One of his hands traveled to her unbound hair, caressing the strands over her back with a gentleness that destroyed her. He was so much more than she had realized on the day she had first walked into his study.
Everything she wished she could tell him clamored to her tongue. I am not a governess. I have been deceiving you. Sifting through your correspondence. Reporting your words back to another.
What would he do if she revealed all to him? One breath was all it would take, and the truth would come spilling out like an upended tin of loose buttons. Would he send her away immediately? Would he wish to punish her? It was almost certain she would never see him again, and why did that thought leave her with such an empty anguish, a searing pain in her chest?
She should tell him. Regardless of the consequences. She would inform Father of her decision that she was no longer capable of remaining in Whitley’s household and spying against him.
“Tears?” The duke’s voice was a decadent rumble against her ear.
Her cheeks were wet. She wept for the man in her arms. For the impossible duke she did not dare like but whom she nevertheless felt so attuned to. For the broken man who could not sleep for the ghosts that hunted him even in his dreams. For the man who had removed a signet ring from his friend’s disembodied hand so it could be returned to his mother.
Once they began, they would not stop. The tears rained down her cheeks, and she sobbed into his chest, marking his skin with the wetness of her sorrow for him. And she was so very sorry—for Whitley, for what he had experienced and witnessed, for every bit of suffering and anguish he had been forced to endure. He had woken to the horrible, unimaginable knowledge his friend had been tortured and murdered whilst he still lived and breathed.
That was the guilt that ravaged the Duke of Whitley.
It explained why he had become the man he was.
How very wrong she had been about him. How wrong everyone had been about him. For while it could not be denied his reputation was loathsome, every black mark against him was the direct result of what he had suffered. What he had seen. What haunted him still.
“I hurt for you, Your Grace,” she admitted at last, though she knew all too well he could use such a confession against her later. “The horrors you have seen, the nightmares you have endured, should not be suffered by anyone. I ache knowing you suffer so.”
“I am alive,” he said bitterly, “and that is more than I can say for my friend. If my greatest complaint is a lack of sleep and some nightmares, I still remain on the correct side of the soil. And whilst I decidedly do not deserve to be here, nevertheless, here I stand.”
Broken and sad and lonely.
“If I could take on the pain for you, I would,” she said simply, and she meant it.
The Duke of Whitley was not at all as he seemed. She could not help but feel that here, in the blackness of the night, she had seen him—truly seen him—for the first time.
Chapter Twelve
For the first time since his miserable return to England’s shores, he wanted to hold a woman, to bask in her sweetness and comfort, bury his face in her hair and hold her soft body against his, every bit as much as he wanted to tup her.
You want to hold her more than you want to bed her, his heart whispered as it absorbed her words with an undeniable pang. If I could take on the pain for you, I would, she had said. And he believed her. Heard the note of sincerity in her dulcet voice, felt the tenderness in her tentative caresses. Up and down, her hands swept.
Consoling him.
Undoing him.
The wetness of the tears she’d shed for him coated his bare chest, and he could not think of a single, more humbling experience than the prim little governess holding him in her arms. Need swept through him with such violence his teeth ached. But it was not just a need to carry her to his bed and finish what they had begun on the night in his study. It was a need for her touch. For her concern. For her caring and gentleness. For her patience and grace with his sisters as much as with him.
He kissed the top of her head, for he could not stay himself. Her unbound hair was soft and smooth, falling in waves he longed to wrap around his fist. He inhaled, wishing he could keep her forever thus, bound to him, at his side. But she was his sisters’ governess, and she was an innocent, and she was not for him. She deserved a whole man who could love her, who could make her his wife so she would never again need to work to earn her bread.
“Jacinda.” He spoke her name with great reluctance, for there was nothing he wanted more than to strip her bare and lose himself inside her this night. Somehow, in the absence of light, she had become his sun. And he did not wish to dim her brilliance. “You must return to your chamber now.”
Her hands stilled in their slow ministration, and he wished he could recall the words at once. As if suddenly remembering their stations and the impropriety of remaining in his bedchamber en déshabillé, she withdrew from him. “Yes, I suppose I must. Forgive me for the familiarity. I do not know what I was thinking, entering your chamber.”
“Do not run from me.” He reached blindly for her, finding her hand and holding it when she would have retreated. He could not allow her to rush away, not in embarrassment or shame. Gratitude welled up within him, spilling forth. “I… thank you for…”
Caring.
His lips would not form the word.
He licked them, his fingers tightening over hers, his heart thumping as wildly as it had when he’d been wrenched from the nightmare. He did not dare to presume that someone as good and patient and kind as Miss Jacinda Turnbow could care for a man as jaded and depraved and ruined as he. They shared an attraction. She had heard a sound in the night. And he had raved on like a madman, unburdening his soul to her as if she could absolve him of all his sins. Little wonder she sought to escape him now.
“You are most welcome, Your Grace,” she said firmly, giving his fingers a tentative squeeze in return.
