A glance at his pocket watch revealed that she would be completing her daily duties at any moment. His timing was perfect.
The mystery of the bloody ciphers could wait until tomorrow morning. For now, he had far more pressing matters to concern him.
*
Jacinda was stillpuzzling over the Duke of Whitley’s inexplicable behavior when she left Lady Constance and Lady Honora behind for the evening. They had said their prayers, washed their hands and faces, and settled into bed for the night. One fortnight into her tenure as governess, and she could not help but feel she had made wondrous progress with the girls. They had come a long way from the hellions of her first day. And while she had never before acted as governess, delighted in her accomplishment. Challenges had ever thrilled her, and Lady Honora and Lady Constance were no exception.
Nor was their brother.
Thoughts of the handsome, wicked duke brought the inevitable frown and accompanying amalgam of guilt and anger. She stepped into the hallway, headed in the direction of her comfortable apartments, so mired in her thoughts, she did not realize she wasn’t alone until it was too late to flee.
She stopped, her skirts swirling around her ankles with the force of her cessation of motion. Her hand went to her wildly slamming heart, willing it to calm. She swallowed and licked lips that had gone dry.
The Duke of Whitley leaned his hip against the papered wall, the flickering light of the candle sconces bathing him in a golden glow. She was not certain if he had given her a fright with his unexpected presence or simply by being a man she did not dare trust herself to be alone with.
This morning had been a revelation. So, too, had the evening. He had attempted to seduce her and make her his mistress. And then, shockingly, he had listened to her impassioned speech. Most stupefying of all, he had been on his best behavior following dinner, conversing with his sisters, humoring them by dancing to their reel.
And crying at the mentioning of his dead mother.
Her heart still hurt to recall the grief in his expression, the vulnerability, the confusion. He had been perplexed by his own emotion, and a fierce urge to protect him had risen within her. One she could not quite tamp down as she knew she must.
Feelings.
How very vexing.
She was susceptible to the Duke of Whitley, and not just physically as she had supposed that morning following her utter folly. But emotionally as well. He was dark and wounded, and something in him called to something primitive in her. She could not shake the impression there was a great deal more to the man behind the façade he presented to the world. That he was suffering and jaded and bitter, desperate for redemption.
And she was the one who would snatch it from his grasp.
She went cold.
“Your Grace,” Jacinda whispered, mindful of the fact that voices could carry in the hall at this quiet time of night, when the servants had dwindled in ranks and most of the day’s tasks had been done. “Is something amiss?”
“Something is amiss,” he said. “Yes.”
And still he did not move. Did not elaborate.
She drank in the sight of him in a way that ought to shame her. Heat settled between her thighs, chasing the cold. She told herself it was a base physical need. Somehow, he had unleashed an old urge in her that she had thought long gone. Her flesh was not yet dead, apparently. But her honor and duty both precluded her from seeking solace in the bed of the man before her.
“Is there something you require of me?” she asked, her cheeks going hot when she realized the unintentional implications of her query. “In regard to my charges, that is?”
He grinned. “How good of you to clarify the nature of your question, for I was about to respond in a manner most unbecoming of the gentleman I am.”
She snorted, the lateness of the evening and the intimacies they had shared making her bold. “I was not aware you are a gentleman at all.”
“By birth, though not by nature,” he agreed, a devastating grin on his lips.
Still, he did not move. Did not go away as she hoped he would. Her ability to resist him waned by the moment. If he had been arrogant and cruel, if he had been clipped and demanding, hiding himself behind his disdain and his superiority and his power over her, she would have continued on her way. But this Whitley was far more dangerous even than the man who had kissed her and stripped half her gown away in his study.
“Perhaps you are more of a gentleman by nature than you suppose,” she suggested softly.
He inclined his head, his sudden proximity to her disturbing. “I am a soldier, madam, and a soldier must be adept at playing any role given him even when it does not suit.”
To her dismay, she realized he had not moved. It had been she who had drawn closer to him, like a blossom growing toward the sun. She stopped, pressed damp palms to her gown, willed her galloping heart to calm its pace.
“Do you mean to suggest being a gentleman does not suit you?” she dared to ask, the need to prolong their interaction unassailable. She told herself it was for the good of her task that she encouraged candid speech between them. Perhaps in this fashion, she might discover truths about the Duke of Whitley that might have otherwise evaded her.
“Not any more than being a soldier did,” he said somberly.
