All she knew was the duke was alone in his chamber. And he was suffering. And she could not bear it. She reached his door, hesitated while her rational mind attempted to convince her she was about to commit sheer folly. Her hand hovered on the latch.
Why should she go to him?
She did not even like the man.
He was arrogant. Frigid. Condescending. A drunkard and a rakehell. She spent most of her day loathing him and the other part fearing the slivers of tenderness he could exhibit, so unexpected and sweet that they were like rays of sun after the coldest, darkest winter.
For he was also the man who had made time for his attention-starved sisters. Who had listened to her impassioned speech and implemented a change. Who had shed tears at the remembrance of his mother’s death. Who kissed her so well, she knew no kiss that came after could ever compare.
She made her decision.
The door clicked open. She stepped over the threshold.
Into his dark world.
The door closed at her back. The air changed. Awareness hummed through her. She was in the Duke of Whitley’s bedchamber. In the midst of the night. And for the first time, he was there as well. She could feel his presence, hear his rapid breaths.
He sounded like a horse that had just run its paces.
Though she knew she should go, her feet carried her the rest of the journey. Again, she knew her way, knew the lay of the furniture. One of the oddities of her mind was that she only needed to see anything once before she had it imprinted upon her memory forever. She knew his large bed dominated the far wall, and that it was flanked by tables on each side, that an armoire sat on the east wall, a small escritoire on the west.
His breathing increased.
Her courage flagged.
What had she been thinking, entering the duke’s chamber as if she had the right? And what did she mean to do, shake him awake? Touch him? Her actions had been so reckless. So foolish. So stupid.
Jacinda spun on her heels, intent to retreat from the chamber before Whitley was ever the wiser. Her foot settled into a weak floorboard beneath the lush carpet. A loud creak spilled into the silence.
His breathing stopped.
Her heart stopped.
“Ripley?” the duke’s sleep-roughened voice demanded.
Of course he would think her his valet. Jacinda had no desire to disabuse him of the notion. She pressed a hand to her heart, continuing her retreat wordlessly. The sooner she could manage to slip into the safety of the hall, the better she would feel.
Rustling bedclothes echoed through the chamber, followed by the unmistakable sound of two feet thudding on the floor. “Miss Governess.”
It was not a question, but rather a statement.
She inhaled sharply and held her breath. How did he know?It does not matter, her mind argued.Continue on your way. You must not falter.In nine more steps, she would reach the door.
Heavy footsteps stalked toward her. “Jacinda. I know it is you. I smell jasmine.”
For some reason, his words, which should have encouraged her flight, had the opposite effect. Perhaps it was his use of her Christian name. Perhaps it was he knew her scent, the sole luxury she allowed herself. Whatever the reason, she froze like a broken pocket watch, stopped on the last tick, unable to move beyond.
Hands settled on her shoulders, spun her about. In the darkness, she could not see him, but the lack of light only served to heighten her awareness of him. His heat blazed into her. She wanted to step into him, wrap him in her embrace. She wanted to turn and flee and never return.
“Perhaps, madam, you would care to explain why you are so adept at trespassing in the night where you do not belong,” he growled. “And before you begin, do not dare to claim you fancied yourself in the library.”
She swallowed. His grip on her shoulders was tight but not menacing, and his thumbs had begun to move ever so slowly, tracing the lengths of her collarbones. Almost in a caress. A frisson of something dark and delicious trilled down her spine.
“Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Grace,” she managed to say, though her voice was irritatingly breathless. “I heard sounds, and I believed you were in distress. I should never have crossed the threshold. Indeed, I would not have, had I not feared you were in need of assistance.”
“Sounds.” His hands slid over the slopes of her shoulders, settling in the crook where her neck joined them. He toyed with the button on the high collar of her sensible nightrail that peeked out from beneath her robe. “What manner of sounds did you hear?”
Jacinda wetted her lips. “Sounds of distress, Your Grace. Groaning, moaning. I feared you were injured or otherwise in pain.”
