An Unlikely Governess Page 20

  “You tempt fate, Miss Sinclair.”

  “Beatrice,” she said softly. “Have we not progressed to that, at least? I shall call you Devlen, since I do so in my mind already, and you may call me Beatrice.”

  “I would be better to call you ill-advised or foolish, Beatrice Sinclair. Without a smidgen of sense.”

  “You have teased me for days, if not weeks. And tempted me to your bed. Now you warn me away from it.”

  “Someone should warn you.”

  “I didn’t expect you to warn me. I expected you to be my lover.”

  His smile abruptly disappeared.

  “Have you no sense of self-preservation, Beatrice Sinclair? Nothing that warns you it isn’t wise to tease the wolf?”

  “Is that what I’m doing?” How utterly strange. Her pulse beat so hard she could feel it in her lips, her eyelids trembled, the whole of her body was vibrating.

  She forced her hands to open. Her palms were wet.

  “Is it such a terrible thing being here, Devlen?”

  “You’re leaving Robert alone.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She turned to go, angry at him. He’d seized upon the one thing that could force her away. When she would have left the room, his hand on her arm held her back.

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “No, you were right to remind me of my duty. After all, I’m an employee. A governess.”

  “A woman.”

  His voice was low, his hand on her wrist warm. She didn’t turn to look at him, but she wanted to. When he moved to stand close to her, her breath hitched and held, then slowly, slowly, released.

  “I have never met anyone like you, Beatrice Sinclair. What kind of woman are you?”

  “One derelict in my duty, Mr. Gordon, as you reminded me. Please release me.”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps, at dawn.”

  He turned her slowly.

  A fingertip rested on her bottom lip, tapped it lightly. “You frighten me a little, you know.”

  “Do I?”

  “My conscience wants to send you in all haste from this room. After all, I promised to protect you. My curiosity and my need begs you to remain.”

  “Then protect me tonight. Protect me from loneliness and despair. From questioning myself, from being cold.”

  “Beatrice.”

  “I can’t explain what I feel, because I’ve never felt it before. I have no descriptions for the sensations rushing through my body, no way to convey the emotions I’m feeling. Maybe I need a poem to do so. Or a symphony. Music, as a way to express words I can’t find.”

  “Damn it, Beatrice.”

  “Tell me what to do to rid myself of these feelings, and I’ll do it. I won’t trouble you any longer. Is there something I can drink? Something I can eat? Would sleep do it?”

  “Touch yourself.”

  “What?” Shocked, she stared at him.

  “Touch yourself and think of me. Hold your breast and tell yourself Devlen would touch me just this way. Stroke your nipple, and pretend it’s my tongue. Let your hands wander over your body until you manage to convince yourself they’re my hands.”

  “If I still crave your touch after that?”

  He reached behind her, opened the door, and abruptly left the room, leaving Beatrice to stare after him.

  Did she wait? Or return to her chamber?

  After deciding to come to him, she wasn’t going to leave. She walked to the bed, removing her wrapper, then mounted the steps and slid beneath the covers, feeling the shivery chill of the sheets.

  Devlen would warm her.

  Why was she here? Because she was lonely? Because he offered her something that had sparked her curiosity? Possibly both reasons, or neither of them.

  Her body was capable of so many wondrous feelings, from first waking in the morning and stretching to feeling the warmth of the sun on her arms to walking barefoot through the spring grass. She could close her eyes at that moment and recollect the summer breeze across her cheek or the feel of the linen as she donned her shift.

  What would she recall tomorrow morning?

  The room was cold and silent, the only sounds the tearing wind outside and the hiss and pop of the fire. Her feet warmed, and she burrowed deeper beneath the covers, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if she should have some sort of trepidation for what was soon to follow.

  The door opened then, and she was done with introspection. He closed the door softly and stood with his back to it, surveying her with a somber look.

  “You have time to get out of my bed, Beatrice Sinclair,” he said. “But I warn you, if you’re not gone by the time I get there, you won’t be able to escape.”

  “Do I look as if I’m attempting to escape?” She rose on her elbow.

  “You should. You should be frightened for your life. I’m offering you nothing, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I hired the maid to sit outside Robert’s room for the night. She’ll fetch me if he awakes.”

  “You’re a better protector than I, Devlen Gordon.”

  He didn’t answer her. Instead, he came to the bed, pulled the covers down, and held out his hand. Curious, she sat up, then rose to her knees.

  Her nightgown was gone in a few swift movements.

  “Perhaps you have some experience in this, after all,” she said, amazed at the speed with which he’d divested her of her clothing.

  “Now’s not the time to discuss my experience.”

  “Then pray, remember that, when you would mention my lack of experience.”

  “Ah, but you are a virgin. Virgins are special creatures.”

  “You make me sound like a unicorn. Surely I’m not all that rarefied a creature?”

  “In my bed you are.”

  She shouldn’t have felt a shiver of pleasure at those words. He hadn’t complimented her, after all.

  “So, I’m your first virgin.”

  “You needn’t look so pleased,” he said, sitting on the bed.

