Jacinda composed herself and forced her response. “Forgive me. Of course I shall join you following breakfast, Your Grace. I shall see Lady Constance and Lady Honora settled with their watercolors, and then I will report to you directly.”
“Look at me when you speak to me, Miss Templebottom,” he demanded.
“Turnbow,” Lady Constance shocked her by correcting the duke.
Jacinda’s wide, startled gaze flew to her youngest charge. Bless that Portugal cake. Perhaps later today, she would make them plum cakes. One of the advantages of living a frugal existence with Father meant she had learned how to perform a great many tasks for herself. As it happened, she enjoyed baking sweets every bit as much as Father liked to consume them.
“Her name is Miss Turnbow, Crispin,” added Lady Honora. “You really ought to know that by now. She has been our governess for almost a fortnight.”
The entire room stilled. The clinking of cutlery halted. The footmen presiding over the meal seemed to freeze. The duke’s expression darkened. He glowered.
“Lady Constance, Lady Honora,” Jacinda said, quick to fill the silence echoing in the chamber with her words. “You must not correct His Grace.”Regardless of how wrong he is or how well-deserved that correction is.
“You have lasted longer than all the others,” Lady Constance grumbled. “He should know your bloody name.”
“Mind your language if you please, Lady Constance,” she hastened to correct her charge. Jacinda was playing a role, but maintaining her cover necessitated her ability to convincingly portray herself as a governess. She could not shake the impression she was failing miserably. A fresh stab of guilt at her lies pricked her. For all that, Lady Constance and Lady Honora were trying. She had nevertheless begun to develop a fondness for them.
At least her charges seemed to have suddenly developed a hint of loyalty toward her. But she did not trust their abrupt allegiance any more than she trusted their brother.
“Forgive me, Miss Turnbow,” Lady Constance said sweetly.
“Lady Constance, Lady Honora, you may take your breakfast in your chambers,” Whitley growled. “Miss Turnbow, I will meet with you in my study. Now.”
His voice suggested that opposition would be expressed at a great cost.
At least he had gotten her name correct.
Casting the luscious golden cubes of pineapple on her own plate a longing glance, she rose. “Yes of course, Your Grace.”
Somehow, despite his arrogance, the thought of bringing the Duke of Whitley low did not fill her with the glow of satisfaction. Nor did the notion of him betraying Searle seem as certain as Kilross claimed. The duke was a condescending cad, but would the same man who had orchestrated the murder of his comrade also look after that man’s widowed mother and younger brother? And what of the orphans?
She wanted to loathe Whitley. Wanted to believe him guilty, for it would make her task that much easier. Lessen her guilt. Force her to be tireless in her pursuit of the evidence Kilross wanted against him.
But nothing made sense.
And she had never been more hopelessly conflicted.
*
Miss Governess nettledhim.
The aftereffects of the whisky he’d consumed during his stint at The Duke’s Bastard still coursed through Crispin, but he had done his best to combat it with another hot bath that morning, an immense breakfast, and a hideous amount of coffee. As he stood behind the desk in his study and watched the siren he had foolishly tasked with corralling his hoyden sisters, he clenched his jaw.
This morning, she had dressed in yet another bloody sack the color of mud. Shapeless, inelegant, and hideous, the gown had not a stitch to recommend it. The abundant lace fichu tucked into her décolletage obstructed his view of her luscious breasts. Yet another large, unsightly cap concealed her vibrant hair.
Everything about what she had donned today was meant to detract from her innate beauty. She could drown herself in drab colors and yards of unnecessary muslin, could hide herself beneath caps and lace and averted gazes. But he saw her.
Miss Turnbow was not what she seemed. Something about her had pricked at his soldier’s senses on the day she had first appeared in his darkened study, and it continued to prod him now.
He did not like his reaction to her.
It was inconvenient.
Perplexing.
Infuriating.
Also, wild and invigorating. The mere memory of her soft body beneath his had made him as randy as a sailor just returned to land after a year at sea. Lust was not a problem. Crispin adored fucking. His cock was large and he knew how to use it. His tongue was long and he knew how to use it. His mouth was wicked, and he… damnation. Best to stay further thoughts in that inappropriate direction, for it made his prick go rigid, and there wasn’t a cursed thing he could do to assuage his hunger.
