Owen gave another grimace. “I’ve gone from studying the stratigraphic column for my own edification to evaluating the duchy’s countless holdings, and a million other tasks that require my attention.”
“I’m in search of insect specimens to show your sisters. Perhaps you can join me in locating a few.” She gazed meaningfully toward the woods surrounding the pond.
Why had she suggested such a thing? She oughtn’t be alone with him, and yet the impulse to help him had arisen instantly.
He shot her a grateful look. After he tugged on his boots, she quietly led him into the variegated shade of the forest. Wordlessly, they slipped between the trees as Mr. Fernham continued his quest for the duke, the estate manager’s calls growing fainter as they moved away.
Once they’d put distance between themselves and the pond, she scanned the ground as though she truly wanted to comb the bracken for insects. As she did, a glance from the corner of her vision showed Owen donning his waistcoat and jacket, though he left both undone.
“What are we looking for?” he asked, pitching his voice low, likely to avoid attracting Mr. Fernham’s attention.
“I don’t expect you to actually collect beetles and grasshoppers, Your Grace.”
He shrugged. “Better that than make important decisions regarding field drainage.”
Before she knew what she was doing, she closed the distance between them and placed a hand on his forearm. She ignored the pulse of awareness that moved through her body, though the solid, strapping feel of him threatened to overturn all her good intentions.
“Having you home benefits more than the estate’s tenants,” she said softly. “Your family needs you.”
He exhaled jaggedly. “My tutors and professors all said I was intelligent enough, but that was before I had dozens and dozens of things to consider all at the same time. I’m the sodding duke. Forgive my language, Miss Holme,” he corrected quickly, shooting her a quick look.
She waved off his concern. “I was never your teacher. You can speak freely in front of me. Besides,” she added wryly, “the austere exteriors of proper, modest governesses are merely fiction. The interior landscapes are much more complex.”
It was as close to the truth as she could dare tell him. And it was still too much.
Belatedly, she realized that her hand remained on his arm. Much as she wanted to curl her fingers around him, she let go, and took a step back.
He stared at the place she had touched, and color rose in his cheeks.
How unexpected, to see him respond to her touch…
“Your Grace!” Mr. Fernham called, his voice nearing.
Silently, Cecilia and Owen pushed farther into the shelter of the trees.
“These are monumental changes for you,” she murmured. “University student one day, and the next day, a duke.”
He glanced toward the direction from which the estate manager’s voice had come.
“There were expectations—my own expectations—that when people would call me Your Grace, I’d be a much older man. A man of experience.” He gave a rueful laugh as he buttoned his waistcoat. “I’m hardly that.”
“There will be people around you to help you learn what it means to be a duke. You won’t be alone.”
“So they told me in London.” He dragged his hand through his hair, which formed beguiling, damp curls. “I left Oxford as soon as I heard Father was gone, and Mother and I laid him to rest in London. Then there were appointments—so many appointments with grim men who gave me stacks of books and papers I must commit to memory. It’s all so sodding much.”
His grief and bewilderment shot directly into her heart. “When all you want is a few more years with nothing but geology. A boy and his rocks.”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Fernham called. “Are you here?”
Owen tugged her behind a tree. His hands rested on her hips, holding her close as they both avoided the estate manager.
Her breath came quickly as she looked up into Owen’s face and felt the length of his body pressed to hers.
A jolt ran through his frame. But he didn’t release her.
Given her history, she ought to feel alarm. Instead, something keen and anticipatory gleamed within her. Was it possible…could she dare believe…? Should she?
The air between them thickened with awareness.
The wisest thing would be to walk away, ignoring her desire. There was nothing wrong with feeling desire. She had learned this years ago, just as she’d learned it was not always right to act on that hunger.
Yet Owen’s pupils were large, and he looked decidedly ravenous.
Putting distance between them was impossible.
“Although,” she whispered, “you’re not a boy any longer. You’ve undergone quite a metamorphosis.”
“So you’ve said. But some things about me haven’t changed.”
“Such as?”
His gaze met hers, slightly abashed. “I had been…I was… infatuated with you.”
Stunned, she could only stare at him.
“Ever since you came to Tarrington House,” he went on doggedly before falling silent.
His silence was familiar as she recalled their encounters over the past five years. They had been infrequent, since he’d been at Eton, and then Oxford, but the few times their paths had crossed, he had been extremely quiet in her presence. She’d reasoned that, as governess to his sisters, there was little for them to discuss, and she had likely escaped his notice. When she had overheard him alone with his family, he’d been far more open and expressive, teasing the girls and talking animatedly with his parents. Then she would enter the room, and he’d go mute.
Because she hadn’t mattered to him, or so she’d believed. But now his silences took on another meaning.
Twigs cracked and leaves rustled nearby as Mr. Fernham continued his search. Cecilia clasped Owen’s forearm and led him deeper into the forest, careful to keep her own footsteps as noiseless as possible.