  “Why ever not? A woman likes to think she is special to a man in some degree or another. If for no other reason, you’ll remember me because I was a virgin.”

  He shook his head, and she couldn’t help but smile. It amused her to confound Devlen Gordon.

  “Have you given no thought to your future?”

  “You mean a child?”

  The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. It was no longer a secluded bower, a warm oasis from the cold. The chill of the winter night seeped in through the windows. Beatrice wouldn’t have been surprised to look outside the bed to find snow piled high around it.

  Devlen moved from the bed, walking to where the innkeeper had placed his trunk.

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he said. “But luckily I do not travel unprepared.”

  He returned to the bed holding something in his hand. Instead of showing it to her, he slid it beneath the pillow.

  “They’re les redingotes anglaises.”

  “English riding coats?”

  “Precisely. They’re to prevent you from becoming with child.”

  “I’ve chosen well,” she said. “If I had to be deflowered by anyone, it was wise to choose a rake, someone versed in the skill. Do you make a point of keeping them next to your candles and your pistols?”

  “You sound annoyed.”

  “I am not. Truly, I’m not. Very well, I am. I want both to be protected and to be protected from the knowledge of being protected.”

  “You want to be loved by a rake who’s a virgin.”

  “It does sound nonsensical, doesn’t it?”

  “It would be better if you went back to your room. Then we wouldn’t have to discuss English riding coats or preventing children.”

  “Yes,” she said, “it would be better if I went back to my room.” It was suddenly cold, and she was chilled. She hadn’t felt so acutely naked before,
but she did now, with her nipples drawing up tight against the chill.

  He looked at her intently, and she wished he wouldn’t. She felt vulnerable now while she hadn’t been earlier. Instead, she’d been caught up in the daring of her deed. Now she just felt foolish.

  She raised an arm to cover herself and just as she did, he reached out and prevented her from doing so.

  “If you deny me your company for this evening, then at least let me look my fill. The sight of you will fuel my dreams.”

  How could he do that? With just a few words, he’d made her warm again.

  She reached out her hand, and he took it. She rose to her knees, put her hands on his shoulders, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

  “Being here is foolish, I know,” she murmured next to his ear. “But I’m rarely foolish, Devlen.”

  “You want a taste of sin.”

  She nodded.

  “And if you’re ruined for marriage?”

  “I’m not titled. Nor am I wealthy, and I doubt such considerations will matter if I ever marry. My husband will have to take me as I am or not take me at all.”

  “You’d bend the rules, Beatrice? Challenge society itself?”

  “I suspect you’ve done your share of bending and challenging, Devlen Gordon.”

  “It’s different for men, I think.”

  “Because we are vessels. What an odd way to think about women, don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered a woman a vessel before, Beatrice.”

  “You must have,” she said, drawing back. “If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be carrying English riding coats in your trunk.”

  “Why are you so content to get nothing in return?”

  “In return?”

  “For the gift of your virginity?”

  “Is it a gift? Or a burden?”

  “You won’t enjoy it, you know.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “Are you a bad lover, Devlen? How odd I’d never considered it.”

  His smile was barely there, anchored by a wisp of emotion. A wish, perhaps, that she would cease questioning him. Or meekly acquiesce to what she’d already chosen as her fate.

  She sat back on her haunches and regarded him.

  He didn’t look away or appear the least uncomfortable.

  Instead, he pulled his stock away from his throat slowly, so she could almost feel the slow slide of fabric against skin. Then his waistcoat, unbuttoned by large, long fingers, was falling to the floor with casual disregard.

  “Your valet isn’t here, Devlen,” she said, amused.

  “Perhaps I can convince you to straighten up after me.”

  “I have one charge. I am in no hurry to gain another.”

  How silly she should want to smile at this moment. The time was not ripe for humor, or the buoyant feeling in her chest. But she was absurdly happy as she watched him slowly undress, his gaze still fixed on her face and her dawning smile.

  “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “The sight of you undressing? Very much. I must admit, however, I’ve never actually seen a naked man.” An instant later, she corrected herself. “Not alive at any rate.”

  He halted in the act of unfastening his trousers. “Not alive?”

  “During the epidemic, anyone was pressed into service to help bury the dead, Devlen. I was very good at sewing shrouds.”

  “You have a disconcerting habit of flummoxing me with your conversation, Beatrice Sinclair.”

  “You don’t have to call me by my first and last name, you know. You could call me Beatrice. Or my middle name.”

  “Angelica?”

  “No, nothing so ironic. Angel and devil.” She smiled. “Anne. Much more prosaic.”

  “At first glance, however, Beatrice, it would not seem you’re the angel in this mix. I suggest you’re the devilish one.”

  “Really?” She was absurdly delighted by his comment.

  He sat at the end of the bed, removed his boots and stockings, then slipped his trousers off his long, long legs.

  “My,” she said, and then fell into a long silence, interrupted only by the wind pushing against the window-pane. “Have you always been so large?”

  A bark of laughter had her lifting her gaze to his face.

  “Not a question I’ve ever been asked before,” he admitted. “I don’t think I was this large as a boy, no.”

