“Except by ye. When we—when ye kept me from falling into the stream. And ye petted me.” She looked away. “And when I was drunk at yer table. And then when ye carried me into my keep. But I dinnae remember that.”
He was rattled. “Er, that is to say, never? How old are you?”
“I am six and twenty.”
Twenty-six and never touched by a man. By the time Jack was twenty-six, the perversions he had enjoyed, the countless women he had enjoyed them with . . . his mind was swimming.
She tipped up her chin and looked at the ceiling. “I am the Countess of Kinmarloch. And before I was countess, I was in the direct line. Even if I were pretty, a lad widnae have dared touch me.”
He shook his head. “Even if you were . . . Helen, look at me.”
She turned her head and stared at him sullenly, her heavy brow suddenly heavier than ever.
“I know what I am. Dinnae pay me any of your compliments, Jack Pike. I dinnae need to hear them. And ye dinnae need to say them.”
“Am I allowed to speak the truth, my lady?”
She snorted. “Ye widnae recognize the truth even if it had its fangs sunk into yer bollocks.”
He winced. “Ouch. You have just conjured an extremely unpleasant image in my mind. Not at all conducive to putting me in the mood.”
“In the mood?”
“First, to say something nice to you. Second, to train you.”
Her eyes brightened. “Ye will agree then to train me?”
She was not at all interested in his flattery, his opinion of her looks, how he thought he could harvest her spare body for his own pleasure, and that her face . . . that her face had grown on him and in a certain light and at a certain angle, she looked almost attractive. No, she was only interested in what he could do for her. How he could further her ends.
“I was considering it seriously until you began to discuss fangs and bollocks.”
The light in her eyes went out. “Ye feel I am too rough and coarse for a gentleman like the duke.”
“Well, you could stand to have a little polish put on you, but I think a little roughness and coarseness is good.” He slid down on the bed, a little closer to her.
She looked at him with suspicion. “I dinnae care whatyethink, Jack Pike. I care what the duke thinks.”
“The duke? Well . . .” He considered. “The duke likes a little coarseness and roughness. Just not mention of sharp things and genitals. Together, in the same sentence. Very off-putting.”
“His Grace might nae mind me?”
“Mmmm.” He licked his lips. “Not at all.”
It was the truth. Because he, Jack Pike, didn’t mind her. Not one bit. And the Duke of Dunmore’s taste was the same as his.
Exactly the same.
Because hewasthe Duke of Dunmore.
Two
Jack was surely going to go to hell for deceit, if not lechery. But he was going to enjoy himself on the way there.
“And His Grace has a particular fondness for nut-brown hair. Just like yours.” He reached and found the end of Helen’s plait and worried at the little piece of string tied there. Then it was undone and he was loosening the braid, brushing his fingers through her hair.
“Get away with ye,” she said. But her voice was less belligerent than before. And she did not bat at his arm or drag his hand away. “Naebody likes brown hair. ’Tis ordinary.”
“The duke does. And your hair is not ordinary, my lady. It’s so soft.” Jack lifted a hank and brushed it under his nose and against his lips. He wasn’t lying. Her hair was like silk and it smelled of her.
