Page 15 of The Iron Duke's Flaming Christmas
He stiffened. He could see her nipples, as small and hard as pebbles, through the fabric as well, straining against it. It took all his strength not to reach out, to caress one of them through the gown, to watch her face transform as he touched her. Would she slap his face and run? Or would her mouth open in the first, astonishing blossom of need and want?
“You are disturbing me,” he said in a strangled whisper. “You are disturbing me very much, Miss Bomind.”
They kept gazing at each other, neither moving a muscle, enveloped in an impenetrable, sensual mist, that was growing thicker by the minute. She was almost panting now, the vein in her neck twitching uncontrollably, and he noticed the sudden dilation of her pupils.
His loins responded instantly. He knew, in that moment, that she felt it as well. And he also knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was in danger. He was in so much danger that he couldn’t bear it.
Quickly, he took a step back, striding back to the desk, deliberately putting distance between them.
“You can go now,” he said, his voice thick, and harsher than he intended. “I have work to do.”
He didn’t look at her again. But he knew that she curtsied, then heard the soft fall of her footsteps, and the door opening and closing. He sat down in the chair, slumping, gazing around at nothing. His head was spinning, and his blood was still so thick with desire that he could barely breathe.
He swore beneath his breath, picking up the quill, gripping it tightly. It abruptly snapped in his hand. He swore again, throwing it onto the desk. He closed his eyes tightly, thinking of his late wife.
I am sorry, Mary. I am forgetting you. I vowed that I would never let another woman affect me again. I vowed that I would remain faithful to you.
A wave of guilt and shame swept over him. He would never atone for what had happened to Mary. He must wear the burden forever. And what was more, he wanted to. He must control this inexplicable attraction for the new governess. It was imperative.
Chapter 8
Selene sat at the servants’ long table in the kitchen at Trenton House, picking at the stew, pushing it around her plate. It had been a long, tiring day and she was ravenous. But after the encounter with the duke in his study, she had somehow lost her appetite.
The way that he looked at me. The way that his dark eyes glittered. I was certain he was going to touch me. What would I have done if he had?
Her head spun as she forced herself to contemplate the question. She had been angry, and it had been difficult to control that anger. But simmering beneath the surface had been intense desire, as well. She had realized, with a start, that she had never been more attracted to a man in her life—that, in fact, she had never known what true attraction was, until she had met him.
She took a deep breath, picking up her glass of water, taking a long sip. She realized that her hand was shaking. Appalled, she placed the glass down, staring at it.
I would have stepped away. I would have told him he had no right to touch me in such a way. I would have turned and ranout the door, and then I would have given my notice and walked away from Trenton House.
Her heart started thumping wildly. The appalling thing was she truly didn’t know how she would have reacted if he had touched her. She wanted to believe she would have done the right thing, but truthfully, she just didn’t know. Her attraction toward him was so strong, so powerful, that she might easily have submitted to it.
He is your master. He is a duke. He cannot be anything to you other than the person who pays your salary. We are worlds apart.
“And how was your first formal day with your charge, my dear?” asked Mrs. Kittles, sitting down opposite her, gazing at her with warm eyes. “Did the little lady pull any more pranks on you?”
Selene jumped. She had been so engrossed in her reverie that she hadn’t even noticed the housekeeper approaching. She took a deep breath, trying to concentrate.
“It was good, Mrs. Kittles,” she said eventually, trying to smile. “Lady Lenore worked well. We took a walk and found a beetle which entranced her.” Her smile widened. “She named it Bessie and wrote a long story about it. She also sketched and labelled it. And we did some research, as well.”
The housekeeper looked surprised. “A beetle, did you say?”
Selene laughed. “Yes, a beetle. She was so fascinated by it that I thought she would work better if she could bring it back to the house. And then I thought, why not use the beetle as a springboard for her learning? Interest is half the battle, Mrs. Kittles.”
“I daresay,” replied the housekeeper, looking doubtful. “But as long as she worked without incident, then I should say the day was a success.”
“There were no incidents,” said Selene, her smile widening. Then she stiffened, thinking about the duke. “Except for the fact that His Grace saw me taking the walk and did not like it. He did not seem pleased about the beetle, either. He wants me to do writing drills with the lady. He has a very narrow view of education. Is he always so dogmatic and stubborn?”
Mrs. Kittles laughed. “Oh, yes, my dear. He rules this house with an iron fist… and that is probably where he gets his moniker.” She paused, gazing at Selene. “But there are good reasons why he can be belligerent and argumentative, my dear. He has suffered great loss. It is not an easy cross to bear for him.”
Selene’s heart lurched. “Yes. The late duchess passed away on Christmas Day, did she not?”
Mrs. Kittles nodded, leaning forward over the table toward her. “Yes. A dreadful day it was.” She shook her head, tears springing into her eyes. “The servants were enjoying their Christmas luncheon when we heard the duke’s cries, as he brought her into the house, in full labor. I have never seen a woman in such agony. She was screaming and clutching her belly, doubled over in pain.”
“What happened?” Selene gazed at the housekeeper, her heart thumping uncomfortably. “Why did she die?”
Mrs. Kittles sighed. “There were complications,” she replied, looking sad. “It was not her time—she still had a full month before the babe was due, you see. It was premature labor, and the mother and babe are always at higher risk when that happens.” She sighed heavily. “It is a miracle that Lady Lenore survived at all. She was tiny, such a wee babe, scrawnier than a newborn kitten. And yet, she was a fighter.”
