“You did not enjoy being a soldier?” If surprise tinged her voice, it could not be helped. Aside from the secret suspicion cast upon him by the Earl of Kilross, public consensus of the Duke of Whitley was he was a celebrated hero who had exhibited fearlessness and unmitigated bravery on the field of battle.
His gaze shuttered. “No.”
She stared at him, wishing she could read him better, but he was far more complex than any cipher whose secrets she had ever attempted to unlock. If he was truly guilty of conspiring with the French, why could she not find evidence of his sins? How could Kilross be so very certain of the veracity of his claims when Jacinda had spent the better part of half a month attempting to unearth a modicum of proof without success?
Perhaps, whispered her heart,he is innocent after all.
That notion frightened her the most, for she realized now she wanted more than anything for it to be true. She wanted to pry open every lock at Whitley House, search each scrap of paper, and return to Kilross with not one shred of evidence against the duke.
She searched for something else to say into the heavy silence that had fallen betwixt them, some means by which she might continue their dialogue, before settling upon the grief he had displayed earlier that evening. “I suppose you missed your family.”
Of course it was a soldier’s fate that he spent his days, months, and even years from his home and hearth and all who were dear to him. Jacinda had known it on the day she had bid James farewell and sent him on his way with a kiss and her heart. But that did not mean that every day she’d spent without him had not hurt like a festering wound.
Nor did it mean she had not agonized over the knowledge he had spent his final living moments alone, bleeding to death in the snow of a strange land as if he were no better than a slaughtered hog. The old pain, the flooding, intense surge of grief so fierce it threatened to consume her, rose like a tide.
“Of course I missed them,” he shocked her by admitting. “I did not realize how much, perhaps, until today.”
She frowned, a fresh assault of guilt mingling with her other unsteady emotions. She felt raw all over, like skin that had been abraded to the quick. “Lady Constance and Lady Honora were pleased to share their keen talents with you. Thank you for humoring them.”
“I should have given them more of my time and attentions long ago.” His voice was low and rough. “It would seem you are not as inadequate in your role as governess as I would have initially believed.”
The duke’s words were far from praise, but somehow coming from his unforgiving mien, she recognized they were as close as he could manage to an apology for his ire of that morning. A heated warmth pervaded, chasing away the icy chill caused by the strains of the present and the pain of her past.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she managed. “If you will excuse me, I must seek my chamber as well. My charges require me to be well-rested in the morning.”
But something in his expression made her linger when she should have curtsied and skirted around him, hastening her stride on her way to safety. His frank regard was warm upon her, and it glittered with an intensity that had not been present before. She wanted to look away. To treat him as the Gorgon she knew and flee.
She could not stop staring. He was so very handsome in his buff breeches, navy superfine coat, and snowy cravat. His dark hair had a slight curl to the ends, and she longed to run her fingers through it just once more. It had been softer than the sleekest of furs.
“Would you care to join me in the library instead, Miss Turnbow?” he invited, his deep voice sliding over her like a naughty caress.
If only she could, but if anything, this evening had served to remind her of the disparities between them. Not only was she the governess, and he the master of the house, she, his subordinate in every way, but she was also deceiving him with each moment that passed.
She had been mad to entertain, even for the spate of a few wild moments in his arms, the pull she felt toward him. Even if he had not committed the sins he was suspected of, he remained beyond her touch. She was a simple soldier’s widow. He was a duke, a man who would make her his mistress rather than his duchess. Jacinda must not forget.
She shook her head. “It would not be proper, Your Grace.”
His expression hardened, the angle of his jaw going tense. “We are beyond proper, Miss Governess. Surely you recognize that by now.”
Back toMiss Governessagain. They had skirted each other as if in wary battle formations, and now they had returned to the place where they had begun. Nothing had changed. Or had it?
“We are not beyond propriety,” she denied, at last calling to mind the futility and danger of remaining in his presence a moment more. She made to swish past him on her way to her private apartments.
Whitley stepped into her path, blocking her dismissal of him. “I had you half-naked on my desk this morning.”
Much to her shame.
And wicked enjoyment.
No.
She banished the rogue thought from her mind, knowing she must stay the course. She had a duty to carry out. Kilross was not a patient or benevolent man, and he held all the power. She was but his puppet.
I had you half-naked on my desk this morning.
Lord in heaven.Those sinful words should not make her weak. Should not make her ache.
“I bid you good evening, Your Grace,” she forced past lips that did not wish to oblige, stepping around him and continuing on her way as though he had not just set her aflame with his velvet reminder of the liberties she had allowed him. The liberties she had so freely and wantonly given.