  “Is it practice that makes it large? Does it get larger the more you use it?”

  “Where do you get these questions?”

  “Curiosity. I’ve always been curious.”

  “I find it oddly disconcerting to be questioned about my sexual exploits.”

  “Have you had none?”

  He startled her by jumping onto the end of the bed. “Enough, Beatrice Sinclair. You have the devil’s own tongue.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and was further surprised by his dawning smile.

  “Whatever for?”

  “For not regaling me with stories of your conquests.”

  “That wouldn’t be well-done of me, would it, Beatrice?” He leaned over and kissed her on the nose, a thoroughly confusing kiss.

  He knelt before her, allowing her to look her fill. She should have turned away, perhaps. But then, she shouldn’t have been here at all. Instead, she looked, starting at his shoulders, rounded with muscle, to his chest, crafted like a Roman soldier’s hammered breastplate, to his lean hips, to other places far more interesting.

  “You look, dare I say it, enthralled.”

  “I’ve not had the opportunity to witness a naked man so close.”

  “One who’s alive.”

  She nodded.

  “I trust you approve of the sight.”

  “You’re very beautiful. Do many women tell you that?”

  “Considering the circumstances, perhaps it would be better if we didn’t discuss other women.”

  “That means they have, of course,” she said, stretching out her hand. Before she could touch him, she halted, her fingers resting on his thigh. As she watched, his manhood grew, stretching like a sleeping snake.

  Oh my.

  He picked up her hand and placed it on him.

  “You’re very warm,” she said, when she’d regained the use of her voice. The comment came out as a croak. “Almost hot,” she added.

  His skin could burn her. She brushed the back of her hand against his thigh, and watched as his eyes half closed. He was like a cat she could pet. A warm cat who’d been sunning in the window. The fine black hair on his skin was not unlike a pelt. But there all resemblance to a domesticated animal fled from her mind. He was not a tame kitty, even though he was sitting patiently beneath her touch. His muscles were taut, his expression one of barely restrained civility.

  His hand clenched, then moved to rest against her breast, to cup it as if to measure it against his palm. Her breast looked small and white and defenseless against his hand and she wanted to urge him to take some care with her. With all of her, naked and trembling yet too wild for maidenhood.

  His thumb strummed against the tip of her breast, and she closed her eyes at the feeling. A sound trapped inside of her escaped through her tightened lips. A soft moan, or a sigh, no more than that.

  Suddenly, she was on her back, and he was above her.

  “Last time, Beatrice Sinclair, unicorn, if you will.”

  “I wish you’d urge me to stay with as much eagerness as you urge me to flee.”

  “I only wish to give you fair warning.”

  “It cannot be such a dour thing, Devlen, or the world would not hold it in such esteem. Nor would preachers sermonize about the doom and gloom of hell. Do only men enjoy it?”

  “The first time, I’m afraid so.”

  “Then shall we dispense with the first time as quickly as possible? I shall hold you blameless if I feel the least bit ill from it.”

  “It’s not a purgative, Beatrice.”

  “At least that,
Devlen, or you wouldn’t be warning me so.”

  He bent and kissed her and there were no more warnings. Or if he ventured any, she was not in the mood to hear them. His kisses were hot and drugging, leading her into a state of nothingness she’d never before known, a place where only sensation ruled. The touch of the tip of his tongue against her mouth, the soft sigh he made when deepening the kiss, the taste of him were all things she noted with the small part of her mind not adrift in wonder. The rest of her was aflame, curling beneath his fingers, his palms, her skin ablaze with feeling. Not even her toes were exempt from sensation, because they brushed against the long, wiry hair on his legs, and teased the soles of his feet.

  She undulated like a wild thing, arching and retreating, enjoying each touch. He palmed her breasts, and she marveled they’d never been so sensitive. His thumb reached out and with his forefinger, teased her nipples, and she knew she’d never again be unaware of herself and her capacity for sheer enjoyment.

  When his fingers explored her intimately, spreading swollen folds and entering her, it was as if he was demonstrating to her the body she’d inhabited all these years. His thumb bore down on one spot, his fingers curled into her, and she arched her back in an effort to get closer to him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her lips pressed against his ear and it still wasn’t close enough. Not nearly enough.

  His fingers flicked against her. She felt caught up in a whirlwind, a vortex that was sucking her higher and higher. He whispered something to her, some words that had no meaning because she’d lost the ability to filter sound, so entranced was she in the magic he’d created with his touch.

  She reached out with one hand and pressed against his fingers, urgent in a way she couldn’t articulate. He said something else, and the only thing she noted was the amusement in his tone.

  There was nothing remotely funny about what she was feeling.

  He inserted another finger into her, his murmur less amused than coaxing. His thumb was insistent, probing, magic. Suddenly, her mind numbed, the sensation silvery, an explosion that crested, halting her breath. She hung, suspended, in midair, then exhaled a sigh, floating back to earth slowly on a current of bliss.

  Devlen slid his hand beneath the pillow. He pulled away from her, and when he returned, he entered her with a smooth and practiced movement.