by Gayle Callen
Her skin took on a rosy blush the closer he got to her.
And inside him a little devil started whispering about how easy it was to tease Meriel. He felt like Cecil more and more, but he couldn't stop himself.
He wanted to touch her. She was breathing rapidly as he closed the distance between them. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts, and the way a little pulse beat at the hollow of her throat. He wanted to know the taste of her moist lips, to finally satisfy his curiosity about her passionate nature. He slowly lifted his hand, just meaning to touch her cheek with his fingers…
But that was something his father would do— what Cecil would do.
And Richard couldn't allow himself to go that far, to be what they were.
"I'll take your words under advisement, Miss Shelby," he said, bothered by how hoarse his voice sounded. "Go enjoy the rest of your evening."
She escaped from him so quickly that he was sickened by his own behavior. Had he frightened her? Did she feel that she would have no choice but to please him however he wanted?
Not Meriel Shelby, not that strong woman who confronted a duke about his misdeeds rather than risk harming her pupil. She would keep her distance and keep herself safe from him.
But he could still smell the scent of her skin after she'd gone.
"Your Grace?" said a voice from the doorway.
He shook himself out of his musings, and found Hargraves and Mrs. Theobald. They waited calmly, but he sensed an underlying tension.
"Come in," he said, going to fix himself a brandy.
"Allow me to do that, young sir," Mrs. Theobald said, hurrying toward him.
He froze with a decanter lifted in the air. That's what she'd called him his whole life. What she'd called Richard, not Cecil.
He stared at her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes as she poured him a brandy. When she held out the glass to him, she lifted her gaze, and he searched it. Hargraves, seeming embarrassed, went back and closed the door.
"How long have you known?" Richard asked softly.
Mrs. Theobald sighed. "Not at first, young— Your Grace. You were very convincing, even with the reasons for your sudden concern about young Lord Ramsgate. But though the maids flung themselves across your path, you didn't care. And then…fishing? The duke was too concerned with his clothing even as a child to allow himself to get that close to dirt."
"Yes, you're right," Richard mused. "But I had to get Stephen alone, to confirm my suspicions. He already knew the truth."
"He's a perceptive lad," Hargraves said. "But what we need to know is why?" He lowered his voice. "And where is the duke?"
"Then you don't think I'm here for nefarious reasons?" Richard asked dryly.
"Mr. O'Neill, I could never believe such a thing!" Mrs. Theobald said with outrage.
"It's strange to hear my own name again, but thank you. Cecil is still very ill. His doctors prescribed complete rest and silence for recovery. Our cousin Charles is pushing Cecil to be named Stephen's guardian, and Cecil was worried that if he looked too ill, Charles would try to exert even more control. He is the next in line for the dukedom after Stephen."
"Has he made threats?" Hargraves asked.
Mrs. Theobald wrung her hands with worry.
"No, not yet. But at the assembly the other night, someone spread a rumor that the duke cheated at cards. I can't imagine Cecil would stoop so low."
"Of course not!" Mrs. Theobald said, aghast. "You think Sir Charles could gain something by doing such a thing?"
"He wants control of Stephen— and Stephen's inheritance," Richard said grimly. "What better way than by making the duke look incompetent? Already, the finances are in a shaky state, and I can't tell yet if it's Cecil's ignorance or something more sinister."
Mrs. Theobald put her hand on his arm. "It is good of you to help your brother."
Richard covered her hand with his own. "I could not abandon him. I've done a decent job so far as the duke, but Miss Shelby just told me about Cecil's mistresses."
"Miss Shelby told you such a thing?" Hargraves asked in shock.
Mrs. Theobald shrugged her shoulders. "I told her. The other maids are quite jealous of her, so I finally had to tell her the truth."
Richard smiled. "She's worried that my unsavory life could harm Stephen. I was even asked at the assembly if I'd chosen a mistress. But I simply cannot do such a thing."
Mrs. Theobald looked at him with sympathetic kindness. "Of course not, young sir."
"I've decided to pretend to be indecisive. Mrs. Theobald, maybe you can explain to the maids that they're all so beautiful, I can't make up my mind."
"You'll have to tease them a bit, sir," Hargraves said awkwardly. "They won't understand if you continue to ignore them. They know the duke's usual habits, of course."
Mrs. Theobald hesitated. "Miss Shelby already thinks you pay too much attention to her."
"I know. And I'll have to continue it, I suppose." He wasn't truly reluctant, not with Meriel. He enjoyed her reactions too much. It was a dangerous game he played with her, because he sensed she was capable of making him forget his mission, forget his masquerade, forget everything but how she made him feel.
Richard looked between the two servants, people he'd known his whole life. "I'm glad you both know. It's been hell trying to keep it from you. But please, we must never talk about this, not unless we're certain we're alone. And even then, we should do so infrequently."
