Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection Page 14

  “I know of an excellent modiste,” he suggested even though he knew what her response would be. What it had to be, as long as she continued to refuse his offer. “You need not settle for anything less than the best.”

  She laughed, but it was a mirthless, forced little sound and it made him long to hear her true laughter instead. “On a governess’s wages, I must settle for what I already own, even if others see fit to thieve it from me.”

  “You need not live on the wages of a governess,” he reminded her. “I have ample blunt to spare.”

  She had rejected him. Denied him. He couldn’t lie to himself—her rebuff had smarted. But later, it occurred to him he had bungled his seduction rather badly. She was an unwed female, an innocent, and he had treated her in the same fashion he would any camp moll. He had waylaid her, savaged her with kisses, and half-stripped her bare in this study like the unstable beast that he was.

  Sometimes, it was difficult for him to recall this was not war. That his time on the battlefield was at an end. After spending years away from polite society, engaged in the bloody, dirty, gritty business of death, returning to ballrooms and simpering misses seemed the world’s cruelest joke.

  But Miss Turnbow was no simpering miss.

  And he wanted her still.

  She had stiffened at his pointed words, and he noted her grip on her snifter had grown so tight, he could perfectly see the delineation of each knuckle. How delicious that she did not wear gloves, though her countenance suggested that was the only luck he would have this evening.

  “It would not behoove a woman in my circumstances to accept such an offer, Your Grace,” she pointed out, irritation rendering her tone pert. “Tell me, what would I do after you grew tired of me? No respectable house would open its doors to me. I would be forced to earn my bread on my back.”

  Her words were not all untrue, though it pained him to admit it to himself. But his need for her remained, and in his desperation to get what he wanted, he could not envision a time when he would ever grow weary of her in his bed. “The terms would be most generous. I would pay you handsomely. Leave you with enough funds to settle you quite comfortably.”

  If he had expected her acceptance, more fool he, for her eyes flashed and her lips thinned. “You told me you would be a gentleman, Your Grace, else I would not have joined you here. Such a despicable topic is not fit for further addressing, and indeed is best forever forgotten, as though it had never been spoken of at all.”

  Truth be told, her protest rather stung. He wanted her more than ever. Need was a fierce, hungry creature taking up residence in his blood. It ran thick and hot and heavy through his veins, setting him aflame.

  “I am being a gentleman,” he countered, taking a fortifying sip of his brandy. “Is this not an acceptable distance between us? I have not even attempted to touch or kiss you once, though there is nothing I long to do more on this earth than fling that cap from your head and pluck each pin away so that I might see the glory of your hair running unbound down your back.”

  Her color deepened, but she did not flee from his honesty as he had suspected she might. Instead, she brought her own snifter to her lips and took a tentative sip of the spirits he’d poured her. She gave a delicate shudder before returning her attention to him.

  Her gaze was as pointed as a bayonet. “Words speak as loudly as deeds, Your Grace.”

  Yes, and all his words said that he wanted her. Of course he did, else he would not be so consumed by her. He wanted to believe it was the notion of securing the unattainable, a woman so firmly settled in her notion of seeing out her life in the thankless position of governess. He also wanted to believe her deliberate attempts to diminish her allure heightened his curiosity and arousal. That he had grown bored with his wastrel’s life, and she was the diversion he required until the next comely, supple-breasted diversion appeared.

  Certainly, her denial had sparked an answering surge of humiliation and anger in him. No one had denied him as he could recall, not before he was the Duke of Whitley, when he had been a soldier on the battlefield and sure as hell not afterward when he had returned to the undeserved praise of the masses. Ladies, strumpets, even lords and dowagers, former friends and enemies, and lovers, all wanted their piece of the Duke of Whitley.

  Except for Miss Jacinda Turnbow, who was neither in awe of him nor susceptible enough to his rakish persuasion that she would give him what he wanted.

  “Words are safer than deeds,” he countered, watching closely for her reaction.

  A wistful grin curved her lips, the first semblance of a true smile he had seen from her. “Sometimes words are far more dangerous.”

  He could not help but feel there was a hidden meaning to her words. He continued to study the paradox that was Miss Jacinda Turnbow, who had come to him in his time of need and accepted the Sisyphean task of molding his sisters into proper young ladies. Why had she taken the position? Surely, she could have found a better situation, if not a grander home. More money even, perhaps, than the twenty pounds per annum he was paying her.

  “I have seen deeds that defy words,” he said into the silence that had fallen between them, and he wished he had not. Speaking of the war aloud always made his gut swim with bile and his skin go slick with sweat. “Believe me, Miss Turnbow, deeds can be far more vicious, particularly when accompanied by bullets, bayonets, and swords.”

  “You speak of your time as a soldier, do you not?” she asked softly, drawing nearer at last.

  He did not want to think of the horrors he had seen ever again. But they were never gone. Like the scent of the French captain’s charred flesh, like the sight of Morgan’s severed hand in a river of blood, like the enemy soldiers who had been buried alive, their eyes pecked out by ravens…they would remain a part of him forever. Sometimes, the memories swelled, pressing inside his skull, becoming insurmountable until he could do nothing but purge them by drowning himself in enough liquor to stupefy him.

