Sattler, Veronica (11 page)

She
paused a moment in front of a handsome walnut chest of drawers with a
serpentine front and peered into the graceful little Queen Anne looking glass
above it. The bonnet, like her dress, was a beautiful cornflower blue, with a
double row of paler blue ruche about the brim, echoing the dozen rows of
similar ruche at the hem of her skirt. She smiled into the mirror, revealing a
single dimple in her left cheek as well as a row of perfect white teeth.
Why,
she thought with some surprise,
I
actually look... pretty!
Then
she frowned, glancing away from the glass in confusion. Were governesses
supposed to look pretty? Would the duke find her so, and if he did, would it
suit?

But
Ashleigh had no more time to contemplate her doubts over her appearance, for
just then there came a firm knocking at the door. Without thinking, she
responded with a form commonly used at Hampton House when bidding someone
enter; instilled among its inhabitants by Madame, it was always uttered in
French.
"Entrez,"
she called.

The
door swung open and there, before her, stood the handsomest man she'd ever
seen! He was easily six feet tall, with a head of deep chestnut hair worn in a
casually tousled version of the a la Titus so in mode at the moment. His
clothes, consisting of fawn-colored riding breeches that fit him like his own
skin and a well-tailored deep green riding jacket, were also cut in the latest
fashion, and he wore them with an air of casual grace, neither detracting from,
nor adding overly to, their quiet, understated elegance.

But
it was his face that captured and held Ashleigh's astonished attention:
masculine perfection met her eyes in a symmetrical blending of features that
could have been the model for classical statues of old—a wide, handsome brow,
fringed by those chestnut curls; a straight, chiseled nose that harmonized with
the wide, sensual mouth that just then was faintly turned up at one corner,
hinting of a lazy smile; high, angular cheekbones; a firm, square chin that
bespoke strength and perhaps a hint of stubbornness; and then there were his
eyes!
She'd not known such a color to
exist
in eyes before! Of a rich,
sea-foam turquoise, they were heavily lashed and ever so slightly deep-set; but
beyond this, they were far more than a summation of their color and shape.
There was something disturbing and yet equally compelling about them, and
Ashleigh found herself curious over the complex mysteries she sensed in their
depths; they were the eyes of a man who had seen and tasted much, yet yearned
for something more, and with this longing came a tinge of... sadness, yes, that
was it, she decided, although if anyone had asked her how she knew these
things, she'd have been at a loss to tell him.

Then,
just as she was about to tear her riveted gaze away and form the courage to say
something, the look in his eyes changed, and she thought she saw something
else—a hardness, perhaps, coupled with a hint of arrogance, maybe even cruelty.
But before she could analyze any of this, he spoke, his rich, masculine voice
filling the chamber.

"It
appears I may have been done a service after all. I suddenly find myself
sequestered with as fetching a vision of Aphrodite as I've yet to
encounter!" He grinned down at her as he closed the door behind him, and
the combined action, together with his words, suddenly made Ashleigh feel
afraid. Sequestered? What did he mean by that? And shouldn't the door have been
left open during this interview?

Quickly
swallowing to moisten a mouth suddenly gone dry, Ashleigh endeavored to steer
the conversation into safe and sensible waters. "I—that is—ah—I'm pleased
to meet you, Your Grace. I—I am Ashleigh Sinclair." She finished with a
brief little curtsy.

A
mirthless chuckle met her ears. "Do not elevate me to the dukedom yet, my
pretty. My grandfather still lives."

"Your—your
grandfather?"
Ashleigh questioned. "B-But aren't
you
...
I mean, I'd assumed..."

Her
words trailed off into a bewildered silence, for the handsome stranger was
obviously no longer listening to her. He had begun to peruse her person
instead, slowly walking around her frozen form as she stood—perplexed and now
even a bit alarmed—rooted to the carpet under her feet. Slowly, languidly, he
circled, studying her body from every angle, thoroughly, expertly—totally,
until she began to feel like some leg of mutton at the butcher's; indeed, she
could scarcely remember ever selecting the choicest items on a shopping list for
Madame's table, on market day, with more care than the infinite thoroughness
this man brought to bear on this examination.