Once they’d put more distance between themselves and the estate manager, she asked in a low voice, “You said you had been infatuated with me. It’s not uncommon for young men to be indiscriminately aroused by any woman nearby. Those feelings change, however, as they age, and meet more women.”
His cheeks reddened as he looked at her hand on his arm. “Even if my feelings persisted, it hardly matters. You’re in my employ, and I can’t abuse my power.”
She exhaled in a peculiar mixture of relief and disappointment—there would be no repeat of the experience with her past employer, whose unwanted attentions had ultimately cost Cecilia her position. Yet she still desired Owen.
“When I was leaving for Eton,” he continued, “my father gave me this.”
From an inside pocket in his coat, he removed a coin and held it up. Its surface shone in a bright circle, as if its owner spent considerable time and effort maintaining its appearance.
“Can’t buy much with a farthing,” he murmured, looking at it contemplatively. “Almost nothing. A boiled sweet, or a small glass of beer, perhaps, but little of significance or use. Even so, my father said that I should keep it safe, and never spend it. As inconsequential as the farthing was to me, it meant a hell of a lot more to someone else, someone who wasn’t the heir to a dukedom. Took me a while to understand his lesson, but as I safeguarded the farthing, I came to understand what it meant.”
In her experience, aristocratic men seldom gave such consideration to the implications of their position, and it was even more rare for them to pass those lessons on to their sons. But the late duke had, and her respect for him increased, conjoined with sadness at his passing.
But what did all these signify to his son?
Her gaze remained on the coin between his fingers. “What did it mean?”
“Value is relative, and it’s beholden to me not to abuse my status and harm someone with less power.”
“An important lesson,” she said softly.
“So it is.” He flash
ed her a rueful look as he tucked the coin into his pocket.
Her life abroad had taught her many things, including the fact that the English were not always kind to themselves in their fervent pursuit of decorum. She had been amongst their number—a shopkeeper’s daughter was expected to be well-behaved and modest, even if adherence to that role meant crushing the spirit.
It didn’t have to be that way. So long as no one was hurt, it was a wonderful thing to be untethered from rigid codes of conduct.
Owen wasn’t her pupil, but she could teach him that. She could show him how to free himself, how the bestowing of pleasure could be a gift given to oneself as well one’s lover.
Gently, she said, “It might be confining, too.”
His brow furrowed as he nodded slowly. “I’ve been so concerned about not doing harm that I daren’t take a step for fear I might inadvertently hurt someone.”
“There’s caution,” she said thoughtfully, “and then there’s paralysis. Imposing such restrictions can be binding to the point of suffocation. I know this from experience. Is it possible that this held you back from voicing your infatuation with me?”
“I didn’t think a sixteen-year-old boy would hold much appeal to a sophisticated woman like you. But,” he added, “I was most troubled by the possibility I might harm you.”
“And now? Do you still feel an attraction to me?”
His jaw worked, and with his neckcloth still undone, she could see the flex of muscle in his neck.
“I dare not say,” he finally allowed.
“Because you fear that your interest would be unwelcome?”
He gave one clipped nod.
“You have been confined and restricted for a long time,” she murmured in sympathy. “I know what it is like to feel so forcibly restrained. As though you’re asphyxiating yourself to fulfill someone else’s idea of what constitutes propriety. Right now, without anyone here to pass judgment, I would like you to be honest with me.”
“My fascination with you burns as strongly as ever,” he said, then clamped his lips together as if holding himself back from speaking more.
Though she made herself look calm without, within, she reeled from his revelation. All through her earlier fascination with him, she hadn’t been alone. That pull between them continued to throb with life and potential—dangerous potential.
She had urged him to be candid ostensibly to ease the invisible iron bands that wrapped around him. There was another motive, however, one she dared not even think, yet it burned within her all the same.
“When you first met me, you likely knew little about sex.”
He nodded, the movement stiff at first, but then loosening slightly. “You said I may be honest, and so I shall be. When you initially came to Tarrington Hall, I was a virgin.”
“No longer. Now you’re a man of experience.”
A small, rueful snort escaped him. “You know so much about so many things, but not this. Men of experience don’t turn into wordless oafs in the presence of women. They know how to say the right things, how to flatter and seduce.”
“Which you do not,” she surmised. His candor humbled her, even as she was astonished at what he revealed.
“That farthing is always in my pocket, reminding me of my father’s lesson. It’s there now, in here”—he patted the place in his coat that held the coin—“and here.” He tapped his finger against his temple.
“Confining you,” she said.
“Even if I were a practiced rake,” he went on, “none of those other women are you.”
“I—” She had no answer to this. All this time, as she’d fought against her own wicked needs, he’d had his own secret, one in which she had been his focus.
“How many women have you taken to bed?” she asked, even as her heart thudded so hard it was a struggle to speak calmly.
“Two.” He blushed furiously as he spoke.
Her mouth went dry, and she could only stare at him. Never had she believed she would have this conversation with him, and certainly not in this context, when she had been salivating over his naked body moments earlier—in fact, she was still ogling him clothed. The beat of desire continued to pulse through her as they stood within touching distance.
