“Mind your language if you please, Lady Constance,” she hastened to correct her charge. Jacinda was playing a role, but maintaining her cover necessitated her ability to convincingly portray herself as a governess. She could not shake the impression she was failing miserably. A fresh stab of guilt at her lies pricked her. For all that, Lady Constance and Lady Honora were trying. She had nevertheless begun to develop a fondness for them.
At least her charges seemed to have suddenly developed a hint of loyalty toward her. But she did not trust their abrupt allegiance any more than she trusted their brother.
“Forgive me, Miss Turnbow,” Lady Constance said sweetly.
“Lady Constance, Lady Honora, you may take your breakfast in your chambers,” Whitley growled. “Miss Turnbow, I will meet with you in my study. Now.”
His voice suggested that opposition would be expressed at a great cost.
At least he had gotten her name correct.
Casting the luscious golden cubes of pineapple on her own plate a longing glance, she rose. “Yes of course, Your Grace.”
Somehow, despite his arrogance, the thought of bringing the Duke of Whitley low did not fill her with the glow of satisfaction. Nor did the notion of him betraying Searle seem as certain as Kilross claimed. The duke was a condescending cad, but would the same man who had orchestrated the murder of his comrade also look after that man’s widowed mother and younger brother? And what of the orphans?
She wanted to loathe Whitley. Wanted to believe him guilty, for it would make her task that much easier. Lessen her guilt. Force her to be tireless in her pursuit of the evidence Kilross wanted against him.
But nothing made sense.
And she had never been more hopelessly conflicted.
*
Miss Governess nettled him.
The aftereffects of the whisky he’d consumed during his stint at The Duke’s Bastard still coursed through Crispin, but he had done his best to combat it with another hot bath that morning, an immense breakfast, and a hideous amount of coffee. As he stood behind the desk in his study and watched the siren he had foolishly tasked with corralling his hoyden sisters, he clenched his jaw.
This morning, she had dressed in yet another bloody sack the color of mud. Shapeless, inelegant, and hideous, the gown had not a stitch to recommend it. The abundant lace fichu tucked into her décolletage obstructed his view of her luscious breasts. Yet another large, unsightly cap concealed her vibrant hair.
Everything about what she had donned today was meant to detract from her innate beauty. She could drown herself in drab colors and yards of unnecessary muslin, could hide herself beneath caps and lace and averted gazes. But he saw her.
Miss Turnbow was not what she seemed. Something about her had pricked at his soldier’s senses on the day she had first appeared in his darkened study, and it continued to prod him now.
He did not like his reaction to her.
It was inconvenient.
Perplexing.
Infuriating.
Also, wild and invigorating. The mere memory of her soft body beneath his had made him as randy as a sailor just returned to land after a year at sea. Lust was not a problem. Crispin adored fucking. His cock was large and he knew how to use it. His tongue was long and he knew how to use it. His mouth was wicked, and he… damnation. Best to stay further thoughts in that inappropriate direction, for it made his prick go rigid, and there wasn’t a cursed thing he could do to assuage his hunger.
He wished for another glass of whisky—it had been nearly twelve hours since his last sip of poison—and made a dismissive gesture. “Sit, Miss Governess.”
Her lips tightened, as if in censure. She did not do as he ordered. “Your Grace, I am heartily glad you requested this audience, for we have much to discuss. If I may be so bold, I cannot help but think your actions have a direct impact upon the behavior of your sisters.”
Bold? She was bloody beyond the pale. Did the woman think to chastise him? He had requested her presence so he could give her the setdown she so richly deserved. His sisters were still hellions, and he could see no improvement in their comportment, save from the fact they had not ridden to breakfast down the staircase on salvers or hidden rodent carcasses by his breakfast plate.
He gave her a ducal sneer, the sort that usually made unwanted interlopers disappear from his path. “Sit, madam.”
