Good God.
It was as he’d thought. His mother was playing matchmaker. But he had no desire to be matched, damn it.
“I’m not interested in Lady Diana,” he gritted.
“But you have yet to even meet her, darling.” His mother smiled brightly. “She is a lovely young lady, and she was born and bred to be a duchess. She would do you great credit, you shall see.”
His mother was, as ever, equal parts stubborn and persistent. He knew better than to continue arguing. It would garner him nothing but more frustration.
He forced a tight smile. “I’m sure you must be exhausted after your travels. Why don’t you take a nap before dinner, Mother? Mrs. Yorke no doubt has had your chamber readied for you.”
She beamed, unaware that he only made the overture so that she might go away and grant him some peace. “That is thoughtful of you, Sedgewick dear. I do believe I shall go and have a small lie-down before dinner. Until later, my darling son.”
“Until later, Mother.”
Mercifully, she took her leave, but he knew he wasn’t to have a respite for long. Dinner loomed, far too soon. But first, there remained a flickering hope of catching Joceline alone between now and then.
Joceline bustled toward the servants’stair when the door to the small salon nearest it opened, revealing the Duke of Sedgewick standing on the threshold. Silently, he gestured for her to join him. Her heart leapt in her throat as she cast a frantic glance about her, Mr. Dunreave’s warnings still lying heavy as a boulder on her chest. No one was in sight, so with a sigh, she slipped into the salon with him, closing the door smartly at her back.
“Your Grace,” she began, “what is it you want from me? Dinner is soon set to begin, and I have many tasks awaiting me.”
He towered over her, his impressive height all the more pronounced in his black evening attire. He had dressed for dinner, she realized, a white neckcloth tied at his throat. She’d thought him handsome before, but the Duke of Sedgewick in formal blacks was enough to induce her to swoon.
“I wanted to speak to you,” he said urgently, his blue-green gaze settling on her mouth.
She licked her lips, remembering the wondrous sensation of his sullen mouth on hers, so tender and possessive, and then banishing the yearning that rose up within her. She couldn’t allow herself to fall back into his arms. Couldn’t allow herself to linger here with him, where temptation beckoned and she could touch him again with such ease.
“Does it concern the running of the household?” she dared to ask, forcing herself to be stern with him.
“You know it doesn’t.”
She spun away, moving toward the door. “Then I’m afraid I must?—”
His hand on her elbow stopped her.
“Stay,” he begged, the raw emotion in his plea making her turn back to him.
What she saw reflected on his countenance—the naked yearning, the hunger that had sparked to life deep within her as well—tested her ability to resist him.
“Your Grace, your mother is in residence,” she protested, “along with guests. It is most improper for me to linger here with you.”
“To the devil with propriety.” He slid his hand down her forearm in a maddening caress, his leather-clad fingers finding hers as their palms connected. “You are my housekeeper. I can speak with you whenever I want.”
“Mr. Dunreave is already suspicious,” she forced herself to say. “I dare not risk being seen leaving the same room as you so soon after what happened earlier today.”
“What was it that happened, Joceline?” he asked, his voice low and soft as velvet.
She inhaled sharply against a rush of desire. “I spent far too much time with you in the library and missed the arrivalof the dowager duchess, the earl, and Lady Diana. That is what happened.”
“No.” He shook his head, his fingers tightening on hers. “It was far more than that. Admit it. Say it aloud.”
He was so close, his scent wrapping around her. His gaze was on her lips, and she was remembering every moment of his passionate kisses, his hot tongue in her mouth. His own lips had parted, and he was breathing raggedly, as if it required every bit of strength he possessed to keep from devouring her again as he had on the library table. She swayed toward him, her skirts gliding against his trousers, her chatelaine tinkling.
“I cannot,” she whispered, dangerously close to the precipice already, from nothing more than his proximity and her hand in his. “Wecannot.”
But the duke was determined. He caught her chin in his other hand, his hold firm but tender, his thumb tracing the slight dimple there.
“I’ve been thinking of nothing but you from the moment you left my side,” he murmured.
