“Has the old bastard threatened you with legal action again?” he asked, spurred as much by curiosity as he was the need to divert attention from himself.
“Who is she?” Duncan evaded, his grin fading. He did not often speak of the duke who had sired him. The enmity he possessed for Amberly was obvious, but aside from the occasional reference and the name of his hell, he revealed little.
The whisky glasses had begun to do their work, bathing Crispin’s mind in a comforting glow. “The new governess,” he admitted, his grip on his glass and his jaw both tightening simultaneously.
His friend raised a brow. “Much as I hate to say this Whitley, if the governess is the woman you wish to bed, why do you tarry here?”
Why indeed? It was easier, for one thing. Safer, too. Here, he could not be interrupted by duty or importuned by sisters he had never wished to be responsible for. He had not wanted the title, damn it. Had not even wished to return to England. Or to live, for that matter. Guilt was a festering internal wound to rival that caused by any bullet or saber.
“It is a valid question, Kirkwood,” he admitted. “Would you believe the answer is honor?”
Duncan cocked his head. “Have you any left?”
“Precious little,” he grumbled, taking one more sip of whisky. “The feeble remnants of which dwindle with each passing moment.”
His friend gave him a half-smile, approaching him and taking the glass from his hands with ease. “Get some rest, Whitley. Then go home on the morrow. Tup the governess if you must. Above all, sleep. You look like something Beelzebub raked up from the coals.”
Tup the governess.
If only he could.
He inclined his head, knowing that like it or not, egregious lapse of judgment or no, he was returning to Whitley House this evening. Or morning. Or whatever the bloody hell time of godforsaken day it was. “How long have I been here, Kirkwood?”
The proprietor’s brow furrowed. “I do believe this is the fourth day. Pray do yourself a kindness before you depart in the morning and avail yourself of the bathing chamber. With all respect, Your Grace, you stink.”
He’d lost four whole days. He had no doubt Duncan was correct and he did look like some festering soul that had been sent to the bowels of Hades.
Hell. He was a festering soul. He would never understand the unfair whims of a God that had taken Morgan’s life and left him behind to the agony of life after war. Of having to spend each waking moment drowning all memories of the atrocities he had witnessed and committed by pouring spirits down his throat.
He did not even take umbrage at Duncan’s words. In another time, another place, and when he had been a different man—a gentleman who had never known the evils of the world, who had never met the horrors of war or the bitter fear of staring death in the face in the throes of battle—he would have been affronted and horrified. He would have issued a crushing setdown and put Kirkwood in his place.
But he was the man who had watched the lifeblood seep from his enemy, the man who had held his comrades in his arms as they breathed their last. He had faced cannonades and swords and hails of musket fire. He had ridden into battle knowing he may not return alive.
That man felt as if he was unraveling in the fashion of a tapestry, one thread at a time until all at once, half of him was gone. He was empty and hollow and bitter and numb to his core.
And soused.
Thoroughly bosky.
In his cups.
“I cannot tup the governess,” was all he said. He could not, could he? Conscience and honor proved fiendishly elusive when one was drunk on Duncan Kirkwood’s fine whisky. “But perhaps there would be no harm in returning to Whitley House in the morn since I have no further business here. Do consider reevaluating the quality of your whores, Kirkwood. None of them are up to snuff. If you had half an eye for excellence, I would not be leaving your premises unsatisfied.”
Duncan snorted. “My eye for quality is unsurpassed, and that is why every lord in London worth his salt spends each night within my establishment. If anyone ought to consider evaluating anything, it is you. Swive the governess out of your system. But by all means, avail yourself of the bath first. I’ll have a fresh change of clothes sent round for you.”
Hell and damnation. He could not swive Miss Governess. Should not. It wouldn’t be proper, not with his sisters beneath his roof. His rogue prick stiffened against his breeches at the mere thought of stripping her out of her dowdy gowns and ridiculous caps. Baring her to his eyes and lips and tongue. Curse it, he had to stop that errant vein of thought lest he embarrass himself before Duncan.
