“Your Grace?”
Her tone held a slight edge, and he forced his mind and gaze from his fiery imaginings. Belatedly, he realized he must have been mooning over her like a green lad whilst she and his sisters looked on.
He clenched his jaw, sensing he was agreeing to something but having no notion what after his mind’s wicked tangent. “Of course.”
“It is all settled.” Nora sounded like the proverbial cat who had got into the cream. “Con, come and play a Scottish reel with me. The one we have been practicing with Miss Turnbow, I should think.”
“That will be just the thing, Nora.Mrs. McLeod of Eyreis the song,” Con added to Crispin. “You must dance with Miss Turnbow. She has taught us a modified version of the reel with only two partners, and it is great fun.”
Dance with Miss Governess?The notion held appeal, and he could not deny it.
He swung his eyes back to her in askance. From the flush that had settled upon her cheeks, he could readily discern dancing with him had not been a part of her scheme. He grinned. All the better, then. “I would be more than happy to dance with Miss Turnbow if she will have me.”
He would be more than happy to do anything with the woman.
Any day.
Any hour.
Any bloody thing. Especially if it involved the both of them nude and in proximity to an accommodating bed. Or floor. Or divan. Carriage. Table. Desk.
Lord, the list went on, and he’d better stifle his depraved mind before it made his cock so hard he couldn’t dance after all.
“I do not think it proper,” she said stiffly into the expectant silence of the room, averting her gaze.
Oh, no.Miss Governess was not going to dodge him. After all, his presence this evening was her fault. He had lingered on account of her soliloquy because, although she had enraged him, her words had made more sense than he’d cared to admit.
“We have chaperones,” he said smoothly.
She frowned at his sisters, still avoiding looking in his direction. “Lady Constance, Lady Honora, your enthusiasm is commendable. However, a duke does not dance with the governess. It is simply not done.”
He supposed there may be some merit to her objection, but he was the Duke of Whitley, and he had cut his teeth on the battlefield rather than in the ballroom. He didn’t give a damn about manners and etiquette or the rarefied world into which he had been born. The sole reason he existed in London was thanks to the crown of thorns that was his coronet and the necessity of seeing to his sisters’ welfare.
“Miss Turnbow,” he said her name in his most authoritative tone, “I hardly think we will find ourselves mired in scandal broth if we dance a reel in the presence of my eleven and twelve-year-old sisters.”
She frowned, her gaze snapping back to his at last. “I suppose I should not be surprised to discover you are not even aware of the number of years they have spent upon this earth.”
The disdain she did not bother to hide from her voice needled him. He frowned right back at the vexing creature. “Of course I am aware. They aremyflesh and blood, after all.”
“I turned fourteen last month,” Nora supplied helpfully, the minx.
“I am almost thirteen,” Con added.
He ground his teeth, wondering why they could not have exhibited loyalty just the once and pretended to be the ages he’d mistakenly guessed them to be. Apparently, time did not cease to move forward whilst one spent years caught up in the grim machine of war. “It would seem I stand corrected. In this matter, as in so many others, the lady is infallibly correct.”
“Many matters?” Nora’s eyes twinkled with a devious glint of glee he recognized. “Would you care to provide us with a list so we may remind you of them whenever the occasion warrants?”
Hellfire and eternal damnation, this evening had suddenly taken a turn for the gallows. “There will be no bloody list.” He glared at the imp.
She grinned back. Con chortled. A suspicious sound even emerged from the direction of Miss Governess. His eyes swung back to settle upon her, drinking in the sight of her small, gloved hand raised to her lips. Those sherry eyes were crinkled at the corners. Incredibly, he was not mistaken. Miss Governess possessed the capacity for mirth.
“Astounding,” he marveled aloud.
Her eyebrows shot upward, almost disappearing beneath her dowdy cap. “What is, Your Grace?”
“You know how to laugh.” He could not contain his grin, for he was enjoying every bit of this little vignette. He had not been so at ease in years. “I confess I did wonder.”
Her lips pursed. The need to claim that sultry, tart mouth once more was a driving force inside him that would not be denied. He wanted the infernal cap gone. He wanted to see the rich beauty of her hair. To lead her from this room and the watchful gazes of his sisters, to gather her in his arms and not stop until he had deposited her precisely where she belonged. Upon his bed.
