Another emotion mingled with the sadness, unfurling within her like a spring bud, and she recognized it for what it was: compassion.
Was it his kiss that had unlocked this unwanted reaction? She could not be sure. All she knew was her time at Whitley House was not a stark matter of right versus wrong. Good heavens, it would seem she had begun to form an attachment to not only her charges but to their older brother as well.
She couldn’t stay the understanding beating in her heart. She considered him, gentling her voice as she spoke. “Your sisters need you now, Your Grace. You are all they have just as they are all you have. They need more than your occasional presence. They need more than a governess’s direction and care can provide them. Above all, they need your love.”
“Love.” He gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. “If you believe such rot, I have answered my own question and you are as queer in the attic as I suspected.”
She frowned at his crude dismissal of her suggestion. Of course it came as no surprise, but part of her wished he would let her past his grim defenses just once. Jacinda told herself the inclination sprang from her need to carry out her task. Uncovering his guilt was a burden she could not shed, and the knowledge she would one day betray him weighed heavily upon her.
She touched his coat sleeve, willing him to soften. To show her a sign he was not the depraved traitor he was suspected of being. “Think upon what I have said, Your Grace.”
Reacting with lightning quickness, he removed his coat from her touch and clasped her hand in his, holding her captive when she would have departed the room. His gaze was fierce upon her, his expression unreadable. “Do not forget your role here, Miss Turnbow.”
He released her just as abruptly. The man had a way of using his words and frigid mien as effectively as the lash of a riding crop. How thoroughly he had undone her. How wicked and wrong she was to weaken for him.
She had been right when she told him he was dangerous.
From this moment forward, she could not allow herself to be alone with him. She must hold true to her course and remain impervious to him in every way.
“I would not dream of forgetting my role here,” she assured him, meaning it more than he could possibly know.
Offering him an abbreviated curtsy, she fled.
It was only when the door clicked safely closed behind her and she heaved a sigh of relief that she realized she had left her lace fichu behind. She hesitated for a beat before deciding—wisely, she was sure—that entering the Duke of Whitley’s den of iniquity once more would only lead her further into ruin.
He could keep the fichu, for now. She would rescue it later. All that remained for her to do was to return her mind and focus to the twin tasks at hand: play governess to his sisters and prove his guilt.
Or his innocence.
As she walked away, heart galloping and palms damp, she could not honestly say which of the two outcomes would prove worse.
Chapter Nine
The proficient notes of Pleyel on the pianoforte that evening were not as much of a chore as Crispin would have expected. He listened and watched as Nora played with skill he had not imagined she possessed because he had never asked. Nor had he remained following dinner if he dined with his hoyden sisters at all. The sight of them—not to mention their bloody antics—generally gave him a headache, and he strove to eschew their company altogether in favor of the immeasurably more pleasant presence of whisky and strumpets.
His gaze flitted over the occupants of the chamber. Nora was dressed in pink and looking far too much like a young lady as her fingers deftly navigated her instrument. Con’s wide-eyed expression as she surreptitiously glanced his way—as if to ascertain he had not disappeared from his chair—struck him.
And there she was, dressed like a blind beggar woman in her latest dun-colored sack, hiding her glorious hair beneath yet another hideous cap, and presiding over the tableau with a smile of satisfaction she did not bother to hide. There was something oddly comforting in the scene. In the place where his dark, vicious heart beat within his chest, something odd happened.
He felt, in a way he had not for as long as he could recall, content. What a singular emotion. How perplexing and confounding. He could scarcely countenance it himself, but here he sat with his minx sisters and their governess, and he was not bored or restless or angry. He did not even long for a drink. And wonder of wonders, he was not incapable of feeling as he had supposed.
Here, in this moment, a wealth of other assorted emotions he had not fancied himself capable of washed over him, reviving him, demonstrating he was more than the shriveled husk that remained in the wake of that cursed day in Spain. It was mystifying, this unexpected capacity to feel. He did not like it, and all the same, with it having been unleashed, he was not certain he could stifle or contain all such natural human inclinations.
