Even so, although she appreciated his generosity, she was not about to christen him a saint just yet. The man was far too wicked and jaded for redemption. Had he not just spent four whole days in a den of iniquity?
“Good morning, Con, Nora.” The duke paused. “Miss Governess?”
She had no choice but to look up from her hem where she had forced her gaze. His striking gray eyes seemed to sear her, to steal her breath, to see past all her trappings and lies, her lace and cap and linen and carefully crafted deceptions.
His nostrils flared and his sensual lips tightened, twin signs of his wrath. “You will speak to me when I address you, madam.”
Did he wish her to dispose of a mouse carcass today? Or perhaps to fall to her knees and lick his gleaming riding boots? The seducer who had tempted her in the darkness days before was nowhere to be found. In his place was the cold, arrogant duke once more. Everything in her longed to spill his coffee and breakfast plate both in his lap.
She tamped down her inner rebellion with great effort and gritting of teeth. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Your curtsy was abbreviated,” he snapped, his lip curling. “I cannot countenance my sisters being taught by a governess who cannot even manage proper deference for her master.”
Her master.
She stiffened. His words swirled through her, settling in her mind like a hundred tiny pinpricks. Irritating. Infuriating. But she was not at Whitley House to allow her temper to make her falter. She needed to maintain her position as governess. To act as a proper servant should. She had made a promise to her father, and she owed him the duty of seeing this to its fruition.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say, though it did not sound sincere even to her own ears.
“Another.”
His clipped demand rang through the chamber with the force of a whip.
She stifled a frown. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Another curtsy, if you please, Miss Governess.” A small, smug smile curved his lips.
His brow raised in challenge. Was he intent upon humiliation, or was it his power over her that he relished wielding? She could not be sure. Everything in her protested. Her fingers itched to flip his cup once more. To send the steaming liquid into his lap.
Instead, she bit her lip, kept her mutiny to herself, and dipped into the most elegant and prolonged curtsy she could manage, holding his gaze all the while. Cool gray eyes glittered into hers, dipping to her mouth as she raised to her full height.
“Will that suffice, Your Grace?” she asked when he remained silent, considering her in a regard that was far too warm for her liking.
For it sent a most unwanted frisson of something she refused to acknowledge straight to her core.
Irritation was all it was.
Loathing, perhaps.
“For now. Do join me for breakfast, my ladies, Miss Governess.” His lips twitched.
She wished she had not looked at those lips, for she could not help but recall how his mouth had felt upon her skin. Warm and delicious and so very enticing, even if he was the last man in the world for whom she ought to develop a weakness.
Especially when she had never before—not in all her five-and-twenty years—allowed herself to feel something for a man other than James. But she would not think of James now, not in this moment of dangerous deception with the Duke of Whitley presiding over her like a sinful king. The two men could not be more disparate, and the shameful feelings Whitley elicited could not dare taint the pure love she’d shared with James before his untimely death.
He, too, had been a soldier. One who had met his end at the hands of the French cowards when he’d fallen behind on a winter’s march through the Spanish mountains. Avenging him by helping her father had been her life’s purpose ever since that day. She had never forgotten, wouldnever, ever forget.
“Thank you.” Jacinda turned her attention to her charges, busying herself with seeing them settled and acting as befitted their station rather than as lady pirates.
With filled plates, steaming cups of tea, and planted bottoms, Ladies Honora and Constance began breaking their fast. Jacinda almost heaved a sigh of relief at the ease of it. They had yet to issue a cheeky retort or plant a dead rodent anywhere. Or use the salvers as sleds.
She brought her tea to her lips and inhaled its rich scent, sipping delicately. It did need more sugar, but she was willing to accept it as it was, for she loved nothing better than a well-steeped cup of tea…
Until Lady Honora disrupted the silence.
“Were you visiting your mistress, Crispin?”
She swallowed her tea to avoid choking upon it.