“Do not send more quim this evening,” he growled.
His friend stifled a smile of amusement. “But of course.” He deposited their glasses on a nearby, ornately carved table before bowing.
Being embroiled in war had stripped Crispin of the heartily ingrained notions of hierarchy with which he had been raised. Moments such as these reminded him that, for all their familiarity and camaraderie, he was nevertheless Duncan’s better. Duncan catered to him, served him. The realization struck him in a raw place, and he did not like it.
He stepped forward, the chamber swirling around him, intent upon… bloody hell, he knew not what. “Thank you, friend,” was all he said. “I will accept your offer of a bath this evening, I think. Lord knows I probably need one by now.”
Duncan sniffed, then clapped him on the back. “There is no question of it, Cris. I offer irrefutable, olfactory evidence.”
“Go to hell,” he said without heat.
His friend offered him a sad smile. “We are already there, are we not?”
Crispin allowed the breath to flow from his lungs in a slow, steady exhalation. “Yes,” he acknowledged at last. “We are.”
Chapter Seven
The Duke of Whitley was in attendance at the breakfast table, a shock to the senses, dressed for riding and unfairly handsome. His presence, solemn and arrogant and quiet and yet so very commanding, was all Jacinda could see when she arrived with her recalcitrant charges in tow.
For several mornings following his abrupt departure at dinner, he had been gone. Despite his demand she report to him twice daily on the progress of Lady Honora and Lady Constance, he had disappeared with no word to suggest when he might once again be expected.
The household had been unaware of his return. She could only assume he’d gone to his club or to his favorite hell, where he drowned himself in distraction and dissipation.
He stood and sketched a bow so elegant that it belonged more in a ballroom than here before his sisters and a mere governess. To her relief, Lady Constance and Lady Honora both performed passable curtsies.
Their lessons had progressed uneventfully for the last few days, and she was grateful for the reprieve. The mouse funeral had been a turning point, it seemed. Though she supposed the Portugal cakes she had whipped up for them—much to the horror of Cook—had aided in her storming of their battlements. Sternness and sweets worked wonders upon the two imps.
She dipped into a curtsy as well, knowing she must but careful to keep her gaze averted so the duke could not read the disapproval that was not her place to feel. It ought not to bother her that he was a dissolute rakehell and utter wastrel, but somehow it did. The false smile stretching her lips as she greeted him nearly broke.
Truly, why should she mind he had gone? His absence proved a boon, as it had enabled her to search his study, his library, and even his bedchamber. She had made a number of surprising discoveries during her quests. None perhaps more edifying than the dearth of evidence of his guilt.
But in addition to that, his chamber smelled like him long after he had gone, he preferred poetry over prose, and he had a heart after all. For in addition to his charitable endeavors regarding the dowager Marchioness of Searle, he also contributed handsome sums to several London orphanages.
Even so, although she appreciated his generosity, she was not about to christen him a saint just yet.
The man was far too wicked and jaded for redemption. Had he not just spent four whole days in a den of iniquity?
“Good morning, Con, Nora.” The duke paused. “Miss Governess?”
She had no choice but to look up from her hem where she had forced her gaze. His striking gray eyes seemed to sear her, to steal her breath, to see past all her trappings and lies, her lace and cap and linen and carefully crafted deceptions.
His nostrils flared and his sensual lips tightened, twin signs of his wrath. “You will speak to me when I address you, madam.”
Did he wish her to dispose of a mouse carcass today? Or perhaps to fall to her knees and lick his gleaming riding boots? The seducer who had tempted her in the darkness days before was nowhere to be found. In his place was the cold, arrogant duke once more. Everything in her longed to spill his coffee and breakfast plate both in his lap.