The blame for his current predicament could only be placed upon one sunset-haired witch. He stared at the vexing woman he could not help but want more with each passing breath. Those stolen kisses had undone him. Even now, he could recall the precise shade of her nipples.
Their gazes clashed for a beat before she frowned and looked away.
Damn and blast.
Perhaps Miss Governess was not wrong.
Perhaps he had not given any part of himself to the very ladies who needed it the most: his sisters. For although Con and Nora had not been on the battlefield and would never know the hells of war, they, too, had suffered loss and upheaval and bitter disappointment.
He did not wish to think her right about anything. Indeed, he would prefer not to think of her at all now that she had so thoroughly rejected his suit. But there she sat, mere feet from him. She slept beneath the same roof. They walked the same halls. This morning, he had been so very close to making her his. He longed for her so much his teeth ached.
Tup the governess, Duncan had urged. What a strange creature she was, for it almost seemed to him she would have sooner allowed him to take her right there on his desk than to accept his protection and become his mistress.
As his mistress, she would want for nothing. He would set her up in a fine house, buy her whatever fripperies and gowns she wished, and see her settled with a proper household. But as a governess, she had no freedom. She was at the whims of his sisters most days, little better than a servant, and bloody hell, he had been an unabashed bastard to her as often as possible.
Because she nettled him.
She burrowed beneath his skin.
She bloody well unsettled him. And he did not like it. Not one whit.
The haunting strains of the piece Nora had chosen to play reached their crescendo before lulling back to a fulfilling finale. He clapped loudly as the last note settled, perhaps with more force than necessary, but he wished to distract himself from the unwanted spring of his erection against his breeches.
Whilst he was relieved that his cock was not broken, he did not wish for the damned appendage to be asserting itself in the presence of his sisters. Unfortunately, he had somehow abdicated control of his body and mind both, however. He could neither force his arousal to abate nor banish maudlin sentiment. For it was surely nothing more than that which made him recall days in his youth when he would listen to his mother play pianoforte.
“Well done, Nora,” he said with a throat that had gone suddenly thick at the reminiscence. “It is apparent that you inherited Mother’s gift for playing.”
Nora’s cheeks flushed pink enough to rival her gown, a smile quirking her lips. “Thank you, Brother, but Con plays just as well as I.”
He turned to his youngest sister. “Con, is this true?”
She grinned, looking a trifle embarrassed at their sister’s words of praise. “Nora is far more skilled than I, I am afraid.”
“That is not true, Lady Honora,” came the dulcet voice of Miss Governess. “You are equally talented. Would you not like to show His Grace your proficiency as well? I am certain the duke would adore hearing
your command of the pianoforte. Would you not, Your Grace?”
She snagged his gaze once more, and he felt the connection of their stares like a physical jolt. He could not keep himself from glancing at her lips and recalling them against his that morning. He would not rest until that mouth was wrapped around his cock. Yes, that was precisely what he needed. Miss Governess on her knees before him. He would pluck the cap from her hair, sink his fingers into the lush skeins of red-gold, and guide her to his prick. Debauching her would be his greatest pleasure. Spending down her throat his paradise on earth. Second only to spending between her luscious thighs…
“Your Grace?”
Her tone held a slight edge, and he forced his mind and gaze from his fiery imaginings. Belatedly, he realized he must have been mooning over her like a green lad whilst she and his sisters looked on.
He clenched his jaw, sensing he was agreeing to something but having no notion what after his mind’s wicked tangent. “Of course.”
“It is all settled.” Nora sounded like the proverbial cat who had got into the cream. “Con, come and play a Scottish reel with me. The one we have been practicing with Miss Turnbow, I should think.”
