But who was counting?
“Who is it?” he called from within his lair.
How odd it seemed to be separate from him now. To be the servant at his whim, standing on the other side of a portal that denied her entry without his explicit consent. Just that morning, he had held her in his arms, carrying her to her chamber as if she weighed no more than a babe.We have only just begun, he had promised her, only to disappear for the majority of the day.
She had been unable to sleep following his departure from her chamber, alternately horrified at her lapse in judgment and aching to repeat the mistake in equal measure. Instead, she had performed her own perfunctory ablutions with water gone cold the night before and dressed, pacing the floor and wondering how she would face him after going willingly to his bed.
But she need not have worried, for he was not present at breakfast as had recently become his custom. Nor did he return for hours afterward, his arrival so near to dinner she had scarcely time to change after completing the day’s lessons with Lady Con and Lady Nora before seeking him out.
She should not have been hurt by his defection, for he had promised her nothing, and she had given him one night. She could not allow anything more to transpire between them for the sakes of her heart and future. Already, she had begun to feel far too comfortable here at Whitley House. She could not deny she had developed feelings for the duke and his sisters. They had burrowed through the callused part of her to the softness she’d no longer believed she possessed.
“Who is it?” he asked again, reminding her she had lingered, holding her breath in the hall, unknowing how she ought to proceed.
His voice, dark and decadent and promising sin, made a trill lick down her spine despite her every intention to remain unaffected.
She stiffened, forcing all such nonsense from her thoughts and body. “It is Miss Turnbow, Your Grace.”
“You may enter.”
Stifling the retort that rose to her lips, she did as he bid, securing the door behind her back before approaching him, the flowers outstretched as if in offering. “I believe these belong to you, sir.”
He had stood upon her entrance, unfairly handsome in his dark coat, snowy cravat, and breeches that had been fashioned to fit his muscled legs like a second skin. “You brought me flowers, Miss Turnbow? How could you have known that roses are my favorite?”
She flattened her lips into a grim line of displeasure. “How did they get into my chamber?”
A slow, sensual smile curved his lips. “I am sure I have not an inkling, Miss Turnbow.”
The thought of him in her chamber when she was not there unsettled her. What if someone would have witnessed his trespass? And furthermore, what else had he done and seen? How long had he been there? Had he riffled through her belongings? Did he suspect her of the treachery she was bound to perpetrate against him?
She swallowed against the knot of uncertainty that threatened to rise and close her throat altogether. “You had no right to enter my chamber. If you had been seen, or if a servant had noted the flowers before I saw them, the conclusions would have been as obvious as they would be erroneous.”
“Obvious?” Raising an imperious brow, he slowly skirted his desk. “What do you mean to suggest, Miss Turnbow?”
Her cheeks flamed. Last night, this wicked, arrogant, perfect duke had been deep inside her body. He had pleasured her with his tongue. But she could not say any of that aloud. And she must not note how strong his thighs were, no doubt the product of his years at war, or how broad his chest.Nay, nor should she recall how he had felt, filling her, possessing her.
She forced her gaze back to his. “What I mean to suggest is, if the lord of the house is entering the chamber of the governess with a bouquet of flowers, it only suggests one thing.”
He came nearer still, not stopping until he was so close his heady scent washed over her, sending a pang of need to her core. With a negligent air, he leaned his hip against his desk, crossing his booted ankles. His gray gaze consumed her. “What thing would that be, my dear Miss Turnbow? Would you care to elaborate?”
“No,” she snapped, tiring of being his game. His levity coupled with the dangerous gift of his flowers nettled her. He could play the cat all he liked, but that did not mean she was required to be his mouse. She pressed the flowers into his chest. “You must take these, Your Grace.”
“No,” he echoed, the ghost of a smile flitting over his sensual lips.
“Yes.” Determined, she pressed them deeper into the solid wall of his chest, not caring the petals crushed against his coat and scattered to the floor.
“I said no.” He caught her wrist in a firm but gentle grip, his thumb caressing a circle of delicious fire along her eager skin. “I do not give a damn who sees the bloody flowers, Jacinda. Let anyone draw what conclusion he will. I do not owe anyone beneath this roof a single cursed thing except for my sisters.” He paused, turning her hand over and raising it to his lips for a lingering kiss. “And you.”
Whether it was his action or his words that robbed her breath, she could not say. All she knew was she gawped at the Duke of Whitley as if he had begun speaking in a foreign tongue. Confused and flustered, she attempted to regain possession of her hand, but he held fast, continuing to deliver those slow, tiny touches with his thumb.
The heat in her body spread, turning to a fire in her veins.
And yet, she could not allow herself to succumb to either her body’s traitorous wants and needs or to the Duke of Whitley himself.But you can to Crispin, whispered a wicked voice inside her.
Nay.Doing so would be ruinous. Dangerous. Foolish.
Impossible.
“You do not owe me anything, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say. “If you harbor a guilty conscience for… for what transpired between us, allow me to absolve you now. What was given was given freely, but it will not—nay, cannot—bear repetition.”