Color blossomed in her cheeks. She sat slowly and primly, as if she were reluctantly seating herself upon a garden bench encrusted in bird offal. “Lady Constance and Lady Honora should not be aware of your… your…”
Her fluster was adorable, and it somehow deflated his ire. Still, he could not resist the opportunity to further her discomposure. He sat, for he could not politely stand in her presence, and even soulless bastards like him could recall their manners now and again.
“I beg your pardon?” A wolfish grin curved his lips. “My what, Miss Governess? I confess I had not previously realized you possessed a stutter. Though it grieves me to say this, I am not certain my sisters ought to be instructed by a female who cannot speak her mind without needless repetition.”
“I do not have a stutter, Your Grace,” she snapped, the flush overtaking her entire face until her creamy skin was tinged a delectable shade of pink. Not even her ears were exempt. “I am simply searching for a polite means of relaying what I wish to say.”
He frowned at her, recalling his reason for requiring this private audience. “Miss Governess, I did not require your presence in my study so you could berate me. Let us consider it best that you cannot find your errant tongue.”
“Mrs. Notley,” she said on a rush, full lips still pressed into a fine line of condemnation. “Surely you cannot think it proper for your impressionable, innocent sisters to know of such a woman’s existence, never mind her name.”
“Mrs. Nulty,” he corrected smoothly, wondering if she had intentionally gotten the demimondaine’s name confused. Miss Turnbow was as sharp as a bayonet. He could see it in her eyes, read it in her every interaction. Her intelligence did not escape him. It intrigued him. She intrigued him.
“Precisely.” She busied herself with settling the fall of her dreadful skirt, avoiding his gaze. “The female in question ought not to be known to your sisters. I hope they have never made her acquaintance.”
Of course he had not introduced his sisters to the woman. Did Miss Governess think him a complete blackguard? His outrage dimmed when the conscience he had believed long dead reminded him he had entertained Mrs. Nulty—and some of her fellow actresses—in his townhome whilst his sisters were in residence. The woman was as beautiful as she was proficient at—
No. He stifled that vein of thought. The only pertinent fact was he did not dabble in mistresses. He had never offered Mrs. Nulty or any other female carte blanche. Given his notoriety and reputation, scandal sheets and town gossips tended to run rampant with falsehoods.
Falsehoods that had somehow reached the eager ears and eyes of Con and Nora. By God, he knew not how the little minxes managed to find such nonsense. They were more effective at getting what they wished than a phalanx of enemy soldiers.
Even so, the tone Miss Governess had taken, coupled with her attempt to control their dialogue, peeved him. He planted his hands upon the polished surface of his desk and leaned forward, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I must wonder at your fretfulness, Miss Governess. Why should Mrs. Nulty concern you? I would hate to think your remonstration is grounded in envy.”
Sherry eyes flashed at him, the only sign of her pique. “Rest assured I do not envy such a creature. My sole interest is the wellbeing and reputations of my charges, Lady Constance and Lady Honora.”
“As is mine.” Irritation surged. “That is the reason I required this audience, Miss Governess.”
She straightened in her seat. “Perhaps you would care to enlighten me, Your Grace?”
Even now, her daring aroused him as much as it irritated him. Who did she think she was to
speak thus to the Duke of Whitley, the man who paid her wages and provided the bed in which she slept? “You have been in my employ for twelve days.”
“Eleven,” she corrected.
He snorted. “Do you wish for this to be the last day, Miss Governess? I could dismiss you without reference.”
Her chin went up in defiance. Ah, there it was, her true self. The one she could not hide behind her mud-brown gowns and yards of lace. “Do you want to sack me, Your Grace?”
Yes, for then he would never need to see her again. He could forget about her and remove the lust that threatened to consume him like a diseased appendage. And perhaps his particular appendage would once more be capable of functioning as it ought.
Also, no, because it would mean he would never get to feel her beneath him once more or to strip her of all that ugly cloth and her godawful cap. Or to kiss a path straight from her rose-pink lips to her cunny.
