What was it about this governess which made matching wits with her so bloody enjoyable?
Christ knew, for Leo did not.
“My authority would be the very best.Goodauthority is that of my mother, who trusts me implicitly in all matters.” He could not resist the taunt.
“The Duchess of Carlisle believes you are never wrong?” the governess persisted, her words finding his softness like a blade sliding between his ribs.
One swift jab, and he was bleeding, damn near incapacitated.
He did not speak of the woman who had birthed him to anyone.
His smirk died. “The Duchess of Carlisle is not my mother. Lily Ludlow is the only mother I have ever known. She is, in fact, the embodiment of what a mother ought to be.”
And he had said far, far too much. Likely, it was because of the whisky he had consumed. Perhaps too because he was on the brink of the darkness. He could feel it, the heavy weight of the angry cloud spinning, churning like a storm about to unleash its rage upon the land below.
But he could battle it back. If he was busy enough, inebriated enough, distracted enough, strong enough, he could fight off the coming tempest. He damn well knew he could. He had done it before, and he would do so again.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the governess said quietly into the awkward silence which had descended in the wake of his pronouncement.
“You need not offer apology,” he bit, cursing the whisky for rendering him too honest. Cursing his weakness for the governess who made him too vulnerable. “I stated fact. That is all.”
“My own mother was not a mother a’tall,” she said softly. For a brief moment, her words had carried the sweet lilt of a brogue.
What in the name of all that was holy?
Could it be possible that Miss Pallister hailed from Ireland?
His spine stiffened, blood running cold. Whispers abounded over the last few months about a woman in the most dangerous of all the Fenian circles.
“Where do you hail from, Miss Palliser?” he queried with deceptive calm.
Surely this woman, who was so diminutive in stature, so flawless of face and form—surely the woman he found himself attracted to in a way he had never felt for another before her—could not be his enemy.
He was being overly cautious. Lack of sleep, coupled with over-imbibing and the added weight of his brother’s wedding, had rendered him far too susceptible to suspicion and maudlin sentiment both.
She stilled at his question, like a wild animal who knew a hunter watched, one who was poised for flight and certain safety. Despite himself, his suspicions continued to rise.
“I hail from London, Your Grace. I was born there, raised there, and it is where I call my home.”
How quickly and neatly she had answered him. Even dulled by whisky, Leo’s senses began to hum. “Indeed, Miss Palliser?” He moved nearer to her still, crowding her with his body without touching her. “What street?”
“Street?” The breathless quality of her voice had only heightened. Her hands fluttered in the air like butterflies, as if part of her wanted to lay them flat upon his chest and push him away, and yet, part of her did not dare to risk a gesture so foolhardy.
“Yes, Miss Palliser.” Despite himself, despite his better intentions and the need to question this mysterious creature rising within him, he lowered his head. His lips wanted hers. Had to have them beneath his, against his. He hungered for her, for another taste, another exquisite glimpse into paradise. “What street were you born on? Where did you live?”
By the time he had finished his clipped enunciations, his lips were perilously near to hers. Instead of waiting for her response, he moved. And then, suddenly, he had her in his arms, and her mouth was on his, open, warm, and so intoxicating. Her tongue slid past his lips, bold and delicious, and he played his along it, tasting her, kissing her back.
Chapter Four
Bridget had losther bleeding mind.
That was why she had thrown her arms about the neck of the Duke of Carlisle. Why she was kissing him as if he were the most delicious, decadent dessert she’d ever tasted. Why her entire body was a riot of sensation, why he had brought her to life, convincing her she should surrender all—her duties, her obligations, her beliefs—for one frantic beat of her heart, for one more kiss. One more sweep of his tongue over hers, one more deep, dark moan torn from his throat, one more press of his hard, powerful frame against hers.
This man was her enemy, she reminded herself.
He was dangerous to her.
Forbidden.
