“This is not the library, Miss Governess,” he hissed. “Why the hell are you wandering about in the dark?”
“Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Grace.” She paused, attempting to gather her wits. “Would you be so kind as to release me so that I may return to the sanctity of my chamber? This is most improper.”
“Improper is you wandering about my study in the dead of night dressed in nothing more than a diaphanous bit of muslin,” he growled, his face so near to hers, his hot breath fell over her mouth like a kiss. “Was it your intention for me to find you here?”
“I can assure you it was not my intention to be dragged to the floor and pinned down by a man.” She tried to free her hands from his grip, exasperation and desperation mingling with a fierce, molten want. “I demand you release me at once.”
“You demand, do you?” He chuckled without mirth.
A trill of fear at being discovered unfurled within her, but it was fear mingled with desire, and somehow the combination was a heady, forceful pressure that washed over her body like a warm, shameful caress.
In that moment, fear and desire were not so far removed from one another.
What if he suspected her? What if he knew she had been rummaging through the papers in his study, searching for evidence of his correspondence with France?
The bitter reminder of the gravity of her position and what she was meant to do cut into her with the sharp precision of a blade. She shivered, and it was not because she longed for him to do more than lay atop her—which she was ashamed to realize she did—but because she was at this man’s mercy. Nothing lay between her life and his ability to deal her a death blow. Nothing but her ability to avoid detection. Nothing but her fluency for deception.
“Please,” she said. “Your Grace.”
“I will release you when you answer my bloody question, Miss Governess. What in the name of all that is holy were you doing in my study?”
His guttural demand was perhaps what she should have expected. “Forgive me for my ignorance, Your Grace, but in the darkness, I thought I had entered the library.”
His face lowered, his beard-roughened cheek abrading hers. His nose and mouth pressed against her throat. “I do not care for your excuses, Governess.”
Frustration boiled to the surface within her. “Respectfully, the truth is not an excuse, Your Grace.”
His body stiffened. “You dare to gainsay me, Miss Turnbellow?”
Why could no one in his cursed family seem to be capable of recalling her surname? She ground her teeth. “Turnbow, Your Grace.”
“What of a bow, now, Miss Governess?” He dragged his nose over the cord of her throat, inhaling deeply.
Jacinda swallowed. Something about this beast-of-a-man, so jaded and wounded, so thoroughly depraved he was not above tackling his new governess and taking liberties with her in the dark, this beautiful man—he affected her in a way she could not like. In a way she could not allow.
She gritted her teeth and writhed against him. “Miss. Turnbow.”
“Miss Turnbow?” he asked, his voice thick, low, and intimate as her movements achieved the opposite of her intended effect. His body settled more firmly atop hers, her thighs opening wider to cradle him through the thin muslin of her gown. Her breasts brushed against his chest with each movement, eliciting a spark of sensation.
His lips grazed her neck, banishing all thoughts. She could not suppress her shiver. Being beneath him thus, at his mercy, did not concern her as much as it ought. Rather, it intrigued her. Brought her to life in a most sinful and unwanted fashion. No fear coursed through her. Only reckless, heady need, the likes of which she had not felt in years.
Wanting him was wrong, Jacinda reminded herself. Impossible.
“Miss Turnbow is my name, Your Grace. I was merely reminding you,” she said softly, hating the breathlessness that had leaked into her voice.
“Ah, how helpful of you, Governess.” His mouth found a particularly vulnerable swath of skin. His lips opened, his tongue darting against her for a brief, mesmerizing moment. “Thank you.”
He dragged his lips lower, to the space where her neck and shoulder met.
Despite herself, she arched her back, thrust her head into the carpet, and opened herself for his feasting. What was wrong with her? He was a reprobate. A rake. More than likely—for she had no way of knowing whether or not the Earl of Kilross’s evidence against him was accurate—a traitor.
She should be protesting, demanding her release. She lodged her knee between his strong, horseman’s thighs so that he could no longer press the hard prod of his staff into her. Above all, she should not be enjoying the forbidden sensation of him against her center.
“You are most welcome, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say with as little emotion as possible. “Now, if you please, would you be so kind as to allow me to stand so I may return to my chamber?”
He made a humming sound in his throat, and whether it was enjoyment or contemplation, she could not say. But his lips did not leave her flesh except for a beat. “No.”
Here was where fright should begin. Where duty to Father and protecting his position at all costs ought to take over.
