Lady Constance beamed. “Oh yes, Nora, I agree. Tornrow, Crispin especially likes your—”
“Lady Constance,” Jacinda interrupted coolly, cutting off whatever her charge had been about to say. “That will be enough, thank you. Furthermore, my name is Turnbow. Please do endeavor to remember it, as it seems we shall be spending a great deal of time in each other’s company in the future. His Grace has enlisted me to be your new governess, beginning today. Since His Grace is… otherwise occupied, perhaps we can begin with you showing me your schoolroom and explaining where your previous governess left off your studies.”
It took all the control Jacinda possessed to refrain from grimacing as she said the last. She had thought she could handle what she must do with aplomb, but how wrong she’d been. Deception was not something that came easily to her. The knowledge she was lying to the duke and his sisters—regardless of the man’s innocence or guilt—was a knife of unease lodged in her belly.
Lady Constance and Lady Honora exchanged a glance that gleamed with wicked amusement.
“How lovely,” announced Lady Honora. “You shall be a great improvement upon old Miss Humphrey. She only lasted four days, and she smelled of spirits.”
“How could we have known she was terrified of spiders when we caught one and hid it beneath her bedclothes?” Lady Constance added.
Jacinda coaxed a feigned smile to her lips. “Fortunately, I have no such fear of arachnids.”
The sooner she could accomplish her abhorrent task, the better, she vowed inwardly. There was no earthly means by which she could survive an entire month at Whitley House. She would search the duke’s correspondence at her first opportunity.
*
He walked througha field of bodies. A fortress loomed over him. Cannon thundered. Acrid gun smoke burned his lungs. In the distance, guns rang out. Above the tumult rose the moans of the dying, the cries of agony, and the screams of pain.
The sounds of war. The smells of war. The sights of war.
The bodies strewn over the earth were plentiful. He could not see dirt or the crops once grown there, planted by a hopeful farmer who never could have imagined the horrors to be visited upon his verdant fields. There was nowhere for him to walk but upon them.
The coppery scent of blood muddled with gun smoke, mingled with the unmistakable scent of death.
He walked over them. His own men. Enemy men. Faceless men. He could not even offer apology, for this was battle. He needed to find Morgan. Where the hell was he?
A hand caught his ankle in a manacle grip. He looked down to find the hand had been stripped of its flesh. White bones clenched him and no matter how hard he tried, he could not free himself.
Desperation rose in his chest. The hand jerked, bringing him facedown atop the bodies. Blood splashed on his hands and face. One of the dead men’s eyes opened. And it was Morgan, his best friend and comrade, blood blossoming scarlet and horrible over his chest.
“Damn you, Crispin,” the corpse growled. “You killed me.”
“Morgan!” he called out. “No!”
The hand pulled him deeper into the pile of bodies, until he was drowning in a sea of death. He scrabbled and fought, but he could not free himself, and the darkness beckoned, ready to claim him…
With a jolt, Crispin woke, shooting into a sitting position, gasping for breath. Darkness surrounded him, and for a brief moment, he thought he was still trapped in the confines of the same nightmare that had been plaguing him ever since the day Morgan had gone missing. Awareness descended upon him in stages.
The ticking of a clock. The familiar scent of his room. The softness of the bedclothes, the comfort of the bed. His eyes adjusted, and he could see the outlines of the furniture in his chamber.
He pressed a hand to his heart, willing it to cease its rapid thumping, forcing his breath to slow and calm. His head ached and his stomach threatened to revolt. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin. Crispin knew the signs all too well. He needed a damned whisky, and he needed one now, but the stores in his chamber needed replenishing.
Fortunately, he had an ample supply of panacea in his study.
Rising from his bed, he scrambled for his dressing gown, left precisely where he preferred by his valet. Curse it, he was getting worse. Self-loathing washed over him as he donned the robe and knotted the belt at his waist. This was what his life had become—an endless cycle of drinking, swiving, and sleeping until the nightmares roused him enough to begin again.
He didn’t know how many hours had passed since the moment he had fallen into his stupor and now. The last time, he had been unconscious for a day and a half. Judging by the darkness, it was the blackest hour of night. But he preferred it to the cursed light of day, when he could see his bleak reflection in the looking glass and hate himself all the more for being alive.
He should be dead. Every dream, every bitter, sober moment reminded him of the day he had woken in that damned Spanish farmhouse. When he had seen Morgan’s spilled blood, his severed hand, all that remained of him. When Crispin had been as helpless and as stupid as he was now, shuffling down the hall of his townhouse in search of the only thing that would numb him.
But the whisky wasn’t working as well as it once had.
He didn’t need a taper to find his way to his study. That was how accustomed he’d grown to remaining in the dark. But as he crossed the threshold, he knew at once he was not alone.
At first, he sensed the presence, his old instincts flaring to life. Gooseflesh pebbled his skin. Then, a hint of jasmine reached his nose. Taking care to move as silently as possible, he stalked toward the vicinity of the interloper. A soft exhalation reached him, almost a gasp. Closer he went, determined in his pursuit, until he could discern a shadowy figure near his desk.
With a growl, he launched himself at the intruder, his hands meeting with the unmistakable curves of soft, womanly flesh. Whoever she was, she was trespassing where she was most unwelcome, but that didn’t stop his cock from asserting a twitch of approval as he gripped the lush curve of her waist and hauled her against him so her bountiful breasts crushed into his chest.
