”
“Mistress,” Edgar supplied, though he knew it was unforgivably rude to speak of such sordid topics.
He half expected her to make a hasty retreat, but she remained, standing close enough for him to touch.
“I gather she was French?” she asked.
“Her father was from Paris, and her mother from Casablanca, in Morocco. I attempted to find her parents after Michel and Adele came to live with me. I thought they might want to meet their grandparents, but both of Sophie’s parents are now deceased.”
“The children do have a grandmother here in London, I hear.”
“The dowager and I are estranged.”
She waited for him to say more, watching his face. He wasn’t going to touch that subject.
“After she bore the twins, Sophie left them in France and traveled first to Morocco, then to India, on a quest for poetic enlightenment, whatever that is.” He tried to keep the rancor out of his voice and failed.
He waited for her to make some comment, perhaps of censure.
The other governesses had been quietly appalled at the notion of illegitimate children being raised in the manner of heirs and heiresses.
The subject didn’t seem distasteful t
o her. She listened thoughtfully, with a small furrow of concentration between her delicate brows.
“I’ve said enough.” He tugged on his shirt cuff. “I don’t normally speak of these subjects. You may leave now, Miss Perkins.” He gestured toward the door.
Her smile was quick and playful, and it made him want to smile back. “Haven’t you discovered by now that I’m not easily dissuaded or dismissed, Your Grace?”
He wanted to discover so much more about her. For instance, why was such a bright, lovely woman relegated to the role of governess?
And then there was the burning question of whether her apron was tied with a knot . . . or whether the bow would come undone with one tug.
He gave himself a mental shake. Neither one of those questions would ever be answered.
“Take your books and leave me in peace.” Leave him to sit in the library alone, beset by ghosts and dark memories.
“I’d like to know more,” she said softly. “It will help me to understand the children better, and find ways to ease their minds.”
He knew it wasn’t a good idea, knew he should insist that she leave, but now that the memories had risen from the dead, he found he didn’t want to be alone with them.
A few moments of conversation couldn’t harm anything, he told himself. It was only so that she could better understand the children.
Not because he was lonely. Or because the sympathy in her eyes warmed him like coal feeding a furnace.
“Sit with me, then,” he said gruffly. “If you dare.”
“I dare,” she replied.
Chapter 8
Mari tucked her worn boots out of sight under her skirts. The duke settled across from her, propping one of his elbows on the arm of the chair, which did interesting things to the bulging muscles beneath his shirt.
Why had she decided to stay? He’d given her every opportunity to retreat, but then he’d dared her to stay. Her reckless side had responded to the challenge, though she’d rationalized her decision by saying it was because she wanted to know more about the children’s past.
Which she did, but she also wanted to know more about Banksford. What had painted all of those shadows in his eyes?
A footman banked the fire. Another fluffed the cushions on the settee and trimmed the lamps. They moved soundlessly, seeing to his every comfort.
