Page 57 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
Another bit of brightness to pierce the grey.
They forged through the woods, until the sun pierced through from the other side of the dense copse. ‘There it is. Just up ahead.’
Both children raced forward, and there was something about watching their childlike freedom, the way they moved their arms like windmills and ran all spread out, not keeping to a straight line, that did something strange to his chest.
And that left him standing with Mary. She looked at him, a strange sort of glimmer in her eyes. ‘It was good of you to join us.’
‘You left me with no choice.’
‘You are a duke. You always have a choice.’
It was said lightly, but something smarted beneath it. He could not pinpoint it.
‘I am ready to fend off wolves if need be.’
‘That would be a sight.’
He looked to her. ‘Do you doubt my ability?’
And this time she didn’t bother to suppress her smile. ‘Naturally not. You have a wooden sword.’
‘I have a great deal more than that.’
He had never in all of his life bantered with a woman. And he found it easy to do with her. Strangely, the last time he could remember having a free conversation with someone was with his brother, whom he had only just been thinking of.
He was not, and never had been, the toast of thetonne. In the sense that he was a duke, yes. He had been a target for marriage-minded mothers, and it had been about his title and not his personality, he was well aware. He offered security, he offered wealth. Status. And that was enough. He did not need to be amusing. He had an intensity about him as a lover, and that was the thing women liked about him the most. But it was nothing he and his wife had ever connected on. He had done his duty by her. He had protected her. Mary seemed to find him amusing. However, he was not certain she was laughing with him.
‘Yes, you should ask the wolves to address you asYour Grace, and genuflect accordingly.’
‘You should look quite pretty if you genuflected.’
He was a man of supreme control. And he had not meant to say that. The idea of this woman on her knees in supplication before him was intoxicating in ways he could not afford to ponder.
The image of her, down before him in the study, assaulted him again and it was far too easy for him to make her nude. Smooth and perfect and utterly his.
Her face went scarlet, colour bleeding down her neck, disappearing behind the modest neckline of her dress.
She was not unaware of the other meaning beneath that comment.
It was clear by her response. Nor was she unaffected by it.
‘A compliment,’ he said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘A shame then,’ she said, not meeting his eyes, ‘that you will never see me looking pretty.’
‘I didn’t say you were not equally lovely when not kneeling in supplication.’
He should not push this either. And yet he found he wanted to. Because this strange moment, outdoors in the middle of the day, with his horse tethered half a league away, and his children laughing and frolicking around a pond he had not been to since childhood, when he and his brother were trying to play, and forget. Forget who their father was, and that he was waiting back home with strong drink on his breath and violence in his fists.
And he was here, with this woman. Mary Smith. Who was lying about her name and, he was certain, concealing things about her background.
But she was beautiful, and she treated him as no one had for years.
She did look up at him then, met his gaze with something like fury, even while her voice remained measured. ‘What a relief to know you find me pretty. I don’t know how I should have persevered otherwise.’
He felt his own mouth curving upward. A foreign sensation. A foreign feeling. In amusement.
Amusement, and a sort of dark attraction.
