He wished for another glass of whisky—it had been nearly twelve hours since his last sip of poison—and made a dismissive gesture. “Sit, Miss Governess.”
Her lips tightened, as if in censure. She did not do as he ordered. “Your Grace, I am heartily glad you requested this audience, for we have much to discuss. If I may be so bold, I cannot help but think your actions have a direct impact upon the behavior of your sisters.”
Bold? She was bloody beyond the pale. Did the woman think to chastise him? He had requested her presence so he could give her the setdown she so richly deserved. His sisters were still hellions, and he could see no improvement in their comportment, save from the fact they had not ridden to breakfast down the staircase on salvers or hidden rodent carcasses by his breakfast plate.
He gave her a ducal sneer, the sort that usually made unwanted interlopers disappear from his path. “Sit, madam.”
Color blossomed in her cheeks. She sat slowly and primly, as if she were reluctantly seating herself upon a garden bench encrusted in bird offal. “Lady Constance and Lady Honora should not be aware of your… your…”
Her fluster was adorable, and it somehow deflated his ire. Still, he could not resist the opportunity to further her discomposure. He sat, for he could not politely stand in her presence, and even soulless bastards like him could recall their manners now and again.
“I beg your pardon?” A wolfish grin curved his lips. “My what, Miss Governess? I confess I had not previously realized you possessed a stutter. Though it grieves me to say this, I am not certain my sisters ought to be instructed by a female who cannot speak her mind without needless repetition.”
“I do not have a stutter, Your Grace,” she snapped, the flush overtaking her entire face until her creamy skin was tinged a delectable shade of pink. Not even her ears were exempt. “I am simply searching for a polite means of relaying what I wish to say.”
He frowned at her, recalling his reason for requiring this private audience. “Miss Governess, I did not require your presence in my study so you could berate me. Let us consider it best that you cannot find your errant tongue.”
“Mrs. Notley,” she said on a rush, full lips still pressed into a fine line of condemnation. “Surely you cannot think it proper for your impressionable, innocent sisters to know of such a woman’s existence, never mind her name.”
“Mrs. Nulty,” he corrected smoothly, wondering if she had intentionally gotten the demimondaine’s name confused. Miss Turnbow was as sharp as a bayonet. He could see it in her eyes, read it in her every interaction. Her intelligence did not escape him. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.
“Precisely.” She busied herself with settling the fall of her dreadful skirt, avoiding his gaze. “The female in question ought not to be known to your sisters. I hope they have never made her acquaintance.”
Of course he had not introduced his sisters to the woman. Did Miss Governess think him a complete blackguard? His outrage dimmed when the conscience he had believed long dead reminded him he had entertained Mrs. Nulty—and some of her fellow actresses—in his townhome whilst his sisters were in residence. The woman was as beautiful as she was proficient at—
No. He stifled that vein of thought. The only pertinent fact was he did not dabble in mistresses. He had never offered Mrs. Nulty or any other female carte blanche. Given his notoriety and reputation, scandal sheets and town gossips tended to run rampant with falsehoods.
Falsehoods that had somehow reached the eager ears and eyes of Con and Nora. By God, he knew not how the little minxes managed to find such nonsense. They were more effective at getting what they wished than a phalanx of enemy soldiers.
Even so, the tone Miss Governess had taken, coupled with her attempt to control their dialogue, peeved him. He planted his hands upon the polished surface of his desk and leaned forward, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I must wonder at your fretfulness, Miss Governess. Why should Mrs. Nulty concern you? I would hate to think your remonstration is grounded in envy.”
Sherry eyes flashed at him, the only sign of her pique. “Rest assured I do not envy such a creature. My sole interest is the wellbeing and reputations of my charges, Lady Constance and Lady Honora.”
“As is mine.” Irritation surged. “That is the reason I required this audience, Miss Governess.”
She straightened in her seat. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Your Grace?”
Even now, her daring aroused him as much as it irritated him. Who did she think she was to speak thus to the Duke of Whitley, the man who paid her wages and provided the bed in which she slept? “You have been in my employ for twelve days.”
“Eleven,” she corrected.
He snorted. “Do you wish for this to be the last day, Miss Governess? I could dismiss you without reference.”
Her chin went up in defiance. Ah, there it was, her true self. The one she could not hide behind her mud-brown gowns and yards of lace. “Do you want to sack me, Your Grace?”
Yes, for then he would never need to see her again. He could forget about her and remove the lust that threatened to consume him like a diseased appendage. And perhaps his particular appendage would once more be capable of functioning as it ought.
Also, no, because it would mean he would never get to feel her beneath him once more or to strip her of all that ugly cloth and her godawful cap. Or to kiss a path straight from her rose-pink lips to her cunny.
What would she taste like? Would she whimper beneath him or moan and cry out, bold and unashamed in her passion?
Hell.
He skewered her with a narrow-eyed glare. “I wish for a governess to demonstrate humility. One who forces my wayward sisters to act with a care for comportment and a regard for manners. One who does not castigate me for imagined indiscretions which are of no concern to her regardless of their dubious veracity.”