  His hand shook as he downed the rest of his brandy. “If there is any topic that is despicable conversation and not fit for further addressing, it is war.”

  Her gaze was wide, taking him in, seeing him, and he could not look away. “You must have endured a great deal, Your Grace.”

  Yes, he bloody well had, but nothing compared to the macabre end Morgan had faced. Crispin had not been vigilant enough that day at the farmhouse. He should have known better than to meet El Corazón Oscuro with nothing more than a handful of men on the periphery who were easily slain when attacked from behind. He should have been the one who was killed. The one who was tortured.

  Morgan was a brilliant soldier, a skilled intelligence officer, a bold and daring man with an intuitive wit. He had been too valuable to lose. Crispin should never have blundered that day. If he had been a better man, a better soldier, a better damned friend, Morgan would still be alive today. Guilt had not the capacity to heal. It only ate a man alive, slowly, from the inside, until nothing remained.

  “I endured less than I deserved,” he choked out, rising from his chair and stalking back toward his decanter. He kept his back to her, not wanting her to see the unrest coursing through him. Not wishing to see either pity or fear in her expression.

  His heart beat faster now, a rapid staccato in his chest. His palms were sweaty, his mouth dry, hands shaking so violently he was almost incapable of refilling his snifter with brandy.

  But it was the elixir he needed, as close to a panacea as he could reasonably get. He sloshed a more than generous quantity of brandy into the glass and raised it to his lips once, twice, thrice. Refilled the cursed thing. Drank more, gulping it down as though the stuff was air and he was a man who had been buried alive for so long, he could not inhale enough at one time.

  His intention to go slowly this evening had dissipated. The need to numb himself became paramount.

  “What happened to you, Your Grace?”

  The quiet question, spoken in her soft, soothing tone, pierced the fog of
fear and pain and horror cloaking his mind. He suspected he was on the edge of experiencing another fit. In the last year, they had become more and more frequent, vile spells during which he could not shake the memories of what had happened to him, what had happened to Morgan and so many of his comrades. And when he could not elude the memories, his body and mind became hopelessly confused, as though both were convinced he had returned to those dark days.

  That could not occur. Would not occur. He could not afford for such an obscene burst of weakness to lay him low now, not before her. He had experienced fits before whores in the past—it was inevitable when a man spent his days and nights as he did. One had been terrified. Another had been intrigued, wondering if she could use his fears and the darkness residing within him to bring them mutual pleasure. The pleasure had been on her end alone.

  He drank more brandy, inhaled deeply. The delicious scent of jasmine entered his nose and lungs. She had skirted nearer to him. He could feel her proximity like the charge in the air before a lightning strike. Still, he did not move to face her.

  “Your Grace?” she persisted, her voice closer, softer. “Will you tell me?”

  Was it his imagination, or did her hand pass over his shoulder blade in the ghost of a touch? He swallowed down another gulp of brandy before forcing himself to speak. “I fought the enemy until I could no longer fight him. Until my brother passed away and I was left with a title I never wanted and two sisters I can scarcely understand.”

  “You must have suffered in Spain.”

  Miss Governess had reached beyond her touch with the probing observation. Anger collided with the unrest within him, and he became a powder keg. Turning to her at last, he stalked closer, not caring that her eyes widened and her brows rose. Not giving a damn that her hand fluttered to her heart. Not even concerned he could read the fear sparkling in her sherry eyes. She ought to bloody well fear him.

  He could not be trusted in her presence. His promise to play the gentleman had been smashed to bits by his inability to control himself. What nonsense had he fooled himself into believing? What in God’s name had he hoped to accomplish with this infernal prolonging of his inner torture?

  He did not stop until he had chased her to the opposite end of the library, and she had nowhere left to flee with a wall of books against her back. Embracing the rage, for it kept his demons at bay, he tossed his snifter into the fireplace. It exploded into glittering shards as it met with brick.

  Crispin slammed his palms against the books, lowering his head so he invaded her air the same way she had attempted to invade his mind. “I do not speak of Spain, madam. If you value your position in this household, you will never again mention it in my presence.”

  Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, and when they raised, it was as if she had donned a mask. The fear was gone. Her gaze was steady and unrelenting as it burned into his. “If you think to intimidate me with your brutish ways and your superior size, you are bound to be sadly disappointed, Your Grace.”

  His cheeks went hot at her easy read of him, damn her hide. “If you think to remain beneath this roof one more night, you will conduct yourself with the humility befitting your station.”

  But she did not flinch. “Will you turn me out into the streets, then?”

  Of course he would not.

  He sneered. “Do not think my desire to bed you allows you liberties, Miss Governess. We are not equals. It is not your place to question me.”

  Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly, the only reaction she gave. “You were trembling,” she observed.

  Devil take it. “I do not tremble.”

  “You still are,” she insisted, shocking him even further by touching his jaw in a feather-light caress. “Here.”

  He swallowed as a violent rush of need tore through him. Everything in him wanted to claim this woman as his. But he ground down the instinct and gritted his teeth. “There are other areas of my anatomy that require your attention, my dear, should you like to attend them as well.”