“With your looks, I would have believed you’ve had more than two lovers. Did something keep you from bringing more people to your bed?”
“I had a hope,” he said reservedly. At her prompting look, he explained, “A distant, foolish hope that you would be the one to teach me about sex.”
A short, stunned laugh burst from her. “I’m not certain if I should be offended by your presumption. Do you think so little of me?”
His eyes darkened. “Impossible for me to overstate my opinion of you.”
She brought her hand to her own throat, her fingers light against her skin, but even this gentle touch roused her sensitized body. “I’d no idea. All this time, I didn’t know.”
“I remember meeting you when I was home for the winter holiday,” he said, his voice low. “You wore a gray dress, as if you were trying to fade into the background. Yet on no account could you fade away to me. I’d come into the parlor and you were laughing with my sisters, and I’d never seen anyone so abundant with life. You glowed with it—all I wanted was to soak you into me, to be inside you.”
As he spoke, her breath came faster, and her banked hunger flared brightly. Yet she had to be honest with him.
“I’ve no recollection of that moment.” Thankfully, she hadn’t become attuned to him until later.
His laugh was rueful. “Why would you? I went mute as a piece of shale, and hardly spoke more than three words at a time in your presence. Didn’t stop me from staring after you, though. From that day forward, I was fascinated by you.”
“It was you,” she said suddenly.
He looked at her with alarm. “What was me?”
“I had a collection of books. Erotic books. One night I discovered one of them had gone missing. I had always suspected that a maid had nicked it but…” She stared at him. “You took it.”
“I—” He cleared his throat, and he shifted from foot to foot. “I snuck into your room, hungry just to see where you slept. And I found those books.” A pink stain spread across his cheeks—from embarrassment, or arousal, or both. “I did filch one.”
She sucked in a breath, caught on the blades of stunned need.
“That’s when I knew,” he said hoarsely, “there was more to you than the cool, learned Miss Holme. You possessed wisdom, experience, passion. And a mouth that I desperately wanted to taste. That’s when I began to fantasize about what it would be like to have that wisdom, experience, and passion trained on me.”
He shook his head. “This is madness, to tell you this, when I haven’t a hope in hell that you could ever think of me in that way.”
“Owen,” she rasped. The whole of her body was hot and shivering, as if she had a fever, and the need to press herself against him trembled through her limbs.
The wisest thing would be to walk away. End this tortuous conversation, head quickly back to her narrow room, make herself come, and go about her life as if none of this had ever happened. She hadn’t seen his marvelous body, or heard him confess his desire for her, or begun to entertain the mad, entirely wrong idea that she should act on her hunger for him.
And yet…
Here they were, in the shade of the woods, away from the house and all the staid, strict rules it upheld. At her urging, he’d been open with her, confessing his desire. In this liminal space, for this brief moment, they could be fully themselves. From her own experience, and from communication with other governesses, she knew that men of the family often leveraged their power to force themselves on their female staff. Owen had done none of this, even as he wrestled with his attraction to her.
She could repay his trustworthiness and honesty with her own.
“I noticed you,” she said breathlessly, “your first winter home from Oxford. I had�
��thoughts, desires I shouldn’t have. That didn’t stop me from wishing and wanting. I did then. I do now.”
His thick, dark eyebrows rose. Clearly, her revelation surprised him, but she was equally stunned at her own candor.
She swayed closer, and as he did so too, the distance between them narrowed to inches until the heat of his skin pervaded her. His mouth was tempting, and she could not look away.
“If you wish,” she went on, still struggling to take in air, “for the next few moments, these woods will be our classroom.”
“What will you teach me?” His gaze went dark, and his shyness dropped away.
“The fine art of kissing.”
Chapter Two
His lips parted, and his eyes widened.
“I say,” Mr. Fernham called. “Your Grace! Dash it, where is he?”
Owen looked toward where the estate manager’s voice had sounded, then held out his hand to her. She threaded her fingers with his and together they wove deeper into the forest.
A massive oak offered refuge, with a hollow in the base of its wide trunk. She stepped into its shelter with Owen, thick roots spreading around their feet like jungle serpents.
He faced her, color darkening his cheeks. Then his lids lowered, and he said hoarsely, “Tell me what I need to do.”
The simplicity of that request, combined with his deep, rumbling voice, arrowed between Cecilia’s legs, centering in her quim.
“Put your hand on my waist,” she murmured.
In silent agreement, they stepped nearer until there was no space between them. Her breasts brushed against his chest. His torso was hard as iron, making her bite back a moan at the sensation. There was so much strength and vitality within him—he all but radiated with it.
He obliged, and despite her gown and stays and shift, the heat of him pierced her skin delectably. “Cup your other hand against the back of my head.”
His broad palm cradled her, rubbing the strands of her hair, holding her as though she were the most extraordinary creature that ever existed. She slid her arms around his shoulders.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 22