“Dubious veracity?” She shot to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Why would your sisters be aware of that woman’s existence or her name if not because you brought her here to this very house? Do not think for a moment that belowstairs is not rife with information. I am aware you entertained that… female here on numerous occasions whilst your innocent sisters were in residence.”
By God, she was beautiful when enraged. All the brightness and boldness she sought to hide came to life in her anger. His body took control of his mind. He had intended to remonstrate her, to inform her he had hired her to bring a modicum of order to his restless household, to rein in his hoyden sisters. He had hired her, damn her lovely hide, so he would no longer need to think or worry or fear for their futures. So he could be free to live his life as he wished.
He had not hired her so she would haunt his bloody cock to the point that he could not seek pleasure with another woman. When had he ever gone to The Duke’s Bastard and turned down the company of whores? When had he ever been unable or unwilling to bed a lightskirt? Or two at one time?
He stood, slammed his fist into the desk with so much force it made his knuckles ache. “Do you dare to question me, Miss Governess?”
She stared at him as if he were repugnant, and how he longed for the oblivion of drink. For the darkness of the night. For mindlessness and weightlessness and the freedom from all the guilt and demons that dogged him.
“I do not question you, Your Grace,” she said at length, her voice tight with her irritation and condemnation both. “But I do question your judgment. Lady Constance and Lady Honora should not have access to scandal. Nor should they have any knowledge of your… improper associations. They should remain innocent and blissfully unware of all licentiousness. Indeed, if your actions should besmirch their characters due to their association with you, no suitable gentleman will take either of them as his wife, regardless of the fact they are the daughters and sisters of a duke. Your pedigree, estimable though it may be, cannot save them from you.”
Save them from him? Damn and blast, the female had gall.
The irritation and lust
raging within him met in that moment. Blackness and anger and desperate need collided. There were at least a dozen different reasons why he ought to dismiss Miss Turnbow from his study—hell, from his damned employ as well—and return to the simplistic comfort of gloom and drink. Equally, as many reasons why he should eviscerate the inconvenient, wild attraction continued to spark to life and draw him to the infernal woman opposite him.
She thought herself a worthy opponent, did she? Well, she thought wrong. For if she wanted to battle him, she ought to acquaint herself with one fact.
She would never emerge the victor.
A growl sounded deep in his throat. “You have gone too damned far, Miss Governess.”
Her gaze grew wary. “Your Grace?”
Perhaps she was asking if she needed to fear him.
The answer was yes.
It had always been yes.
Would forever be, simply, yes.
He had demons in his soul, and they wanted to consume her. To make little Miss Governess his delectable sacrifice. Perhaps she could assuage the ache. The blinding need. The all-consuming hunger.
He skirted the desk. Before he could control himself or ponder the wisdom of his reaction, his hands found the supple curve of her waist. The vile, filthy creature he had become screamed to be unleashed.
Crispin tread a dangerous line between control and rampaging lust. It seemed the more she enraged him, the more he wanted Miss Governess. Beneath him. Atop him. On her knees before him. That tart mouth of hers filled with his cock.
Curse it, the lust was winning his inner battle. He wanted her to sit on his face so he could thrash her with his tongue until the only word that left her beautiful lips was his name.
“Apologize to me, Miss Governess,” he demanded. “At once.”
Her chin tipped up, and she threw her shoulders back, the image of foolish, beautiful defiance. “I will not apologize for uttering the truth, Your Grace. Nor will I express contrition for advising you to act in a fashion befitting a gentleman with two sisters he shall need to see married in the next few years. You do them a great disservice in your lechery, and someone must alert you to the error of your ways.”
Haughty and condescending to the last.
The frenzy inside him grew. It doubled and tripled and quadrupled.
He should release her. Should have never touched her.
But now that he had done so, he could not deny the rightness of it. Her waist was far smaller than her shapeless gown suggested. And soft as it had been that night in his study. He would hazard an experienced guess that beneath her gown, a chemise and stays were all she wore. A surge of hunger so violent it almost took his breath shot through him. What was it about this woman, with her ridiculous penchant to cloak herself in linen and lace and hideous colorlessness that drew him to her?
It could not be beauty alone, for while her features themselves were undeniably fine when considered apart from her appalling toilette, he had known and bedded more than his fair share of attractive women. Bored wives, happy wives, sad wives, widows, actresses, countesses, duchesses, ladies, and lightskirts… the appellation mattered not. A beautiful woman was a beautiful woman.
He studied Miss Turnbow with hardened concentration, determined to see what part of her drew him to her. Surely she possessed no quality that was peculiarly remarkable. Her high cheekbones? The slender nose kissed with copper freckles? Her pink, wide lips? Those luscious sherry eyes? Her full bosom and well-curved waist?
Bloody hell. As he stared down at her, he could see nothing more than a comely woman striving to hide her looks however she might, but nevertheless one who ought not to affect him in a way no other before her had. Was it that she should be forbidden to him since she was his servant and responsible for his sisters? Perhaps he had grown bored with the crop of willing women ever ready to spread their milky white thighs for him. Or was it she was the opposite of every other female he’d fucked in his desperate bid for distraction since his return from the hells he’d faced on the Continent?
