3
When Miss Potterarrived at his home two days later, Devon could scarcely contain his excitement. Which was why he chose to let Rowena greet her, while he secluded himself in the library. Honestly, he had to get himself under control. The fact he’d asked her to stay beneath his roof proved his weak resolve to do the right thing. Instead, he was allowing his lust for her to guide him–to bring her closer, into a bedroom where he would be able to visit if he chose to do so.
He would not be quite such a scoundrel, of course. But the possibility of it alone stirred his blood. Christ, it had taken every bit of restraint he possessed not to climb across the table in her parlor the other day and take her into his arms. Or in the kitchen earlier, when he’d been the cause of her anger. He’d stepped close enough to smell the perfume of roses upon her skin and had barely resisted the urge to push her up against the door and kiss her until she grew breathless.
Bloody hell!
He’d wanted to do a lot more than kissing. Especially when he'd allowed himself a moment of wicked imagining. Desire had washed over her face as if their minds had been linked, and she’d seen the pictures he’d painted of her, of her head thrown pack while he pushed up her skirts and tore open her bodice. And then, God help him, she’d groaned, as if he’d actually done it, as if he’d actually placed his mouth against her breasts and allowed his hand to slide over her thigh.
Frustrated, Devon went to refill the empty glass of brandy sitting before him. He’d gone to visit Madame Lizette as planned, but after selecting a girl who shared Miss Potter’s appearance as much as possible, he’d been too disgusted with himself to do anything with her. Especially since the girl in question had been sultrier than Miss Potter and lacked the feistiness he found so incredibly arousing in her.
But now she was here, invited to stay until her youngest sister returned. Devon took a long sip of his brandy. His sister had been appalled by the idea, because she’d seen right through him. His dissembling excuses and explanations had not been able to convince her of anything but an ulterior motive.
“You never want to have guests,” she’d said. “So what is this really about, Devon?”
He’d muttered something about Priorsbridge, while walking away and shutting a door in Rowena’s face. When they’d crossed paths later, she’d wagged a disapproving finger at him. “If you seduce this woman, I’ll never speak to you again. Do you hear? You’ll be just as awful as all the other reprobates out there.”
He’d hated the word, hated the fact his sister knew of the weakness he felt when faced with Miss Potter. So he’d locked himself away, plagued by guilt and need and something so desperate, he feared it might easily consume him. He decided to only come out for meals. And to escort Miss Potter over to the Park View. His sister would chaperone, so there was no risk of him behaving as anything other than the perfect gentleman.
But in his heart he wanted, more fervently than he’d ever wanted before. Which had made him consider all manner of solutions. He could, for instance, return to the country and send a letter to Priorsbridge informing him he’d done his duty, and Miss Potter was well. Which she would be, now she’d agreed to the stipend.
He could also try to convince her to be his mistress. Now there was a satisfying option, though he had to admit such a position would be rather demeaning for her. She was, after all, a gentlewoman, even if she had fallen on hard times, and her father had sullied their name. To actually ask her to be one step above a whore would likely lead to a tongue lashing the likes of which humanity had never seen.
Which left one final possibility.
He hardly dared contemplate it. Because the more he did, the more sense it made. Which only led to him wanting it more and, consequently, to the fear of failure. After all, their mutual attraction aside, he knew he and Miss Potter had had their differences. Also, their acquaintance was fairly new. They’d met no more than four days ago. Which meant they did not know each other particularly well. Except he felt like he knew her, as though he was able to predict her response to any situation with certain accuracy.
She was stubborn and proud, unwilling to bend to any man’s will, and by God, he wanted her by his side and in his bed, even if that meant marrying her.
There. He’d actually allowed the entire idea to form in his head. Taking another sip of his drink, he savored the calm settling deep in his bones now he’d found the right path. Whether she would agree to be his wife or not had yet to be determined. But he was a duke, damn it, and he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Surely he’d manage to convince her of the benefits to their union.
With this in mind, he set his glass down and strode to the door, determined to begin his courtship as promptly as possible—before he did something foolish like toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to be ravished. Which was definitely the most tempting course of action, even if it wasn’t the wisest.
* * *
Seatedat the long dining room table that evening, Josephine wondered at Snowdon’s attentiveness. Not that he hadn’t been kind before when he’d made the fire in her parlor, brought her food, and prepared her tea, but it seemed like he was going out of his way to prove himself tonight. In a way, she found it endearing, but it did not diminish her suspicions. He was obviously up to something, the only question was what?
“So tell me, Miss Potter,” Lady Rowena began, “what prompted you to seek a position as an accountant?”
Josephine glanced across at Snowdon, who promptly stuck a piece of meat in his mouth and shrugged. She couldn’t decide if she liked the idea of him discussing her with his sister or not, especially since this was an aspect of her he did not approve of.
Returning her attention to Lady Rowena, she said, “I have always been fond of mathematics.”
The duke suddenly coughed. “Really?”
“Why do people find such a thing so surprising?” It had always confounded her, ever since she’d been a girl and she’d favored equations over embroidery.
“I suppose it is rare, that is all,” the duke muttered, following his statement with a hasty sip of wine.
Josephine fought not to roll her eyes. “My mother always insisted on putting education first for all of her daughters. She believed knowledge would give us the power to survive even if everything else went pear-shaped. Which it did. But thanks to her determination to have us tutored in mathematics, science, literature, French, and Latin, my sister Louise and I were both able to land respectable positions.” She glanced across at the duke before adding, “Even if you disapprove of our doing so.”
“I believe my brother is of the opinion women exist so men can have something pleasing to look at,” Lady Rowena murmured. “And because it would be deuced difficult for them to produce an heir on their own.”
Stunned by the blunt sense of humor, Josephine found herself laughing more openly than she’d done in some time. It felt good. Liberating. As though she was truly keeping company with friends. Lady Rowena laughed too, then added something equally amusing about the duke having said so to a dowager countess once. But when Josephine swept her gaze toward him to gauge his reaction, she didn’t find him laughing. Not because he appeared annoyed by his sister’s jabbing, but because he watched Josephine closely, pensively even, and with more consideration than she felt comfortable with.
After dinner, he excused himself quickly, allowing Josephine to enjoy a sherry with his sister in the parlor. “Might I ask you a personal question, Miss Potter?” Lady Rowena asked, when they’d said all there was to say about their favorite books and their fondest childhood memories.
“Of course.” Josephine wasn’t sure if she wanted Lady Rowena to do so, but it was one of those situations where saying so would have been rude.