  She inhaled as though his crude suggestion had shaken her, and yet she did not remove her touch. “I think you do not need a mistress so much as you need a friend, Your Grace.”

  A bark of bitter laughter left him. “And you fancy you could take on that role, I gather? You may save your friendship for someone who wants it. The only thing I want from you is between your pretty thighs.”

  She jolted then, as if he had struck her, jerking her hand away from him. He felt the loss of her like a fist to the gut. Shame washed over him. He had been deliberately cruel and crude, but he felt no better for knowing he had finally bested her.

  Her chin went up. “I will never give you what you want, Your Grace.” She held her forgotten snifter to him. “Here you are. Perhaps you will find the solace you need in spirits just as you have done every day and night to no avail.”

  He pushed himself away from the shelving and accepted her mocking offer, tossing back the contents in one swift pull. “I have a different sort of solace in mind. If you will not oblige me, I have no doubt I can find two or three who will.”

  Her face went pale. “I shall bid you good evening then, Your Grace, and wish you all prosperity in finding two or three such inclined persons.”

  He watched her go, her bearing as regal as any queen.

  After the door closed, he counted to fifteen before hurling her snifter into the fireplace to join the first.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Duke of Whitley kissed her throat. His hands swept over her breasts as the stubble of his whiskers abraded her jaw. A pang of need surged between her thighs. His body was large and warm, dominating hers.

  “I want you,” he whispered against her skin.

  Her fingers threaded through his thick, soft hair. It seemed she could not get close enough. She wanted him deep inside her.

  “I want you, too,” she confessed, the words leaving her on a sigh as one of his big hands swept the hem of her nightrail over her legs. Higher and higher he went, and she was on fire with ecstasy, unable to deny either of them what they so badly wanted.

  Nothing else mattered. It was as if they were the only two people in the world, lost until they had found each other…

  The feral cry of a wounded animal hauled Jacinda from the depths of a feverish dream. Heart pounding, she jolted upright, the bedclothes falling about her waist. Cool night air kissed her skin, wringing a shiver from her. Inhaling a deep, steadying breath, she willed her thudding heart to calm, and listened.

  Angels in heaven, that depraved dream. Shame washed over her. Where had it come from? Why did it plague her now when she must be more steadfast than ever in her determination to resist the lures of the Duke of Whitley? For days following their encounter in the library, he had avoided her, and she had been glad of his absence. Relieved when he had sent terse missives to inform her she need not attend their daily briefings. Satisfied when he carved out time for his sisters and requested she spend that same time otherwise occupied.

  For even if he was innocent of the crimes laid against him as she had begun to believe, there was no future for the two of them. If she became his mistress, she would become a pariah forever. And he would never, ever wed her, she reminded herself. As a duke, he remained well above her touch. She was Mrs. Jacinda Turnbow, daughter of Sir Robert Smythe, simple soldier’s widow, who lived in comfortable obscurity with her father. She preferred the company of books and ciphers to men. When the Duke of Whitley looked at her, he saw a woman he would make his mistress, not a lady he would take to wife.

  And while Jacinda could not countenance the notion of becoming a wife again, neither would she even consider being any man’s mistress. Especially not his. No matter how much his touch undid her, or how much her body ached for him. Alone in the darkness, she was keenly aware of the throbbing between her legs, the longing to be claimed that had not visited her in years.

  Of all men, why had her traitorous body chosen to react to the Duke of Whitley?
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  Perhaps she had imagined the disturbance. Something had wrenched her from her slumber, but it was entirely possible the noise she fancied she had heard was part of her nonsensical dream rather than reality.

  She exhaled. Inhaled again long and slow and deep. The night was still, unusually quiet for a London evening, though she supposed she had no notion of what hour it was. In the absence of sunlight, every hour was night, after all.

  She still heard nothing. There we are, then. She had surely imagined the sound. Or it had been a part of an awful dream she did not care to repeat.

  Either way, the horrible sound—real or not—did not repeat itself.

  Until it did.

  Raw and painful, the cry sliced straight through her even though it was muffled by the barrier of plaster and doors and distance. Only this time, she was awake. This time, she realized it was not the cry of a wounded animal at all. Rather, the strangled sound of pain had emerged from a human.

  A dark, low-voiced human.

  A man.

  The Duke of Whitley, to be precise. She would recognize the husky, arrogant timber of his voice anywhere. She threw back the bedclothes before she could think better of her actions. Surely there was any number of other tactics she might choose when faced with such a predicament. Surely, she ought to remain safely and chastely abed where she belonged, free of scandal and ruin and, Lord help her, even worse.

  The cry sounded again, keening and low.

  There was such raw, violent need redolent in that long, suffering cry, as if it had been torn from him. Such pain. It struck her heart with the proficiency of a hundred tiny little picks. Digging deeper and deeper and deeper.

  Without another hesitation, she rose from the bed, donning her dressing gown and belting it snugly round her waist. Her bare feet padded to the door. She opened it to the sound of another violent cry. The hall was empty, the servants and rest of the household long since abed for the night.

  If she had a modicum of sense, she would return to her chamber, bolt the door, and forget she had ever heard a sound.