"Of course, Your Grace," Mrs. Theobald said, taking a step back. "Is there anything else you need before I retire for the evening?"
"No, go off to bed, both of you. Thank you for your help— and your friendship."
When he was alone, he gave careful thought to how best to flirt with the maids, without leading any to think she'd been chosen. He would do his best not to be alone with any of them; group flirting would suit his purposes.
He told himself that Meriel would always be with Stephen, who could act as a buffer between them. But deep inside, Richard knew that if he wasn't careful, he would find a way to be very alone with the governess.
* * *
Meriel hardly slept that night, and she awoke with a headache the next morning. Every time she dozed off, she saw the duke again, standing too close to her. He had lifted his hand, and in her dreams, he finally did touch her. Each time, her traitorous body awoke her, feeling all hot and trembling and…strange.
As she washed and dressed, she tried to tell herself that some women were always attracted to men they couldn't have. Maybe that was her problem. It was as if her brain just…turned off when he was near.
She had to content herself with the knowledge that she'd done all she could on Stephen's behalf. She could not dictate the duke's behavior, but perhaps she'd helped improve his discretion.
At midmorning, Meriel left Stephen in his nurse's care so that she could walk into the post office in Ramsgate. She went back to her room for her bonnet, and was heading down through the house when she passed the red drawing room. She heard the distant sound of giggling. She peered in and saw no one, but the doors to the conservatory were thrown open.
Though it was none of her business, she crept to the inner doors, then stepped behind a giant fern in the conservatory. The voices were more recognizable. It was clearly the duke, but who were the women? Because there were several. She ducked behind a palm tree, then a clump of bushes, getting close enough so that she could peer at the duke through the foliage. He had his back to her. He was dressed in his riding clothing, with boots up to his knees, and a shorter frock coat. He looked so elegant, so above her. He tapped his top hat against his thigh as he laughed.
Three maids gathered in front of him. Meriel wondered sourly if they had followed him, or if he'd found them working and had begun to weave his magic. The women were giving one another nasty looks.
He had told her he was having a difficult time choosing a mistress— foolishly, she'd thought that meant Stephen was safe from such sights for a while. The duk
e had not bothered to mention that he would be hosting auditions for the role!
As Meriel came close enough to hear what was going on, one of the maid's— Joan? Meriel thought— stepped forward to catch the duke's eye. She had the saucy look of a barmaid rather than a downstairs maid, but surely the duke recruited his staff even from unsavory places.
"Your Grace, you look fine in those ridin' clothes. I never been ridin' because I'm always worried I'd fall off. But if I rode with you, your firm thighs'd keep me up."
Meriel covered her face in shock and peeked between her spread fingers.
"Ladies, I'm afraid I don't have time to teach anyone to ride today," the duke said. "Have a pleasant morning."
Meriel's indignation faded as she finally saw his face. He looked relieved to be escaping.
Didn't he enjoy watching future mistresses fight for his attention?
Chapter 11
As Meriel walked down the dirt lane lined with hedgerows, she knew her pace was far too brisk for such a warm summer day. But she didn't care. Her bonnet shielded her face, and perspiration dampened the edges and trickled down her temple, and still she marched along, fuming at those three women throwing themselves at the duke. What if Stephen had seen that bawdy performance?
Meriel had a good mind to tell Mrs. Theobald—
But the duke's beautiful maids, personally hired, were behaving exactly as he wished.
Meriel wondered why she kept hoping that he was different. Why had she thought he'd take her warning under advisement, maybe even act on it?
She heard the steady beat of an approaching horse, and moved to the side of the road without looking back. Instead of riding past her, the horse slowed at her side. She knew who it was before she even looked up, past the man's long legs, up that broad chest to that smiling, knowing, too-handsome face.
He touched his hat with two fingers in a jaunty salute. Gritting her teeth, she looked back down at the road.
"Not even a hello?" he said.
"Hello, Your Grace."
"I sense such pent-up anger, Miss Shelby. Perhaps I should be the angry one, since you were spying on me in the conservatory."
She closed her eyes in mortification, then stumbled over a rock.
"Now, now, don't turn an ankle," he said, "or I'll be forced to minister to you."
She glanced up at him, trying to appear as coolly detached as she wished she felt. "I came upon you accidentally. The maids were giggling rather loudly, after all. It's a good thing your son was not with me."
He continued to ride at her side, his horse firmly under his command at such a slow pace.
"Ah, so that's why you're so angry," he said. "I assure you, I did not seek those women out."
"They wouldn't seek you out if they didn't think they might be rewarded."
"Ah, but they do offer me opportunities to narrow down my options."
"But you promised— "
"Promised?" he interrupted. "I said I hadn't chosen. That was all."
