Surely he could not think to seduce her once more? “Your Grace, I have already made amply apparent to you I do not wish for a… dalliance.”
“Your buttons, Miss Governess,” came his sibilant explanation, curt as ever. “As I am the one who undid them, it seems the responsibility to fasten them falls upon me as well.”
“No.” Her lips firmed into a forbidding line as she frowned at him. She did not want him to get any closer. To touch her again. Something about this man made her weak. “I shall fasten them on my own.”
He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously likestubborn bloody wench, but she hadn’t the time to reflect upon it for his hands clamped on her waist. He spun her to face the wall opposite him, and then his fingers—nimble and long and tapered as she had not failed to notice—skipped along the line of buttons as if he were a lady’s maid born and bred. In a trice, he had her refastened.
Strong hands clasped her waist once more. He spun her to face him. His countenance was hard, harsh, and expressionless. She swallowed, wishing she had never lost her wits. That she had never fallen so precariously into his arms and kisses.
“Have we reached an understanding then, Your Grace?” she queried softly, because it was necessary. Perhaps her foolishness would land her on the street, and she would need to beg Kilross for mercy. She would shoulder the blame for her own injudiciousness. No one had forced her to give into her wicked longings. She would face Father and confess all if need be. And she would make amends.
Whitley raised an imperious brow, looking as majestic and forbidding as any king in that moment. “We have not. As I distinctly recall, I required this dialogue so I could reprimand you for the lack of progress I see in Lady Honora and Lady Constance.”
If anything, there had been a wealth of progress, and she was willing to wager he knew it just as well as she did. Her frown sharpened. “Forgive me, but I fail to see the lack of progress you allude to.”
A second brow joined the first. “Either you are foolishly comfortable in your position here or you are mad, Miss Governess. Do you dare to gainsay me?”
She supposed she was being unaccountably forward for a servant in his employ and at his mercy. But they had already crossed firm boundaries, and she could not stymy her self-defense now that it had emerged, glorious and bold in a way the real Jacinda was not. Or at least the Jacinda she ordinarily was. She had almost become a different person, it seemed since her arrival at Whitley House, so that she no longer knew where one Jacinda ended and the other began.
The duke continued to stare her down, awaiting her response. Her gaze flicked to his mouth of its own accord, watching as the finely molded lips quirked into a knowing grin.
Shame stole over her cheeks in a heated flush as she snapped her eyes back to his, unflinching. “Do not forget, Your Grace, you were gone for nearly half the time I have been in your employ. I hardly think the limited amount of time you have spent in Lady Constance and Lady Honora’s presences can imbue you with the necessary judgment.”
He caught her chin in his grip, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that he reminded her of his larger size, his well-muscled frame. He could easily overpower her. Force her to do his bidding. “Enlighten me, Miss Governess. Prove to me you are deserving of maintaining your position.”
How dare he? Anyone could see his sisters had been hellions absent of even a modicum of direction. Their parents had been dead for years, their previous guardian had been a drunkard who choked to death on his supper, and their closest living family member and guardian was a degenerate rakehell who spent his time alternately drinking and wenching for days. Until he passed out and began the cycle anew, that was. How were young ladies meant to thrive when everything in their world was arranged to their severe disadvantage?
Fury soared through her, replacing the witless lust he had inspired. Fury for her charges. Fury at herself for her damnable weakness for this man. Fury at his arrogance and condemnation. Fury she had allowed him such shocking liberties.
Regret that she had stopped him.
No.She scrubbed that rogue feeling from her being at once and plowed forward with what must be done. She clenched her muslin skirt to blunt the sting of her aggression and took a deep breath before responding with a poise and calm that shocked even her. “If you truly wish for me to prove myself to you, then I challenge you to put forth an effort. Cease disappearing and drowning yourself in spirits. Be present for your sisters. Observe how far they have come since the day I arrived to find them sledding down the staircase upon silver salvers whilst your horrified domestics looked helplessly on.”
He ground his jaw, glaring. “Hiring them a bloody governess is putting forth an effort. As is tolerating their hoydenish ways.”
How little he knew about the human heart if he believed his cold, limited interaction with his sisters was sufficient. A sadness she was not meant to feel cut through her. In that moment of utter clarity, she saw him in a way she had not before. He and Lady Honora and Lady Constance had lost everyone but each other. And yet he kept himself apart, buried himself in whisky and demons. Beneath his icy aloofness and arrogant cruelty lay a man who carried his scars on the inside. He was hurting, and it seemed the Duke of Whitley either did not know how to heal himself or had not the desire to try.
Another emotion mingled with the sadness, unfurling within her like a spring bud, and she recognized it for what it was: compassion.
Was it his kiss that had unlocked this unwanted reaction? She could not be sure. All she knew was her time at Whitley House was not a stark matter of right versus wrong. Good heavens, it would seem she had begun to form an attachment to not only her charges but to their older brother as well.
She couldn’t stay the understanding beating in her heart. She considered him, gentling her voice as she spoke. “Your sisters need you now, Your Grace. You are all they have just as they are all you have. They need more than your occasional presence. They need more than a governess’s direction and care can provide them. Above all, they need your love.”
“Love.” He gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. “If you believe such rot, I have answered my own question and you are as queer in the attic as I suspected.”
She frowned at his crude dismissal of her suggestion. Of course it came as no surprise, but part of her wished he would let her past his grim defenses just once. Jacinda told herself the inclination sprang from her need to carry out her task. Uncovering his guilt was a burden she could not shed, and the knowledge she would one day betray him weighed heavily upon her.
She touched his coat sleeve, willing him to soften. To show her a sign he was not the depraved traitor he was suspected of being. “Think upon what I have said, Your Grace.”
Reacting with lightning quickness, he removed his coat from her touch and clasped her hand in his, holding her captive when she would have departed the room. His gaze was fierce upon her, his expression unreadable. “Do not forget your role here, Miss Turnbow.”
He released her just as abruptly. The man had a way of using his words and frigid mien as effectively as the lash of a riding crop. How thoroughly he had undone her. How wicked and wrong she was to weaken for him.
She had been right when she told him he was dangerous.
From this moment forward, she could not allow herself to be alone with him. She must hold true to her course and remain impervious to him in every way.
“I would not dream of forgetting my role here,” she assured him, meaning it more than he could possibly know.
