He had not hired her so she would haunt his bloody cock to the point that he could not seek pleasure with another woman. When had he ever gone to The Duke’s Bastard and turned down the company of whores? When had he ever been unable or unwilling to bed a lightskirt? Or two at one time?
He stood, slammed his fist into the desk with so much force it made his knuckles ache. “Do you dare to question me, Miss Governess?”
She stared at him as if he were repugnant, and how he longed for the oblivion of drink. For the darkness of the night. For mindlessness and weightlessness and the freedom from all the guilt and demons that dogged him.
“I do not question you, Your Grace,” she said at length, her voice tight with her irritation and condemnation both. “But I do question your judgment. Lady Constance and Lady Honora should not have access to scandal. Nor should they have any knowledge of your… improper associations. They should remain innocent and blissfully unware of all licentiousness. Indeed, if your actions should besmirch their characters due to their association with you, no suitable gentleman will take either of them as his wife, regardless of the fact they are the daughters and sisters of a duke. Your pedigree, estimable though it may be, cannot save them from you.”
Save them from him? Damn and blast, the female had gall.
The irritation and lust raging within him met in that moment. Blackness and anger and desperate need collided. There were at least a dozen different reasons why he ought to dismiss Miss Turnbow from his study—hell, from his damned employ as well—and return to the simplistic comfort of gloom and drink. Equally, as many reasons why he should eviscerate the inconvenient, wild attraction continued to spark to life and draw him to the infernal woman opposite him.
She thought herself a worthy opponent, did she? Well, she thought wrong. For if she wanted to battle him, she ought to acquaint herself with one fact.
She would never emerge the victor.
A growl sounded deep in his throat. “You have gone too damned far, Miss Governess.”
Her gaze grew wary. “Your Grace?”
Perhaps she was asking if she needed to fear him.
The answer was yes.
It had always been yes.
Would forever be, simply,yes.
He had demons in his soul, and they wanted to consume her. To make little Miss Governess his delectable sacrifice. Perhaps she could assuage the ache. The blinding need. The all-consuming hunger.
He skirted the desk. Before he could control himself or ponder the wisdom of his reaction, his hands found the supple curve of her waist. The vile, filthy creature he had become screamed to be unleashed.
Crispin tread a dangerous line between control and rampaging lust. It seemed the more she enraged him, the more he wanted Miss Governess. Beneath him. Atop him. On her knees before him. That tart mouth of hers filled with his cock.
Curse it, the lust was winning his inner battle. He wanted her to sit on his face so he could thrash her with his tongue until the only word that left her beautiful lips was his name.
“Apologize to me, Miss Governess,” he demanded. “At once.”
Her chin tipped up, and she threw her shoulders back, the image of foolish, beautiful defiance. “I will not apologize for uttering the truth, Your Grace. Nor will I express contrition for advising you to act in a fashion befitting a gentleman with two sisters he shall need to see married in the next few years. You do them a great disservice in your lechery, and someone must alert you to the error of your ways.”
Haughty and condescending to the last.
The frenzy inside him grew. It doubled and tripled and quadrupled.
He should release her. Should have never touched her.
But now that he had done so, he could not deny the rightness of it. Her waist was far smaller than her shapeless gown suggested. And soft as it had been that night in his study. He would hazard an experienced guess that beneath her gown, a chemise and stays were all she wore. A surge of hunger so violent it almost took his breath shot through him. What was it about this woman, with her ridiculous penchant to cloak herself in linen and lace and hideous colorlessness that drew him to her?
It could not be beauty alone, for while her features themselves were undeniably fine when considered apart from her appalling toilette, he had known and bedded more than his fair share of attractive women. Bored wives, happy wives, sad wives, widows, actresses, countesses, duchesses, ladies, and lightskirts… the appellation mattered not. A beautiful woman was a beautiful woman.
He studied Miss Turnbow with hardened concentration, determined to see what part of her drew him to her. Surely she possessed no quality that was peculiarly remarkable. Her high cheekbones? The slender nose kissed with copper freckles? Her pink, wide lips? Those luscious sherry eyes? Her full bosom and well-curved waist?
Bloody hell.As he stared down at her, he could see nothing more than a comely woman striving to hide her looks however she might, but nevertheless one who ought not to affect him in a way no other before her had. Was it that she should be forbidden to him since she was his servant and responsible for his sisters? Perhaps he had grown bored with the crop of willing women ever ready to spread their milky white thighs for him. Or was it she was the opposite of every other female he’d fucked in his desperate bid for distraction since his return from the hells he’d faced on the Continent?
Crispin could not think. Could not force his mind to circle round the matter one more time. Not when the heat of Miss Governess’s body and the distinct, feminine feel of it both burned into him like a wicked, inescapable flame.
He lowered his head so his nose almost brushed hers. So her heady scent washed over him. Floral, feminine, and delicious. He stared into her wide eyes. “Do you think me licentious, Miss Governess?”
Her hands were on his biceps, fingers squeezing with a gentle pressure. “I think you a very dangerous man, Your Grace.”
