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. Ashisservant. 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 iseveryneed. 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 asked, 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.”
