He was right, for lingering here with him was a temptation she could not afford. Some weakness she had not realized she possessed within her was susceptible to his touch, to his mouth. To his kiss. It struck her then, bathed in the moonlight, surrounded by the Duke of Carlisle’s strong arms, how easily the sins of the flesh could render boundaries and loyalties indistinct.
In another time, another place, perhaps they could have met as lovers.
This was not that time, nor was it that place.
In this world, they were destined to be adversaries.
But first, one more kiss.
She tugged his head down to hers, and he allowed her to guide him, the massive, fearsome warrior in a duke’s pretty clothes. This kiss was for her, all she would permit herself. Their mouths sealed, quick and furious, and this time she did bite him. She caught his lower lip between her teeth, nipping the succulent flesh until he groaned.
The Duke of Carlisle liked pain.
It was a revelation she tucked inside her mind, for later, when she could make sense of it. Bridget could not resist biting harder, until the slightest hint of his blood—a salty tang—was on her tongue. She swallowed it, wishing for a wild moment it was his seed instead, then tore her lips from his and her body from his arms.
The unlikely, moon-drunk union between them was at an end.
“Something to remember me by, Your Grace,” she said.
And then she spun away from him, leaving the gardens the same way she had entered them. This time, his dark devil’s eyes burned twin holes into her back with each step.
Leo woke witha bruised lower lip, a raging cock, an equally raging headache, and the memory of the governess’s husky words:Something to remember me by, Your Grace.
He stared at the ceiling overhead, grateful he had found his way to a bed and had not spent the evening in the gardens, even if he did not recall how he had wound up in his present state, naked and flat on his back beneath the bedclothes.
It stood to reason Miss Palliser had not joined him. She had taken her leave after her parting gift, a hungry, hard kiss and a bite that had made him want to throw up her skirts, lay her down, and slam home inside her. Painful pleasure had ever been a weakness of his, and how this radiant creature in her prim dove-gray governess attire could somehow both sense that, and give him what he needed, had him closing his eyes on a groan and stroking his cock.
He did not know if she was experienced or an innocent. Experienced women knew how to give and receive pleasure, and they were goddesses, one and all. But he had never had a virgin before, and the thought of taking Miss Palliser’s maidenhead—of being the first man to sink inside her tight, untried channel—made his cock even harder as he closed his fist over it, eyes closed to the early morning light, attempting to forget everything else.
Of course he could not do it. Would not do it. His code of standards refused to allow him to be anything but honorable, unless his actions were taken in the name of the Crown, in the name of protecting the lives entrusted in his care. It was why he had sent the beautiful governess on her way last night. Why he would take his leave this morning, returning to London in time for supper, and perhaps a visit to the intrepid Mrs. Giraud, who knew how to meet his particular needs whenever they arose within him and demanded to be answered.
But first, he would satisfy them with his hand and his imagination. Leo stroked his cock, thinking of how she had looked in the moonlight, her skin pale and ethereal, eyes glistening, her hair a dark contrast to the dreamlike silver cast of the rest of her. How she had tasted of wine and fiery, passionate woman. Of herself, Miss Palliser, the enigma.
He held his breath as he worked his hand over his shaft faster. Already, moisture pooled on the tip of his cock, and he ran his thumb over it, wishing it was her cunny juices instead. And then his imagination took control of his mind, and he was back in the gardens with her. Back to the moment after she had drawn his blood.
Something to remember me by, Your Grace.
“I shall do the same,” he would have told her, instead of sending her away. “Give you something to remember me by.”
His wicked mind wondered how he would begin. Would he bind her wrists? Strip her naked and bite her nipples until she was writhing in passionate fury?
No, he decided as he increased the pressure and the pace once more. He would kiss her and kiss her, sink his tongue inside her lush mouth. Tug her to the ground and throw up her skirts. He would kiss along her stockings, his hands finding the luscious swells of her calves, and her stockings would be silken and smooth under his touch. Upward, he would go, until he was kissing her inner thighs, near enough to the wet, needy heart of her, where she was pink and swollen for him. He would spread her thighs, bury his face in her folds, and suck—
Fucking hell.
He came with more force than he could recall in recent memory, his seed jetting into the bedclothes. Sated pleasure washed over him for a beat, soon to be replaced by the sense that it wasn’t enough. He wanted her in reality, though he could not have her. How mortifying to think the woman had him so at her mercy, he had spent to the mere thought of licking her cunny. Bleeding hell, he had not even sank his cock inside her.
But that would have to be another fantasy for another day.
The sun was already farther than he would have preferred in its relentless trek across the sky, and having slept two nights in a row—thanks to Clay’s limited, though blessedly good whisky cache—he felt more rested than he had in years.
Pity he could not touch the drink again this evening. Pity too he could not touch the governess.
His cock sprang back to life.
“Christ,” he muttered, forcing himself from bed.
It would simply not do to continue lusting after his nephew’s governess. The woman was untouchable. A temptation he could not afford to indulge in. Not to mention there remained something about Miss Palliser, for he refused to think of her as Jane on principle,—an indefinable quality, more a hunch of Leo’s than a discernible trait—which made him suspicious of her.