Crispin could not think. Could not force his mind to circle round the matter one more time. Not when the heat of Miss Governess’s body and the distinct, feminine feel of it both burned into him like a wicked, inescapable flame.
He lowered his head so his nose almost brushed hers. So her heady scent washed over him. Floral, feminine, and delicious. He stared into her wide eyes. “Do you think me licentious, Miss Governess?”
Her hands were on his biceps, fingers squeezing with a gentle pressure. “I think you a very dangerous man, Your Grace.”
The attraction between them was mutual. He sensed it in the way her body subconsciously relaxed against him, so that her curves filled the hard planes and angles of his. In the way she clutched him rather than pushing him away. Damn her. If she had been aloof, if she had attempted to escape, he would have let her go. But she had not, and he could not let her go now.
Because he wanted more, and so did she.
“You are correct in your assessment,” he bit out angrily, for she tempted him beyond reason and he resented her for the weakness she created, a weakness that had never previously existed. “I am very dangerous to you.” He stepped closer, until they were nose to nose. His forehead touched hers. “Dangerous to your virtue, Miss Governess.”
Her pupils were obsidian, large and beckoning, giving her away. Her glittering eyes, honey and sherry, gold and warm, were wide and clear and unblinking. He could lose himself in their depths, in the sweet scent of her. Jasmine and woman and… Holy God, his cock pressed the fall of his breeches like a madman determined to be released from forced incarceration.
“You would force yourself upon a helpless female dependent upon your largesse for her supper, Your Grace?” she asked softly.
Ah, here they were at the crux of the matter.
He inched nearer, allowing his lower lip to brush against hers from left to right. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Would it be force then, Miss Governess, if I kissed you now? Would you kiss me back, or would you slap me? I confess, I cannot help but wonder.”
Her eyes remained wide, the shallowness of her breathing and tightening of her grip on him the only indication that she was affected. He waited for her to respond. For her to deny she wanted him.
Their push and pull was inexorable. Undeniable. He had never wanted to strip a woman of her trappings more. The cap, the lace, the muslin. He would divest her of every tool she used to diminish her beauty until she was all he could see.
Silence fell heavy between them. For a few beats, neither of them said a word. His already limited patience snapped like a twig. He gave her waist a gentle, coaxing squeeze. “Answer me, damn you.”
She sighed on a humid exhalation that feathered over his mouth like a caress. He was so desperate for her, even the air she expelled from her lungs seemed precious, and he longed to somehow take it into his body, claim ownership of her in this small, mad sense. As if breathing her air could make her his. A sudden, stark jolt of possessiveness seized him. Damnation, but he wanted to claim her in a way he had never experienced.
“Answer me,” he repeated, needing to hear the admission from her lips. Needing to know the wild want he felt for her was reciprocated, that she could not deny it any more than he could. His mind began to form solutions. It was his nature, what had made him an excellent soldier. “Do you want me to kiss you?”
Her hands slid to his shoulders and then twined about his neck. Her lips parted. Another sultry gust of tea-scented air hit him. He bit his lip, reining in his need with Herculean effort. Still, she said nothing.
Not yes.
Not no.
Not. A. Bloody. Word.
He was about to set her from him when her fingers sank into his hair. Her nails raked over his scalp in a delicious abrasion. She swallowed, seemingly to prepare herself, almost as if she was about to face a wall of enemy soldiers with bayonets drawn. Which was ridiculous. He was not her enemy. They were not at war. He was a dark and demente
d bastard, it was true, but he would not hurt her. Would never take anything more than what she would willingly offer.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Her fingers guided him. She rolled to her tiptoes. Their mouths met, hungry, hot, and open. On a groan, he sank his tongue past her lips, and he knew for certain in that moment of feverish capitulation he would not rest until he was inside her. Until she was his. The instincts that had infallibly guided him through years of war—instincts he had ignored on the godawful day he’d lost his best friend—had never betrayed him.
He could make her his mistress, grant her carte blanche. Although he had never offered his protection to anyone before her, he knew having her once or even a handful of furtive times would never satisfy him. Her tongue tangled with his. God, yes. He could find another damned governess. This woman was his and his alone. His sisters could not possibly require her as much as he did.
He hummed his satisfaction into her mouth, knowing he had found the perfect solution, and deepened the kiss.
Chapter Eight
The Duke of Whitley kissed the way he did everything. Full-force. Blistering. Unpredictable and wild. His mouth upon hers was passionate and demanding, a conflagration of the unwanted pull between them from the moment she had first entered his study. His kiss owned her. It savaged her. Left her reeling.
Heat blossomed low in her belly, mingling with desire and a raw, frenzied need. The restless sensations he sparked within her were real and insistent though she did not want to acknowledge them. The barbarous molding of his lips to hers both shocked and enthralled her. He kissed as if he claimed her, hot and hungry, and such a disparity from his cold, harsh mien.
Caution and warning attempted to intrude. But she had plainly taken leave of her senses. That was the only explanation for the grave mistake she had made in kissing the Duke of Whitley.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 9