She tamped down her inner rebellion with great effort and gritting of teeth. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Your curtsy was abbreviated,” he snapped, his lip curling. “I cannot countenance my sisters being taught by a governess who cannot even manage proper deference for her master.”
Her master.
She stiffened. His words swirled through her, settling in her mind like a hundred tiny pinpricks. Irritating. Infuriating. But she was not at Whitley House to allow her temper to make her falter. She needed to maintain her position as governess. To act as a proper servant should. She had made a promise to her father, and she owed him the duty of seeing this to its fruition.
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say, though it did not sound sincere even to her own ears.
“Another.”
His clipped demand rang through the chamber with the force of a whip.
She stifled a frown. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Another curtsy, if you please, Miss Governess.” A small, smug smile curved his lips.
His brow raised in challenge. Was he intent upon humiliation, or was it his power over her that he relished wielding? She could not be sure. Everything in her protested. Her fingers itched to flip his cup once more. To send the steaming liquid into his lap.
Instead, she bit her lip, kept her mutiny to herself, and dipped into the most elegant and prolonged curtsy she could manage, holding his gaze all the while. Cool gray eyes glittered into hers, dipping to her mouth as she raised to her full height.
“Will that suffice, Your Grace?” she asked when he remained silent, considering her in a regard that was far too warm for her liking.
For it sent a most unwanted frisson of something she refused to acknowledge straight to her core.
Irritation was all it was.
Loathing, perhaps.
“For now. Do join me for breakfast, my ladies, Miss Governess.” His lips twitched.
She wished she had not looked at those lips, for she could not help but recall how his mouth had felt upon her skin. Warm and delicious and so very enticing, even if he was the last man in the world for whom she ought to develop a weakness.
Especially when she had never before—not in all her five-and-twenty years—allowed herself to feel something for a man other than James. But she would not think of James now, not in this moment of dangerous deception with the Duke of Whitley presiding over her like a sinful king. The two men could not be more disparate, and the shameful feelings Whitley elicited could not dare taint the pure love she’d shared with James before his untimely death.
He, too, had been a soldier. One who had met his end at the hands of the French cowards when he’d fallen behind on a winter’s march through the Spanish mountains. Avenging him by helping her father had been her life’s purpose ever since that day. She had never forgotten, would never, ever forget.
“Thank you.” Jacinda turned her attention to her charges, busying herself with seeing them settled and acting as befitted their station rather than as lady pirates.
With filled plates, steaming cups of tea, and planted bottoms, Ladies Honora and Constance began breaking their fast. Jacinda almost heaved a sigh of relief at the ease of it. They had yet to issue a cheeky retort or plant a dead rodent anywhere. Or use the salvers as sleds.
She brought her tea to her lips and inhaled its rich scent, sipping delicately. It did need more sugar, but she was willing to accept it as it was, for she loved nothing better than a well-steeped cup of tea…
Until Lady Honora disrupted the silence.
“Were you visiting your mistress, Crispin?”
She swallowed her tea to avoid choking upon it.
“Mrs. Nulty?” Lady Constance added.
Jacinda’s ears went hot. “My ladies, you must never mention such private, delicate topics of conversation. It is not your place, and neither are the duke’s whereabouts your concern.”
Never mind the twist of something rude and unpleasant in her belly at the name. Mrs. Nulty. Of course Whitley would have a mistress. Why should she imagine otherwise? Just because he had been so disconcertingly familiar with her person did not mean a man of the duke’s considerable looks and licentious reputation would not have a dozen other women at his disposal. Keeping lightskirts was common enough among men of his station.
The reference to this mysterious female did not affect Jacinda one jot. The Duke of Whitley was a conscienceless rakehell. Her sole concern was obtaining the enciphered messages Kilross required and ensuring she and Father did not lose everything they possessed.
“Apologize to His Grace at once, my ladies,” she added to the duke’s impish sisters.
“Pray forgive us, Crispin,” they chimed in unison.