Brett,
meanwhile, was amazed at his luck. What he'd expected when he arrived to do his
grandfather's bidding he couldn't quite say, as he'd been intent on humoring
the old man, but he was quite sure it hadn't been anything like the vision that
now greeted his eyes. The creature was dazzling! As tempting and perfect a
little bit of muslin as any he'd ever seen!

His
gaze moved wonderingly over her slight, delicately curving form that appeared
all at once fragile and slender, yet ripe and alluring. Although the
high-waisted dress she wore fell in straight lines, the soft sheerness of its
folds served more to emphasize her slender curves than to hide them, and the
round, tempting fullness of the breasts above the waistline was more than
accentuated by the Empire cut. His eyes traveled again down the flowing lines
of her skirt, and he knew that despite her tiny, almost elfin frame, she
possessed graceful legs that were long in proportion to the rest of her.

Soon
his gaze moved upward again, until it found her face.
And what a face it
was!
He sucked in his breath for a moment at its beauty, then slowly let it
out, at the same time drinking in the perfection of those features and the
heart-shaped elegance they graced: the delicate prominence of her cheekbones,
her straight little nose and sweetly shaped mouth; the huge sapphire-blue eyes
with their generous fringe of sooty black lashes matching the pile of shiny,
raven-colored curls that peeked from beneath the ridiculous looking bonnet she
wore.... Here he paused and pondered what he saw for a moment.... Yes, she was
a rare beauty, flawless in every respect, but... something was wrong
somewhere....

Quickly
Brett's eyes went back to hers and lingered there, carefully assessing, until
suddenly it came to him. Her eyes... he would
swear
they were
guileless,
innocent
somehow; and yet he knew that
couldn't be!
This girl—for
girl was what she was; she had to be very young, scarcely out of her teens, if
that old—was a
whore!
How, then, did she come by such a look of purity
and unsullied innocence? It would bear finding out, and so he decided to pursue
a different tack.

Straightening,
Brett gave her an engaging grin—one he'd known to charm the ladies at court and
anywhere else he cared to bestow it—and followed this with the briefest of
bows. "It would appear my
manners
need tutoring as well as...
other
things,
ah—Miss Sinclair, isn't it? Forgive my rudeness at not inquiring
after your comfort. Tell me, have you dined?" This was asked casually over
one shoulder as he ambled over to a small secretary and, lowering its drop
leaf, revealed a silver tray bearing several crystal decanters; these were
filled with liquids ranging in color from pale amber to the deepest honey
brown. From the tray he also produced a pair of finely cut crystal wineglasses,
which he held as he looked at her questioningly.

Realizing
belatedly that she had yet to answer his question, Ashleigh hurriedly cleared
her throat and replied, "No, Your Gr—ah, my lord, I've not dined this
evening, but I had a late-afternoon repast... with tea, that is, and I—ah—find
I'm not all that hungry." The truth was that, up until the moment this man
had entered the chamber, she had felt she was near starving, for
"tea" at Hampton House had consisted of just that, a single cup, for
she'd been too apprehensive over her forthcoming journey to avail herself of
even a single crumb of any of the cakes and tarts Dorcas had pressed upon her.

At
this moment, however, she found herself caring little about food and a great
deal about the circumstances of her imminent employment. Who
was
this
man? If not the duke, as he'd indicated, but his grandson, then just what was
his relationship to the child, Brett, whom she was to have as her charge? Had
the duke remarried at an advanced age, producing a second set of children much younger
than the father or mother of this man, thus producing a later and much younger
grandson as well? Or were the two grandsons simply born many years apart as
occasionally happened in families?

