“Mrs. Nulty?” Lady Constance added.
Jacinda’s ears went hot. “My ladies, you must never mention such private, delicate topics of conversation. It is not your place, and neither are the duke’s whereabouts your concern.”
Never mind the twist of something rude and unpleasant in her belly at the name. Mrs. Nulty. Of course Whitley would have a mistress. Why should she imagine otherwise? Just because he had been so disconcertingly familiar with her person did not mean a man of the duke’s considerable looks and licentious reputation would not have a dozen other women at his disposal. Keeping lightskirts was common enough among men of his station.
The reference to this mysterious female did not affect Jacinda one jot. The Duke of Whitley was a conscienceless rakehell. Her sole concern was obtaining the enciphered messages Kilross required and ensuring she and Father did not lose everything they possessed.
“Apologize to His Grace at once, my ladies,” she added to the duke’s impish sisters.
“Pray forgive us, Crispin,” they chimed in unison.
Jacinda wondered if Mrs. Nulty was beautiful. Undoubtedly, amongst the demimonde, she would be a diamond of the first water. She poked at the pound cake on her plate.
“You are forgiven for the lapse in good sense and good comportment, sisters.” His tone was low, almost a growl. “Miss Governess?”
She jerked her gaze up from her plate, finding herself the recipient of that flinty gray gaze once more. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I wish to have a word with you in my study following breakfast.” His jaw hardened, his beautifully sculpted lips tightening with what she could only surmise was either disgust or disapproval for her.
Perhaps both.
Mayhap he only liked to grope his servants in the dark of night, when he could not see them clearly. Of course she could not compare to a Mrs. Nulty, some lush creature who groomed herself to be the object of every man’s desire so she might wheedle her living out of his purse whilst on her back.
Oh, bother.That was deucedly small of her. And perhaps shrewish. She was not in a position to cast judgment.
“Miss Governess?”
At his sharp voice, her back stiffened. Surely it was wrong for a despicable knave to also be so handsome. A little quiver happened in her belly each time she saw him.
“Your Grace?” she asked, expunging the ire from her tone so it was only sweet and biddable as befitted a lady of her station. Above all else, a governess must not berate her employer before her charges. She must never allow him to see she possessed pride or the base human emotion of anger.
With great effort, she schooled her features into a mask of poise and calm.
His gaze raked over her, pausing on her mouth. He took his time speaking, making certain, it seemed, that she knew he assessed her, making sure the servants and even his sisters noticed.
Her lips tingled.
His attention dipped to her bosom.
Her traitorous nipples hardened, her breasts feeling achy and full. Why did he have the power to reawaken old hungers she had thought long dead?
“I fear I did not hear your response,” he said, forcing her to realize her gaze strayed back to his lips.
What had he asked of her? Mortification unfurled, her cheeks going as hot as her ears. Stupidly, she stared back at him, wondering how she—a lady of reasonable intellect and practicality—could be so undone by one tyrant duke she neither liked nor trusted.
Oh, but part of her liked him far, far too much.
She tamped down the troublesome thought.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” She paused, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry. “What was it you required of me?”
“Your presence.” His lip curled. “In my study. Following breakfast. It was not a request, Miss Governess, but I do expect an answer just the same.”
How had she forgotten? Why did he rattle her so?
A potted plant.She would be unremarkable. Unnoticeable. Unaffected.
She bowed her head, feigning humility and penitence both even as her lip longed to curl right back at him, the hateful oaf. When he had been in his cups, he had not been so cruel. The sober Duke of Whitley was a fiend.