Had she only hoped there'd been a promise buried in his words somewhere? She couldn't walk any faster, but she could ignore him.
"Can I give you a ride into town, Miss Shelby? After all, my thighs are firm enough."
She sent him an indignant look, but she saw that he was enjoying her reaction.
"Is that a 'no'?" he asked.
"You can leave, Your Grace," she said, then realized she'd ordered a duke about like a servant.
But he only touched his hat again, grinned, and veered off the road between two hedgerows and across a pasture. She watched him ride and hated that she appreciated the sight.
That evening, after taking Stephen up to his bed, Meriel was coming down the grand staircase when she saw the duke confronted by the maid Joan outside his study. The woman boldly tried to press up against him, but he managed to step aside without looking like he was deliberately fleeing.
But that was the impression Meriel received anyway. Hanging back on the stairs, she watched the maid flounce away in disappointment. The duke retreated into his study, and Meriel stared at the closed door.
She could not understand him. Before her arrival, he'd been a man who seduced his servants and ignored his son and his duties, if the whispers she'd heard about his finances were true. Since her arrival, he'd befriended his son, taking him fishing and training the wolfhounds. He was avoiding the women he'd picked as his conquests, avoiding the parties he so loved, though the invitations arrived every day, and he seemed fully recovered. And then there was that first day he'd ridden up alone and started toward the servants' entrance instead of the main portico. And now people were accusing him of cheating at cards?
What was going on?
She sat down on the stairs in contemplation, watching the coming night creep up over the windows to darken the corridor.
Maybe she'd been thinking about this all wrong. The duke was young yet— twenty-five, or so she'd heard. Perhaps he was just finally maturing. Today alone there had been several chances to take advantage of a number of women, and he'd looked as if he couldn't get away fast enough. The thrill of taking meaningless mistresses must have run its course.
Now she had to prove it.
She found herself knocking on his study door before she could think of a plan and its consequences. When he called for her to enter, she went in as if she owned Thanet Court.
The duke wasn't sitting behind his desk, far enough away from her. He was near the door, studying a county map framed on the wall not five feet away from her.
She closed the door, leaned against it, and just looked at him. There was no smile on his face now, just an odd intensity that seemed to warn her. She wouldn't believe it. He might smile and flirt, but she had logically figured him out. He would not try to press his advantage over her. She refused to consider that her deductions might be wrong.
But between them sprang up a crackling tension she hadn't anticipated, and had created no defense against. There was an ache deep inside her that she'd never felt before, a need she had no answer to. He stepped closer and she couldn't think, didn't want to escape, although the door was at her back.
She kept telling herself that he'd changed, that she couldn't be wrong about him, even as his face was above her, his body too near. His hands came down on either side of her shoulders, and she was trapped within the confines of his arms.
He still didn't touch her; she knew she was taunting him with her silence and her acquiescence. But he wasn't the same man anymore; he'd changed—
And she kept thinking that as he leaned near, and the warmth of his breath spilled over her. She looked up at him, her heartbeat so loud in her ears, she barely heard him say, "Stop me."
"I don't need to," she whispered, trusting that he would control himself.
She suddenly realized that he didn't take her words as she'd meant them, and then it was too late.
His mouth touched hers with a brief, exquisite sweetness that caught her by surprise, that made her forget every logical plan she'd woven to protect herself. Then he pressed harder, his lips moving across hers, tasting, seeking entrance, she knew.
Somewhere inside her a logical voice cried out that she'd kissed before, that because she knew what to expect she should be in total control. But she wasn't. She was left with a drenching of passion that made her will not her own anymore.
She put her hands on his chest to steady herself, but that was a mistake. He was warm and solid, and she could feel his heart beating quickly in time to hers. His groan vibrated through her hands. His arms came around her, crushing her to him, and she gave no thought to escape. She only opened her mouth and surrendered what he demanded, what she, too, wanted. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she boldly met it with her own. He surrounded her, filled her, excited her beyond reason. His hands swept down and cupped her backside, pressing even more of her against him. Through her clothing she felt the strength and heat of his body, and she wanted nothing in between them.
And it was that t
hought that finally doused her with logic, and her control came screaming back in horror to overcome what she'd lost.
She twisted her head away and broke the kiss with a gasp, pressing her hands hard against the chest she'd just struggled to be near. He let her go immediately, and she was once again flat against the door, wide eyes staring at him, her spectacles crooked, wanting to deny what she'd just experienced.
She'd been wrong again, so terribly, completely wrong, it had cost her her self-respect, her governess position, and her chance to help Stephen grow into the man he could be. What had she been thinking, that this man, this duke, could be other than the powerful, selfish nobleman he'd been raised to be? He hadn't changed at all, and neither had she. She still could not trust herself.
