Amelia was aware her breathing had hastened. That her palms were moist, every sense heightened.
Yet she was also aware that fear was not the cause.
This was exhilaration.
To pit her wits against the Scandalous Hugh Cadwalader.
The thrill.
The danger.
“By all means, Sir.” She demurely lowered her gaze. “I am at your complete service.”
A smile curvedHugh’s lips at her provocation.
Of course, he’d noticed the door edge open at once, had felt her eyes upon him, yet he’d not ceased his practice, nor had any intention of donning a shirt. He’d hoped to shock her, ripple that demure still-lake surface, and indeed, any good governess would’ve turned and fled, not stood for such barbarism.
But this minx had stayed and…watched.
He’d felt his muscles tense.
Amber eyes now fluttered at the teapot and he took up the challenge to see if he could make them flame.
“Do you enjoy your work as governess?”
“Assuredly, Sir.”
“And how many years have you worked as one?” He dragged the sleeves of his shirt up his forearms, watched her eyes follow.
“Too many to remember, Sir.” She lowered her lashes. “But six, give or take.”
“With four employers thus far, wasn’t it?”
“Five, Sir.”
“Were you dismissed from any?”
Her head snapped up, eyes dancing with gold. “I take offence at such an insinuation, Sir.”
But she’d not answered his question and Hugh’s lips quirked as he circled to her back. Miss Jones did not follow his movement, which was odd in itself. Most women would turn to keep an eye on him but she stayed as still as a hare caught in the open.
He bent so close that his breath ruffled the fine blond tendrils at her nape and he closely observed her profile.
“What a perfect governess,” he drawled. “Have you no faults?”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. Her tongue swiped her lower lip.
A sudden urge to place a palm to her cheek gripped him. To turn her, lean in and…
Taste her.
Kiss the truth from her as to why she’d wandered his quarters yesternight.
But would those lips whisper lies?
Then she turned her head of her own accord, their mouths so close he could scent chocolate on her breath.
“I’m sure that I do, Sir. It is said ‘best men are moulded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better. For being a little bad.’” And like that hare caught in the open, she took her chance to spring from their closeness before spinning to face him. “And you, Sir? Have you no faults of your own?”