“That will be just the thing, Nora. Mrs. McLeod of Eyre is the song,” Con added to Crispin. “You must dance with Miss Turnbow. She has taught us a modified version of the reel with only two partners, and it is great fun.”
Dance with Miss Governess? The notion held appeal, and he could not deny it.
He swung his eyes back to her in askance. From the flush that had settled upon her cheeks, he could readily discern dancing with him had not been a part of her scheme. He grinned. All the better, then. “I would be more than happy to dance with Miss Turnbow if she will have me.”
He would be more than happy to do anything with the woman.
Any day.
Any hour.
Any bloody thing. Especially if it involved the both of them nude and in proximity to an accommodating bed. Or floor. Or divan. Carriage. Table. Desk.
Lord, the list went on, and he’d better stifle his depraved mind before it made his cock so hard he couldn’t dance after all.
“I do not think it proper,” she said stiffly into the expectant silence of the room, averting her gaze.
Oh, no. Miss Governess was not going to dodge him. After all, his presence this evening was her fault. He had lingered on account of her soliloquy because, although she had enraged him, her words had made more sense than he’d cared to admit.
“We have chaperones,” he said smoothly.
She frowned at his sisters, still avoiding looking in his direction. “Lady Constance, Lady Honora, your enthusiasm is commendable. However, a duke does not dance with the governess. It is simply not done.”
He supposed there may be some merit to her objection, but he was the Duke of Whitley, and he had cut his teeth on the battlefield rather than in the ballroom. He didn’t give a damn about manners and etiquette or the rarefied world into which he had been born. The sole reason he existed in London was thanks to the crown of thorns that was his coronet and the necessity of seeing to his sisters’ welfare.
“Miss Turnbow,” he said her name in his most authoritative tone, “I hardly think we will find ourselves mired in scandal broth if we dance a reel in the presence of my eleven and twelve-year-old sisters.”
She frowned, her gaze snapping back to his at last. “I suppose I should not be surprised to discover you are not even aware of the number of years they have spent upon this earth.”
The disdain she did not bother to hide from her voice needled him. He frowned right back at the vexing creature. “Of course I am aware. They are my flesh and blood, after all.”
“I turned fourteen last month,” Nora supplied helpfully, the minx.
“I am almost thirteen,” Con added.
He ground his teeth, wondering why they could not have exhibited loyalty just the once and pretended to be the ages he’d mistakenly guessed them to be. Apparently, time did not cease to move forward whilst one spent years caught up in the grim machine of war. “It would seem I stand corrected. In this matter, as in so many others, the lady is infallibly correct.”
“Many matters?” Nora’s eyes twinkled with a devious glint of glee he recognized. “Would you care to provide us with a list so we may remind you of them whenever the occasion warrants?”
Hellfire and eternal damnation, this evening had suddenly taken a turn for the gallows. “There will be no bloody list.” He glared at the imp.
She grinned back. Con chortled. A suspicious sound even emerged from the direction of Miss Governess. His eyes swung back to settle upon her, drinking in the sight of her small, gloved hand raised to her lips. Those sherry eyes were crinkled at the corners. Incredibly, he was not mistaken. Miss Governess possessed the capacity for mirth.
“Astounding,” he marveled aloud.
Her eyebrows shot upward, almost disappearing beneath her dowdy cap. “What is, Your Grace?”
“You know how to laugh.” He could not contain his grin, for he was enjoying every bit of this little vignette. He had not been so at ease in years. “I confess I did wonder.”
Her lips pursed. The need to claim that sultry, tart mouth once more was a driving force inside him that would not be denied. He wanted the infernal cap gone. He wanted to see the rich beauty of her hair. To lead her from this room and the watchful gazes of his sisters, to gather her in his arms and not stop until he had deposited her precisely where she belonged. Upon his bed.
“The same could be said for you, Your Grace,” she countered then, and he could not help but admire her pluck, for his laughter or lack thereof was beyond the realm of her concern.