He stood there stupidly, holding onto their linked hands. Her bare skin against his was a cooling balm and a roaring flame all at once. He could not let her go, and yet he could not beg her to stay. It had been selfishness, pure and simple, to think he could make this lovely, fierce woman his mistress. Selfishness to think he could keep her for himself, like a bird in a cage.
Crispin released her. He had no choice. It was either that or haul her into his bed. “Naturally, neither of us shall remark upon this occasion ever again. I do expect your silence and loyalty.”
“Naturally, Your Grace, you need not fear. Your confidences shall remain private,” she said quietly, using his title again. “I bid you good evening.”
It rankled, not hearing her call him by name now that she had. Just as it rankled to send her away from him, to remind her of her place in his household, to demand her fealty when she had never exhibited a hint of anything but a strict discipline and an adherence to her duties. She had disposed of a mouse carcass on his order, by God.
Shame swept over him as he thought of his treatment of her. He had been callous and cold, cruel and demanding, because her presence nettled him and her denial infuriated him, and because from the moment he had seen her in her dun weeds and lace and hideous caps, he had wanted her for his own. He had known she was different. That she was someone who could make him weak.
She had not been like any of the governesses who had come before her.
Nor would she be like any who came after.
Because she was more than a governess to him, and she always had been. She was a woman, daring and intelligent and proper and feisty. Yet even when he had tried to force her to hate him, he had longed for her still. And no matter what he had done or said, she had still come running to him in the night, defying her iron-hard sense of propriety, taking him in her arms, crying for his pain.
If I could take on the pain for you, I would.
Her footfalls crept over the carpet, taking her father and farther from him.
“Wait.” The single word emerged li
ke a shot, and it took him by surprise, for he had not meant to speak. He had intended to keep his peace and listen to her leave.
Her movement ceased. “Your Grace?”
His legs moved, eating up the distance between them, bringing him to her in a few long strides. He stopped just short of touching her. “What if you did not go?” he rasped.
“I beg your pardon?” Her voice had acquired a breathless quality that told him everything he needed to know.
He inhaled slowly, exhaled, gathering his wits, wondering if he dared when he had so newly decided to listen to his conscience. Beelzebub and hellfire. He had no choice. He needed her, damn it. “What if you were to spend the evening here in my chamber?”
Her sharp gasp cut through the heaviness of the night air. “I already told you I will not be your mistress.”
And he was about to make a devil’s bargain, for he would gladly sell his soul for one night with Miss Jacinda Turnbow in his bed. “I do not want you to be my mistress.”
That was, admittedly, a detestable lie, for he would like nothing better than to make her his and keep her until his body no longer hungered for her as if she was the feast presented to a starving man. But not in this instance, for the madness in his mind wanted instant appeasing. It wanted her now, any way he could have her, just as long as she wished it, too.
His heart thudded so loudly, he swore she might hear it as the silence stretched. Still, she did not speak. Nor did she move.
Until at least, a swish of fabric and a cool burst of air told Crispin she’d spun to face him. “I am afraid I do not understand what it is that you wish from me.”
What he wished of her.
His cock stirred to life as he thought of just how much he wished from her and how very depraved those wishes were. But for the moment, all he knew was he could not bear for her to go. Could not bear to face the empty darkness of his chamber, to lose the heat of her touch, the alluring reassurance of her curved body aligned to his.
He needed her.
She could not heal him. Nothing and no one could. But perhaps, just perhaps, one night with her in his bed could diminish some of the restlessness in his soul. Perhaps they could lose themselves in each other and in the passion sparking bold and true betwixt them.
“Your Grace?” she prodded. “I cannot remain here. Already, I have made a ruinous mistake in coming to you, and I risk disastrous consequences the longer I linger.”
“One night in my bed,” he bit out. “That is what I wish from you.”
“I cannot.”
Her response was swift, though not convincing. He took a step closer. “You cannot or you will not?”
“Both.”
But still, she did not move to leave.
“Touch me again,” he invited.
“Pardon?” She sounded shocked but also, unless he missed his guess, tempted.
“Just as I said, Jacinda.” Another step, and her dressing gown brushed his drawers. Her warmth singed him. Her generous breasts grazed his chest. “Touch me again, and then answer my question.”
“I do not… I cannot… this is absurd, Your Grace. I must return to my chamber before your little games land me in a desperate situation.”
Her words should have sounded frosty—he suspected they were meant to sound thus—but her husky tone belied her attempts at dismissing him. “Do not, cannot, will not. Or dare not? Methinks the lady is afraid.”
“Of you?” She made a dismissive sound that had him grinning. “I can assure you I do not fear you, Your Grace. What I fear is foolishness. Haste. Making mistakes from which there is no return. Which is why, as you can see, there is no more prudent recourse than for me to return to my chamber and forget this brief moment of indiscretion ever occurred.”
She was lying to herself. He heard the hesitance in her tone. But his pride was a thorn he could not overlook. If she wanted to cling to propriety and pretense, he would not stop her. Though every part of him wished she would stay, mayhap she was not wrong in her wish to flee.
