Two girls, awkward and willowy of figure with striking ebony hair like the duke’s, were racing each other down the stairs, each on her own salver, laughing. The butler was huffing and demanding the nonsense cease. A pair of chamber maids hovered about, gawping.
And the duke simply turned his glittering gaze to Jacinda and smiled that wolfish, predatory smile of his that made her forget who he was and how she had come to be standing in his townhouse this morning. Made her forget what she was meant to do—nay what shemustdo—in order to help Father.
For one frantic beat of her heart.
But then she forced the unwanted blossom of heat in her belly to cool.He is a hedonistic wastrel, she reminded herself. And if what the Earl of Kilross had said was to be believed, he was also a traitor who assuaged any guilt he’d felt at being responsible for his friend’s hideous death by drowning in drink and ladybirds. He could have been Beelzebub himself and she would not have been surprised as he had sat in the darkness of his study, quizzing her in an indolent voice that suggested he had not a care whether she would be a decent governess to his sisters or not.
She had foolishly thought herself well-prepared for this post, consigned to her fate if it was what she needed to do to help Father. Kilross had given her a great deal of information concerning the duke and her would-be charges. He had arranged for her interview, provided her with the necessary references. Everything thus far had proceeded as planned, despite her sweaty palms and the unease clenching her gut.
But there was one thing she had not expected, and that was for the Duke of Whitley to gaze upon her as if she were a sweet he longed to devour. And then, her father’s words echoed in her memory.You are not to allow him to notice you. Though you must undertake this unwanted task, I will not have you defiled by that lecherous coward.
Too late. He had already noticed, and the knowledge only served to heighten the foreboding rioting in her. She had taken great pains to bury herself in shapeless dresses and lace, to hide her vibrant hair beneath a cap, and to seem as unremarkable as possible.
He was still fixed upon her, that lazy grin curving his beautiful mouth, those alarming, gray eyes smoldering into hers, when one of his sisters reached the bottom of the stairs on her salver and went hurtling into him.
“Your Grace, behind you,” Jacinda called out as the girl collided with him, sending him pitching forward. For reasons unknown to her—reasons she instantly regretted—she stepped forward, her arms outstretched, and steadied him against her.
She staggered a few steps in retreat, grappling with his large, heavy body, and somehow the duke’s face wound up pressed into her bosom. Her face flamed with horror and humiliation as the man did nothing to remove himself. Instead, he rumbled a sigh of appreciation she felt between her thighs.
His arms traveled around her waist, anchoring her to him when she would have extricated herself. “Your Grace, are you injured?”
“Crispin,” came the chiding tone of the sister who had nearly sent him sprawling to his knees. “You ought to know better than to stand beneath the stairs whilst Con and I are having our races.”
Good heavens, she had entered Bedlam. The duke’s face remained buried against her in the most inappropriate fashion, and he took a great inhalation. “Lovely catch, Tottlebrow,” he muttered into her bodice.
He still could not recall her name, the drunken fool. She hesitated to touch him, but her patience was thinning, and there was something about being in the Duke of Whitley’s embrace that a disturbing and most wholeheartedly unwanted part of her rather enjoyed. Jacinda flattened her palms on his shoulders and shoved, while settling a disapproving glower upon the intrepid young lady who had nearly laid her brother low.
“Lady Honora?” she guessed.
“Indeed… Tuttlebum, was it?” The girls’ brows raised in feigned innocence as she gave an exaggerated blink. “Are you to be our new governess?”
“Turnbow,” she corrected, thinking her covert duties would be the least of her worries while she remained at Whitley House. She would have two minxes to contend with and a duke who seemed to be acquainting himself with her bosom.
Until…good Lord, was that a snore?
The other sister approached their odd tableau, her cheeks rosy from her exertions, salver in hand. “I do think our brother has fallen asleep, Nora.”
Saints preserve her. The man had fallen asleep with his face buried in her bosom. “How can a man sleep whilst standing?” she demanded before she could catch her tongue. Servants were meant to mind their manners, and above all, never question the peers who ruled their lives.
“He goes days without sleeping,” Lady Honora confided in her, frowning. “Best call for some sturdy footmen, Towerbottom. When he finally falls into slumber, there is no waking him, and he will need to be carried to his chamber.”
“He can sleep for an entire day,” Lady Constance added. “When he finally does wake, he’s an utter bear. Would you not agree, Nora?”
Lady Honora cocked her head, considering her sister’s question. “Perhaps he is rather more like a vicious nest of bees that has just been disturbed and all are bent upon stinging anyone in their paths.”
Jacinda controlled her features with great care. In truth, the notion of the duke sleeping for a whole day sounded quite promising. But his dead weight was beginning to become a problem, as was his heated breath, which permeated her dress and undergarments, landing right between her breasts. “Call for the footmen, if you please, my ladies,” she said in a strangled voice. “I fear I alone cannot support His Grace’s weight for long.”
Two strapping footmen appeared before the girls could raise the alarm, and Jacinda was grateful indeed to the butler, who seemed a long-suffering sort. The footmen’s expressions were blank canvases. This was not the first time they had dragged their sleeping master to bed. As they hauled him from her, his head lolled, eyes closed, lips moving.
He murmured something.
Jacinda stepped nearer and lowered her ear, which proved yet another mistake on her part.
“The most delicious bubbies in all Christendom,” he mumbled.
If her face had been red before, it was fairly on fire now. She retreated from the dozing blackguard, hoping no one had heard him.
“I do think Crispin likes you, Tornbud,” Lady Honora said brightly. “Do you not think so, Con?”