At least until he made her his mistress, after which point, her concern would be pleasing him and being pleasured by him in equal measure.
But matching wits with her before an audience was not nearly as thrilling as being alone with her. And he did not wish for his sisters to make assumptions or unwittingly carry gossip to the servants. Sensing they were about to sail into dangerous waters, he stood, walked to Miss Governess, and offered the finest bow he could muster.
He extended his hand with a chivalrous air he did not feel. He had not attended a ball in ages. Unless one counted Cyprian balls, that was, and one should definitely not count Cyprian balls. Even he, black-hearted scoundrel that he was, knew that much.
“Will you do me the honor of dancing with me, Miss Turnbow?” he asked with aching formality.
No one would ever guess only that morning his tongue had been in her mouth and his cock had been wedged against the welcoming heat of her cunny. It would be there again in short measure. All in good time, however. First, the dance. He told himself it was to please his sisters, but that was not entirely true. Any excuse to touch Jacinda Turnbow would do.
Her frown deepened. She opened her mouth to once more deny him, he was sure.
“Please, Miss Turnbow?” his sisters asked in unison before she could respond.
“We play well together,” added Nora. “You said so yourself. But a reel is not nearly as lively without dancers.”
He cast an approving glance back at his sisters. Here was the loyalty he’d been seeking.
“Our brother will not trounce your feet if that is what your fear.” Con dimpled. “The scandal sheets say he is an excellent dancer.”
Perhaps not. Tightening his jaw, he turned back to Miss Governess, whose expression had gone sour.
“If he were not, I daresay Mrs. Nulty should not be nearly as fond of him as she is,” said Nora.
Most decidedly fucking not.
Crispin almost choked. The color drained from Miss Governess’s cheeks, her lips thinning back into the line of disapproval he had come to know and lust after so well. Blast, one would not think a woman’s condemnation and dreary dress could be so damned arousing, but she set his blood on fire. Still, his sister needed to be reminded of her insolence.
He singed Nora wi
th a glare. “Lady Honora.”
She raised a brow, blinking and beatific. “I beg your pardon, Crispin. Is not Mrs. Nulty exceedingly fond of you? Why else should she visit you so often? Penny said that—”
“Who the dickens is Penny?” he growled. My God, they were making a fine muck of things.
“My lady’s maid.”
He would sack her for gossiping at the first possible opportunity. With a suffering sigh, he returned his attentions once more to Miss Governess, whose color had returned to her cheeks but whose sour mien had not sweetened. Blast.
“Let us have the dance then.” He wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Come, Miss Turnbow. Surely one lively Scottish reel cannot harm you.”
“One with you could,” she said so only the duke could hear.
She would find him a persistent man. He would not stop until he had what he wanted, and he wanted her. Whether it be a reel or in his bed until he had his fill of her, he would have it, by God.
“Or you could enjoy yourself and please your charges,” he countered.
“They can be pleased in other ways.”
“You could please me,” he murmured. And he did not just mean the bloody dance, but it was a point on the map upon which they could begin.
She stilled, her eyes flaring wide. “Why should I wish to do such a thing?”
He gave her a feral grin. “Because I am your employer, and you are subject to my whims. Now no more tarrying, if you please. Con and Nora are prepared to demonstrate their talent for ‘Mrs. McSomething of Somewhere’.”
At last, and with a suffering look cast his way, Miss Governess deigned to rise, settling her hand in his. He would have rejoiced over his victory had she not trampled it beneath her slipper by pursing her lips and murmuring in a tone steeped in condemnation, “You do not even know how to perform the dance, do you?”
Of course he didn’t. Dancing and idle ballroom chatter and tepid ratafia was for virgins and desperate, matchmaking mamas and preening dandies. But improvisation was one of his many skills, and he would turn Miss Governess about any ballroom any day. In fact, he could not think of anything else he would like to do more in the moment, aside from acts that could not be committed in the presence of his sisters.
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