“Pray forgive us,” they chirped in unison.
“You are both forgiven,” Miss Governess said in that august air she possessed that made her sound more like a queen than a lowly governess.
“I expect you to treat her with the respect she is due from this moment forward,” he added, not entirely certain why he was coming to the defense of Miss Governess. Boredom? A desire to fuck her? Both?
She turned her attention to him, meeting his gaze for the first time since their unfortunate interlude several days past involving the dead mouse. He was aware he had been an ass. But the woman nettled him. He had not been able to return to sleep or even drink whisky the night after she had suggested he would force himself upon her, for he did not like to think his depravity had sunk so low.
The shock in her eyes—those orbs like dark, molten honey had a way of cutting straight to the marrow of his bones—made his cock twitch once more. He gritted his teeth and turned his attention back to his ham, pretending he had not noticed her or the gratitude shining in the luminous depths of those eyes. Christ on the cross, she had been looking at him as if he were someone worthy of her adulation.
No one in Christendom was less worthy of her admiration.
He clenched his jaw. “Lady Constance and Lady Honora, I expect a response when I speak to you.”
“Yes, Crispin,” Con muttered, her inner sense of rebellion already peeking through her feigned contrition.
“Of course, Crispin,” Nora added, not even making an effort to excise the sarcasm from her tone.
Why should his sisters be saints when he was the greatest sinner of all? It stood to reason that, since they had all fallen from the same rotten tree, they would be horridly imperfect regardless of their sex. And yet, he resented his sisters for their wildness. For being creatures who required his guardianship and effort when all he wanted was to bury himself in the darkness and numb his mind and soul.
Responsibility was the devil.
And he had suffered enough of it. He wasn’t hungry for ham. He was hungry for Miss Cursed Governess, who he could not bed regardless of how much he wanted her. For even if he could persuade her to become his mistress, he would be left finding another governess to reign in his intractable sisters and he would have the black mark against his soul of having debauched an innocent. Though he already had enough black marks against his soul to send him to hell where he belonged, he did not wish to make Miss Governess the cause of one more.
He would find another, far more suitable substitute for his inconvenient lust. A lovely one, with generous bubbies and an accommodating mouth eager to suck every last drop of…
He stood, not caring for propriety or manners or anything in that moment other than his need to remove himself from the ruinous presence of the bloody governess. When in the deuce had a brown gown ever been so alluring?
“I bid you ladies a good evening,” he managed, bowing. “I fear I have other obligations for the evening. Please do continue in my absence, and sisters, I shall meet with Miss Governess in the morning. Should she have anything negative to report to me, you shall be facing the consequences.”
With that, he turned and fled from the room. Con’s voice traveled after him.
“Miss Governess? Forgive me for the confusion, but I could have sworn your name was Miss Turnbow.”
At least the cheeky minx had gotten the surname right this time, when he intentionally had not.
Crispin left the unwanted tableau behind him, eager in the pursuit of distraction. Anything to escape the darkness that was never far from his heels.
*
The papers shehad liberated from the duke’s study had proved worthless, nothing more than mundane correspondence between him and others. She had not been able to discover any enciphered passages for all the hours she had spent poring over them into the night.
Which meant another visit to his study was necessary.
Jacinda waited until her charges had gone to bed and she was certain Whitley had left before venturing once more to his study. The benefit of her ruse was she had access to belowstairs, which afforded her an endless supply of useful information. It had not taken long to discover the weaknesses of the domestics, or to discern who would be a valuable ally and who she ought to avoid.
Confident in His Grace’s absence, she closed the door and extracted a rolled strip of linen from the hidden pocket in her gown. She sank to the plush carpet on her knees and wadded the fabric beneath the crack between the carved mahogany door and the floor to impede light from being seen from the hall. Not wasting time, she rose and lit a candle.
Jacinda softly padded to the duke’s large, intimidating desk and placed her candle upon it, memorizing the order and positioning of his papers before she began sifting through them. She had been far more cautious with this evening’s foray into the duke’s territory. Fortunately, he’d been willing to dismiss the last occasion as an innocent error. He would not be so understanding should there be another such discovery of her in his study.
She had gleaned, both from listening to chatter belowstairs and from Lady Constance and Lady Honora, that the Duke of Whitley was a creature of habit. He did nothing in small measure, and his black moods defined him. When he left for evening entertainment, he was not expected to return, oftentimes for days. She shuddered as she imagined how much depravity he could undertake in the span of several days.
At least his debauchery meant Jacinda was once again free to riffle through the duke’s correspondence and private papers without fear of being discovered or—worse—finding herself beneath him. Yes, he could wield his formidable member upon a female who would appreciate his ardor and attentions. The sharp stab in her middle at the notion was not jealousy. Nor was the ache between her thighs caused by the remembered intimacies she’d shared with him.
She felt nothing for Whitley except disdain.
Her first impression of him, a man surrounded by darkness, trapped in a hell of his own making, returned. He had not seemed capable of treachery. He had seemed a man in desperate need of change. Dissipated and troubled, unable to sleep, tasked with a pair of sisters who were undeniably minxes, burdened by a duchy he’d never intended to claim…
No.She must not think of him in such a manner. He did not deserve her sympathy or her desire. He was a traitor. A means to an end. She could not lose sight of who he was, who she was, and why she was there.