She
must have appeared puzzled while she pondered all this, for her companion
chuckled as he handed her a half-filled glass of a pale-colored liquid saying,
"You needn't look so perplexed, my dear. It's only sherry. I thought we
might share a glass while we discuss your—ah—situation." This last was
spoken with a decided inflection of amusement while at the same time his eyes
roamed freely over her, and again Ashleigh experienced a sense of discomfort
under his perusal.

When
his eyes met hers, her discomfort grew so great, she quickly dropped her gaze,
hearing him laugh softly as she did so. Then, remembering her manners, she
accepted the glass he held out to her, made a murmur of thanks and took a sip.

When
she at last dared to raise her eyes to him, she found him once again looking
intently at her, those turquoise eyes piercing in their intensity. Slowly, he
raised his glass to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers as he drank. Then
the glass was lowered and a slow, lazy smile curled his lips.

"Tell
me, Miss Sinclair," he murmured languidly (for there was nothing rushed in
his manner), "you're new at your profession, are you not?"

Ah,
here it is,
thought
Ashleigh.
He thinks me too young and inexperienced to be a governess for his
brother... or half brother, or whatever. Well, I'll just have to show him
otherwise!
Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she fixed him with a
bold look, saying, "I may be young for my chosen profession, my lord, but
I believe you will find me well qualified. I have studied many years to attain
my present level of proficiency."

Brett's
eyebrows flew sharply upward at her proud response, and a broad grin spread
across his features. With a rapid movement, he freed her wineglass from her
hand and took both it and his own and set them down on the tray. Then, before
she knew what was happening, Ashleigh found herself drawn up into his arms in a
tight embrace as his mouth descended on hers.

Her
first sensation was of a warm mouth covering her own, of a hard, well-muscled
male body pressed ever so tightly against her softer, more pliant form. Dimly,
in some nether part of her brain, she knew she must stop what was happening,
but at the same time she felt herself being swept away by a host of new and
incredible sensations. There was still his mouth meeting hers, but it was
moving now, his lips gliding sensuously, his tongue sliding between, to tease
and play until it had parted her lips, and then the feel of his tongue actually
entering her mouth!
A giddy weakness spread itself throughout her body,
turning her knees to jelly, her limbs to water, and she wondered if it was the
sherry she'd swallowed. She was faintly aware of his hands, which had begun to
wander up and down her back, gliding over her quaking shoulders, then moving
sensuously downward until they clasped her rounded buttocks and drew her
impossibly closer...
unthinkably, dangerously closer!

It
was this last action that finally roused her from her benumbed and passive
state. With a sharp gasp of outrage, she pulled her tingling lips from his and
began to push at his chest with her hands, which, until now, had been gently
imprisoned there.

"Sir!
Your—your lordship—whoever you are, you
must
not—you must
stop
this
at once!"
she cried, even as his mouth searched hers again.

A
low rumble of laughter met her ears as his hands easily caught hers and drew
them behind her back while turquoise eyes bored into her own. "The name is
Brett, my lovely, Brett Westmont, and I fail to see the problem. We're simply
beginning my first—ah—lesson!"

Brett
Westmont!
her
disbelieving mind cried out.
This was her charge!
Her brain reeled
against this new piece of information, trying frantically to come to terms with
its import, but then she suddenly had no time to think any further, for his
mouth was against hers again, sucking the very breath from her body. She tried
to free her hands, but he captured them easily with one of his while the other
one worked at the ribbons of her bonnet, quickly untying them, sending it
tumbling to the floor. Then she felt his lips at her throat where they nibbled
and played with the tender flesh there, and seconds later his free hand slid to
her breast where it cupped, then stroked, then lightly pinched the tip.

Now
Ashleigh was assaulted by an even wilder sensation. It was as if a direct line
existed between the peak of her breast and some place deep within her core, in
the region of the juncture of her thighs. All was sensation—a rushing, then
eddying, then spiraling sensation that hovered somewhere between need and
longing. With a sharp cry, she twisted to one side, thinking to break this
latest contact, but she only succeeded in rubbing her throbbing nipple more
intensely against those caressing fingers, and the result was a white-hot heat
assaulting her loins.