spinster cousin a couple months ago. The whole event had been awful, from the lackluster refreshments to the crowlike voice in which the duke’s cousin delivered what, presumably, were poems.
No doubt Alex remembered because, in Elizabeth’s haste to leave when the wretched event was over, she had tripped over a sagging flounce at the hem of her gown and stumbled into him. And while she’d seen any number of ladies swoon gracefully into the duke’s arms, she had landed there out of pure clumsiness.
She gazed up at him now and caught the telltale twinkle in the duke’s eyes. She grinned helplessly. “I do love a good poem.”
“Well, I cannot claim to share my cousin’s…ahem,…skill in recitation, but I can show you my sister’s fine collection of poets.”
“No performance?” Elizabeth feigned disappointment as Alex directed her to the shelf packed with leather-bound volumes. “Likely it’s for the best. If I recall, I was so carried away by the last one I attended, I lost my bearings and nearly ran you over.” She kept her tone light as she turned to look at the poetry books.
“Of course, I quite forgot. Perhaps I should steady you, then, as you peruse these tomes, in order to prevent a reoccurrence.”
Elizabeth sucked in her breath as his hands settled gently on either side of her waist. The temptation to lean back into him, absorb his scent and strength, was nearly overwhelming. She bit her lip, hard, in hopes the pain would distract her.
“I shouldn’t allow this,” she whispered.
“If I recall,” he countered, “you were willing to offer much more.”
“That was before.” But she closed her eyes as his thumbs gently stroked her sides. “I just told you—”
“Shh. You are an unusual woman, Elizabeth,” he murmured, his head bent so she could feel the warmth of his breath behind her ear. “I confess you have quite captured my interest.”
They were slipping into dangerous territory. Elizabeth knew it and tried to change course. She reached out to finger a volume of poetry, though by which poet, she had no idea. “You toy with me, Your Grace.”
“Nay, never that.”
“I know well you find me less than tempting.” Elizabeth spoke with more conviction than she felt.
“You’re wrong. I think you a temptress of the most dangerous sort.”
His breath tickled her ear, awakening a longing for him to touch that same spot with his lips. She tried to focus instead on how crushed she’d felt when he’d rejected her that morning in the park.
She turned to face him. “Forgive my skepticism, Your Grace. It’s only that I find it hard to believe that when I was a respectable member of the ton, when I offered myself to you with no strings attached, you found me lacking. And now here I stand, a mere governess, and your interest is piqued?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like Society women.”
The blunt tone made Elizabeth study him closely. “You toy with me, Your Grace,” she repeated.
“I assure you, I do not. Society women are cold and calculating. They measure and analyze everything, down to the slightest comment or the color of a person’s gloves, in their quest to rise to the top.”
Elizabeth tilted her head sideways. He had a point. Her own mother was one such woman.
“You, on the other hand, fascinate me, for you were willing to give all that up. And then, I’ve seen you with the children. You are so much more natural with them, and I’ve seen you show them real affection, even though they are not yours. Which Elizabeth is real? The brazen miss that concocted that outrageous, though sorely tempting, idea for her own ruination? Or”—he lightly touched her cheek—“the one who stands before me, a caregiver who puts others’ needs before her own?”
He drew her inexorably toward a nearby settee, until Elizabeth had no choice but to sit. He sat beside her and laid his hand lightly over hers.
Any reply Elizabeth had been forming fled her mind.
“See? You know I am right. Look, here we are, away from Society, having an actual conversation. How many conversations have you had at a ball that didn’t revolve around what someone was wearing, who danced with whom, and how to interpret that as currency in the marriage mart?”
Elizabeth laughed. That was exactly what most conversations at a ball were like.
“You have a lovely smile. Although,” he mused, fingering the plain gray fabric of her gown, then lightly touching the hair she’d scraped into a tight bun, “I did prefer your appearance as a young lady of the ton.”
Elizabeth did not have time to be offended at the implied insult, for he continued in that thoughtful tone. “Odd, isn’t it, how in Society women strive to appear soft and inviting, when underneath they are hard and brittle? Yet you, as a warm-hearted governess, are expected to appear utterly proper, even drab.”
“I’m sure that is appropriate for a governess,” she replied primly, though his lingering touch on her hair sent little flutters throughout her body.
This was wrong. But she was powerless to stop him.
“Perhaps.” His hand covered hers again. “But it makes me wonder…what would happen if I pulled those pins from your hair? Would I have a woman before me who was soft and warm both inside and out?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she whispered, as his hand came up to test his theory.
Common sense dictated she retreat, quickly, to the safety of her quarters. But the future spanned endlessly before her, devoid of passion. Was it so wrong to claim just one moment’s pleasure for herself?
She made no move to stop him as he slowly pulled one pin, then another and another from her hair. Piece by piece it fell, until the whole mass of it lay tumbled about her shoulders.
“Yes, here is the beauty I recall. Like a waterfall, set magically aflame.”
His tone turned husky and sent a shiver of anticipation up Elizabeth’s spine.
“Cold?”
He stroked her arm gently, and the heat of his hand warmed her to the very blood.
She gave him a sideways smile. “I believe you may have a bit of poet’s blood in you after all, Your Grace, for that was surely the most fanciful compliment I’ve ever been paid.”
Her smile vanished, all teasing forgotten, as he bent his head to hers. His lips met hers briefly before he pulled back. The dark, smoldering gaze she met when she raised her eyes took her breath away, just before he hauled her against him and crushed his lips to hers.
His mouth moved against hers with barely restrained passion, molding, tasting, testing. Elizabeth was drowning in sensation. He held her fast, one hand buried in the hair at the nape of her neck as he tipped her back to deepen the kiss.
His tongue gently parted her lips, then probed, dipping in to taste, to stroke, until a sharp need began to pulse low in her belly. She reached out, her hands gripping his firm