Jacinda wondered if Mrs. Nulty was beautiful. Undoubtedly, amongst the demimonde, she would be a diamond of the first water. She poked at the pound cake on her plate.
“You are forgiven for the lapse in good sense and good comportment, sisters.” His tone was low, almost a growl. “Miss Governess?”
She jerked her gaze up from her plate, finding herself the recipient of that flinty gray gaze once more. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I wish to have a word with you in my study following breakfast.” His jaw hardened, his beautifully sculpted lips tightening with what she could only surmise was either disgust or disapproval for her.
Perhaps both.
Mayhap he only liked to grope his servants in the dark of night, when he could not see them clearly. Of course she could not compare to a Mrs. Nulty, some lush creature who groomed herself to be the object of every man’s desire so she might wheedle her living out of his purse whilst on her back.
Oh, bother. That was deucedly small of her. And perhaps shrewish. She was not in a position to cast judgment.
“Miss Governess?”
At his sharp voice, her back stiffened. Surely it was wrong for a despicable knave to also be so handsome. A little quiver happened in her belly each time she saw him.
“Your Grace?” she asked, expunging the ire from her tone so it was only sweet and biddable as befitted a lady of her station. Above all else, a governess must not berate her employer before her charges. She must never allow him to see she possessed pride or the base human emotion of anger.
With great effort, she schooled her features into a mask of poise and calm.
His gaze raked over her, pausing on her mouth. He took his time speaking, making certain, it seemed, that she knew he assessed her, making sure the servants and even his sisters noticed.
Her lips tingled.
His attention dipped to her bosom.
Her traitorous nipples hardened, her breasts feeling achy and full. Why did he have the power to reawaken old hungers she had thought long dead?
“I fear I did not hear your response,” he said, forcing her to realize her gaze strayed back to his lips.
What had he asked of her? Mortification unfurled, her cheeks going as hot as her ears. Stupidly, she stared back at him, wondering how she—a lady of reasonable intellect and practicality—could be so undone by one tyrant duke she neit
her liked nor trusted.
Oh, but part of her liked him far, far too much.
She tamped down the troublesome thought.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” She paused, licking lips that had suddenly gone dry. “What was it you required of me?”
“Your presence.” His lip curled. “In my study. Following breakfast. It was not a request, Miss Governess, but I do expect an answer just the same.”
How had she forgotten? Why did he rattle her so?
A potted plant. She would be unremarkable. Unnoticeable. Unaffected.
She bowed her head, feigning humility and penitence both even as her lip longed to curl right back at him, the hateful oaf. When he had been in his cups, he had not been so cruel. The sober Duke of Whitley was a fiend.
Jacinda composed herself and forced her response. “Forgive me. Of course I shall join you following breakfast, Your Grace. I shall see Lady Constance and Lady Honora settled with their watercolors, and then I will report to you directly.”
“Look at me when you speak to me, Miss Templebottom,” he demanded.
“Turnbow,” Lady Constance shocked her by correcting the duke.
Jacinda’s wide, startled gaze flew to her youngest charge. Bless that Portugal cake. Perhaps later today, she would make them plum cakes. One of the advantages of living a frugal existence with Father meant she had learned how to perform a great many tasks for herself. As it happened, she enjoyed baking sweets every bit as much as Father liked to consume them.
“Her name is Miss Turnbow, Crispin,” added Lady Honora. “You really ought to know that by now. She has been our governess for almost a fortnight.”
The entire room stilled. The clinking of cutlery halted. The footmen presiding over the meal seemed to freeze. The duke’s expression darkened. He glowered.
“Lady Constance, Lady Honora,” Jacinda said, quick to fill the silence echoing in the chamber with her words. “You must not correct His Grace.” Regardless of how wrong he is or how well-deserved that correction is.
“You have lasted longer than all the others,” Lady Constance grumbled. “He should know your bloody name.”
Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1) Page 8