For, one night inside her would never be enough. He would inevitably want more. And what more could she give? She had made it more than clear she would not become his mistress.
“Go, then,” he urged lowly. “Return to the safety of your chamber. Forget you were ever here, and I shall do the same.”
But she did not go. She lingered, unmoving, a shadow in the fragment of moonlight that drifted beyond the window dressing. He held his breath, willing her to remain. Her hesitance set off a new flare of need. Around them, the night was quiet.
Her hand flattened over his chest above his heart, setting his body aflame with a hundred thousand fires of raw, desperate want. He settled his left palm over hers, holding her fast lest she think to withdraw. Their fingers intertwined. Still, neither of them spoke.
Words had never been more superfluous.
He cupped her nape, guided her head back, and slammed his lips to hers. He knew she was an innocent and he should be tender and slow and gentle, but his body ached to claim her. He could not control himself, could not quell the vicious ardor that made him want to take everything she would offer.
And then take more.
But his inner battle over reining in his inner beast became moot the moment she kissed him back. She was fierce in her response as she was in all things. She opened, sighing into his mouth, clutching at his shoulder as if she could not get him close enough. Her tongue tangled with his, battling him, it seemed, for dominance.
What a sweet skirmish this would be. His cock went rigid. He ground it against her softness, letting her feel him, letting her know who would ultimately win in this bedding. Letting her know it would be her flat on her back, him inside her, taking what was his.
Damnation.
His ballocks tightened at the thought of knowing Jacinda Turnbow so intimately, loving her so well she would never forget the way he tasted on her tongue or the way he felt atop her. That she would never bed another man without wishing it was him.
Nay, strike that thought. That she would never bed another man. Ever. He wanted this—her—beneath him, astride him. He wanted her hair unbound, its glorious red strands a curtain over his chest as she kissed a path to his cock. He wanted her on her knees as he drove into her from behind. He wanted pleasure her with his tongue until she came undone. To wake up with the scent of jasmine in his nose and her lush breasts in his hands.
He wanted her to be his always, and he knew it now with a finality that should have alarmed him, but somehow, it settled into his gut with an air of rightness. One night would never be enough. Nor would one week or one month or one year. Jacinda was a conflagration in his blood, coursing through him. She made him…
Beelzebub and hellfire, she made him feel alive again.
He nipped her lip, licked into her mouth. She met him kiss for kiss, her hands roaming his body, tentatively at first and then with greater urgency. Her fingers glided over his shoulders before running down his arms. Trailed over the planes of his abdomen and made a scorching path back up to his chest.
They kissed until his lips were tender from the bruising force of their mutual, mad passion. His mouth found her jaw, her ear. He caught the fleshy lobe between his teeth and tugged, a fresh surge of satisfaction unfurling when she moaned his name.
“Crispin.”
There was her capitulation, in her kiss, in the breathy exhalation of his given name, in her refusal to leave the chamber. But still, he needed both of them to be sure. To know that she went willingly to his bed because she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
“Jacinda,” he whispered into the shell of her ear before kissing the sweet hollow just below. “Tell me why you did not go.”
“Oh,” she sighed as he licked her there, working his tongue over her silken flesh in much the same manner he intended to between her legs.
He kissed down her throat. “Tell me.”
“You never say please.”
He chuckled against her skin. Sh
e was an odd little thing, this woman. Intelligent and brave when she needed to be, firm and proper yet fiery in his arms. Passionate in her kiss. And she was not wrong. He supposed he had not much use for pleasantries or manners or even humanity in the years he’d been at war.
For her, he would try, because he liked to give her contentment. Though it was a foreign notion, his head was clear, and he could acknowledge the truth. “Please, Jacinda. Tell me, please, why you are still here. Why you’re still in my arms. Because I have longed for this moment from the very first time you crossed the threshold of my study, but I would not have you here if you remain out of some sense of obligation or fear for your position.”
He found the line of buttons on the front of her nightrail through the darkness and flicked open enough that he could pull it and her dressing gown aside to reveal the soft skin he sought. He dragged his nose over her collarbone, inhaling her scent and following with a line of open-mouthed kisses.
“I did not go because it has been years since I have lain with a man, and I… I want to lie with you.” She paused. “I wish to remember what it feels like to be wanted in such a way. Just for tonight.”
Her confession gave him pause, for it was unexpected. She was not an innocent after all, and though that fact surprised him and caused an unwanted twinge of jealousy for the unknown man who had taken her maidenhead, Crispin knew an instant, sobering sense of relief. She was here because she wanted him. She was experienced enough to understand desire, to acknowledge what was happening between them.
But he had to know something first, for the very thought she had been taken and abandoned by some thoughtless cad was enough to make violence stir in his soul. “Why are you not wed, Miss Turnbow?”
“He… he was a soldier.” Her voice was hushed, steeped in sorrow. “He died on the winter march through the Galician mountains on the Peninsula.”
The retreat to Corunna. He knew it well. Thousands of men had died on the impossible journey through the mountain range with the French at their heels. He swallowed down the rising bile at the memory.
Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3 Page 16