What would she taste like? Would she whimper beneath him or moan and cry out, bold and unashamed in her passion?
Hell.
He skewered her with a narrow-eyed glare. “I wish for a governess to demonstrate humility. One who forces my wayward sisters to act with a care for comportment and a regard for manners. One who does not castigate me for imagined indiscretions which are of no concern to her regardless of their dubious veracity.”
“Dubious veracity?” She shot to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Why would your sisters be aware of that woman’s existence or her name if not because you brought her here to this very house? Do not think for a moment that belowstairs is not rife with information. I am aware you entertained that… female here on numerous occasions whilst your innocent sisters were in residence.”
By God, she was beautiful when enraged. All the brightness and boldness she sought to hide came to life in her anger. His body took control of his mind. He had intended to remonstrate her, to inform her he had hired her to bring a modicum of order to his restless household, to rein in his hoyden sisters. He had hired her, damn her lovely hide, so he would no longer need to think or worry or fear for their futures. So he could be free to live his life as he wished.
He had not hired her so she would haunt his bloody cock to the point that he could not seek pleasure with another woman. When had he ever gone to The Duke’s Bastard and turned down the company of whores? When had he ever been unable or unwilling to bed a lightskirt? Or two at one time?
He stood, slammed his fist into the desk with so much force it made his knuckles ache. “Do you dare to question me, Miss Governess?”
She stared at him as if he were repugnant, and how he longed for the oblivion of drink. For the darkness of the night. For mindlessness and weightlessness and the freedom from all the guilt and demons that dogged him.
“I do not question you, Your Grace,” she said at length, her voice tight with her irritation and condemnation both. “But I do question your judgment. Lady Constance and Lady Honora should not have access to scandal. Nor should they have any knowledge of your… improper associations. They should remain innocent and blissfully unware of all licentiousness. Indeed, if your actions should besmirch their characters due to their association with you, no suitable gentleman will take either of them as his wife, regardless of the fact they are the daughters and sisters of a duke. Your pedigree, estimable though it may be, cannot save them from you.”
Save them from him? Damn and blast, the female had gall.
The irritation and lust raging within him met in that moment. Blackness and anger and desperate need collided. There were at least a dozen different reasons why he ought to dismiss Miss Turnbow from his study—hell, from his damned employ as well—and return to the simplistic comfort of gloom and drink. Equally, as many reasons why he should eviscerate the inconvenient, wild attraction continued to spark to life and draw him to the infernal woman opposite him.
She thought herself a worthy opponent, did she? Well, she thought wrong. For if she wanted to battle him, she ought to acquaint herself with one fact.
She would never emerge the victor.
A growl sounded deep in his throat. “You have gone too damned far, Miss Governess.”
Her gaze grew wary. “Your Grace?”
Perhaps she was asking if she needed to fear him.
The answer was yes.
It had always been yes.
Would forever be, simply, yes.
He had demons in his soul, and they wanted to consume her. To make little Miss Governess his delectable sacrifice. Perhaps she could assuage the ache. The blinding need. The all-consuming hunger.
He skirted the desk. Before he could control himself or ponder the wisdom of his reaction, his hands found the supple curve of her waist. The vile, filthy creature he had become screamed to be unleashed.
Crispin tread a dangerous line between control and rampaging lust. It seemed the more she enraged him, the more he wanted Miss Governess. Beneath him. Atop him. On her knees before him. That tart mouth of hers filled with his cock.
Curse it, the lust was winning his inner battle. He wanted her to sit on his face so he could thrash her with his tongue until the only word that left her beautiful lips was his name.
“Apologize to me, Miss Governess,” he demanded. “At once.”
Her chin tipped up, and she threw her shoulders back, the image of foolish, beautiful defiance. “I will not apologize for uttering the truth, Your Grace. Nor will I express contrition for advising you to act in a fashion befitting a gentleman with two sisters he shall need to see married in the next few years. You do them a great disservice in your lechery, and someone must alert you to the error of your ways.”
Haughty and condescending to the last.
The frenzy inside him grew. It doubled and tripled and quadrupled.
He should release her. Should have never touched her.
But now that he had done so, he could not deny the rightness of it. Her waist was far smaller than her shapeless gown suggested. And soft as it had been that night in his study. He would hazard an experienced guess that beneath her gown, a chemise and stays were all she wore. A surge of hunger so violent it almost took his breath shot through him. What was it about this woman, with her ridiculous penchant to cloak herself in linen and lace and hideous colorlessness that drew him to her?
It could not be beauty alone, for while her features themselves were undeniably fine when considered apart from her appalling toilette, he had known and bedded more than his fair share of attractive women. Bored wives, happy wives, sad wives, widows, actresses, countesses, duchesses, ladies, and lightskirts… the appellation mattered not. A beautiful woman was a beautiful woman.
He studied Miss Turnbow with hardened concentration, determined to see what part of her drew him to her. Surely she possessed no quality that was peculiarly remarkable. Her high cheekbones? The slender nose kissed with copper freckles? Her pink, wide lips? Those luscious sherry eyes? Her full bosom and well-curved waist?
Bloody hell. As he stared down at her, he could see nothing more than a comely woman striving to hide her looks however she might, but nevertheless one who ought not to affect him in a way no other before her had. Was it that she should be forbidden to him since she was his servant and responsible for his sisters? Perhaps he had grown bored with the crop of willing women ever ready to spread their milky white thighs for him. Or was it she was the opposite of every other female he’d fucked in his desperate bid for distraction since his return from the hells he’d faced on the Continent?
Crispin could not think. Could not force his mind to circle round the matter one more time. Not when the heat of Miss Governess’s body and the distinct, feminine feel of it both burned into him like a wicked, inescapable flame.
He lowered his head so his nose almost brushed hers. So her heady scent washed over him. Floral, feminine, and delicious. He stared into her wide eyes. “Do you think me licentious, Miss Governess?”
Her hands were on his biceps, fingers squeezing with a gentle p
ressure. “I think you a very dangerous man, Your Grace.”
The attraction between them was mutual. He sensed it in the way her body subconsciously relaxed against him, so that her curves filled the hard planes and angles of his. In the way she clutched him rather than pushing him away. Damn her. If she had been aloof, if she had attempted to escape, he would have let her go. But she had not, and he could not let her go now.
Because he wanted more, and so did she.
“You are correct in your assessment,” he bit out angrily, for she tempted him beyond reason and he resented her for the weakness she created, a weakness that had never previously existed. “I am very dangerous to you.” He stepped closer, until they were nose to nose. His forehead touched hers. “Dangerous to your virtue, Miss Governess.”
Her pupils were obsidian, large and beckoning, giving her away. Her glittering eyes, honey and sherry, gold and warm, were wide and clear and unblinking. He could lose himself in their depths, in the sweet scent of her. Jasmine and woman and… Holy God, his cock pressed the fall of his breeches like a madman determined to be released from forced incarceration.
“You would force yourself upon a helpless female dependent upon your largesse for her supper, Your Grace?” she asked softly.
Ah, here they were at the crux of the matter.
He inched nearer, allowing his lower lip to brush against hers from left to right. Once. Twice. Thrice. “Would it be force then, Miss Governess, if I kissed you now? Would you kiss me back, or would you slap me? I confess, I cannot help but wonder.”
Her eyes remained wide, the shallowness of her breathing and tightening of her grip on him the only indication that she was affected. He waited for her to respond. For her to deny she wanted him.
Their push and pull was inexorable. Undeniable. He had never wanted to strip a woman of her trappings more. The cap, the lace, the muslin. He would divest her of every tool she used to diminish her beauty until she was all he could see.
Silence fell heavy between them. For a few beats, neither of them said a word. His already limited patience snapped like a twig. He gave her waist a gentle, coaxing squeeze. “Answer me, damn you.”
Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1) Page 9