He turned in her direction. Sunlight fell across him just as he pushed his wet hair from his face, revealing him more clearly.
Her stomach clenched.
She knew him.
Had, in fact, known him for five years.
The beautiful stranger in the pond was Owen, the ducal heir. No, he was no longer the heir. Now he was the duke. His father had passed away suddenly two weeks ago in a riding accident, and Owen had left his studies at Oxford to attend the burial in London. Cecilia had learned that the late duke had been interred with great ceremony at Westminster Abbey, as was fitting for so august a personage, but given the youth of her students, she had stayed with the girls here at Tarrington House.
Owen was due back at Tarrington House sometime this week. She’d no idea he would arrive today. The last time she’d seen him had been six months ago, and he’d been dressed, ensuring that his magnificent body wouldn’t be a distraction. Ever since he’d come of age, she had been careful to give him a wide berth for her own protection. Not because she feared anything untoward from him. No, it was herself she didn’t trust.
Here she was, ogling a man nine years her junior. Not only that, he was now her employer, which meant that staring lustfully at him was entirely wrong, entirely forbidden. Abiding by the boundaries between employer and employed had to be respected. Yet she couldn’t stop herself.
A dog’s bark snapped her to attention. Goblin, the family’s black retriever, was extremely sweet and, unfortunately, quite attached to her, and her worst fears were realized when he came bounding up to her. The dog was allowed to roam freely around the grounds, and as he trotted toward her, he wagged his tail and panted with excitement before letting out another happy yelp.
“Shh, shh,” she whispered, frantically petting Goblin in an attempt to quiet him.
Her stomach sank when she glanced at Owen and saw him looking right at her—or hopefully where the shrubbery hid her.
“Goblin,” he called. “Here.”
The dog bolted from the cover of the bushes, heading straight toward Owen. Perhaps he might think that Goblin was alone, and she could sneak away with no one the wiser.
“Hello?” Owen demanded. “Who’s there?”
Damn. No help for it.
She crept out from her hiding place, careful not to look in his direction. “Hello,” she said with an attempt at bright cheer. “I didn’t see anything. Just heard someone bathing in the pond. Nothing more.”
“I don’t doubt you,” he said, though he sounded surprised.
“Perhaps I saw a little,” she admitted, still keeping her gaze averted. Then she realized that her comment might have another meaning, and she hastily added, “Nothing little, mind you. Everything was singularly . . . impressive.”
For God’s sake, she was thirty years old, decidedly not virginal, and here she was stammering like a girl straight from the nursery.
Owen made a little choked sound, and there was the sound of rustling. A moment later he said, “I’ve put my breeches on.”
She exhaled and looked at him. He was wearing breeches now, but they hung low on his hips. He hadn’t yet donned a shirt, so he was still appallingly gorgeous and damp as he stood on the grassy bank. How was it possible for anyone to have shoulders that wide?
Uninterested in the human drama unfolding, Goblin trotted off to the pond, nosing around the banks.
“Everything’s been made ready for you,” she said in the strained quiet. “The kitchen’s been busy since yesterday, preparing all your favorite dishes, and your room was given a thorough airing out. The house is in need of a happy distraction.”
He grimaced, which barely altered the perfection of his face. He’d inherited his Mediterranean looks from his Neapolitan mother, and resembled a Renaissance prince, with a generous nose and full mouth. His drying hair was as thick and dark as secrets. She’d become aware of his masculine beauty soon after he’d first come home from Oxford for the winter. Until that point, he’d been a gangly limbed yet good-looking boy, and she’d given him little consideration beyond the fact that he was the older brother of her two pupils. But over the course of his time at university, he’d become an impossibly handsome man.
It had been a relief when, at the conclusion of the holiday, he’d returned to university and she no longer had to ignore her base impulses. With him gone, she could return to her usual routine, untroubled by carnal thoughts of her employer’s son.
He had been eighteen when she’d first noticed him as a man. That had been three years ago. Now he was twenty-one, yet that didn’t do much to smother her shame. A woman of her age shouldn’t lust for a man so much younger than herself. That didn’t stop her from wanting, though.
“Suppose I ought to have gone straight in,” he said with remorse. “I imagine they’ve been waiting for me. It’s only…” He exhaled. “I wasn’t quite ready to cross that threshold.”
He reached for his shirt and, to her relief and dismay, pulled it over his head to cover his chest.
“I used to swim here all the time,” he went on. “When I was a boy. A place to get away and pretend I wasn’t the heir. It was only me and the water.” His gaze slid away as though he were overcome with shyness. “Miss Holme.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “My condolences on the loss of your father,” she said solemnly. “He was a kind man, always taking your sisters on learning excursions and bringing them books. And he spoke highly of his son. He was quite proud of you, Your Grace.”
Owen’s gaze lowered, his lashes forming dark fans against his cheeks. “Difficult to believe he won’t be there behind his desk, waiting to ask me about my studies. Giving me stones he collected from his travels. He thought it amusing that a duke’s heir loved geology.”
“‘Some noblemen’s sons love drink or chasing petticoats,’” she murmured, affecting the late duke’s deep voice. “‘My son loves rocks.’”
She and Owen shared a chuckle, but there was a catch in his throat.
“Damn, but I miss him,” he said, his voice a rasp.
“Your Grace!” someone said in the distance. It sounded like Mr. Fernham, the estate manager. “Are you here, Your Grace?”
“I should let him know where I am.” But instead of alerting the estate manager to his presence, he gathered the remainder of his clothing and ducked behind a hedge. Before he disappeared, he tipped his head to one side, indicating with a questioning look that she was free to accompany him into the shrubbery if she so desired.
“Mr. Fernham could use a bit of exercise, sitting behind a desk all day.” Cecilia followed him into the protective shelter of the greenery.
Owen gave another grimace. “I’ve gone from studying the stratigraphic column for my own edification to evaluating the duchy’s countless holdings, and a million other tasks that require my attention.”
“I’m in search of insect specimens to show your sisters. Perhaps you can join me in locating a few.” She gazed meaningfully toward the woods surrounding the pond.
Why had she suggested such a thing? She oughtn’t be alone with him, and yet the impulse to help him had arisen instantly.
He shot her a grateful look. After he tugged on his boots, she quietly led him into the variegated shade of the forest. Wordlessly, they slipped between the trees as Mr. Fernham continued his quest for the duke, the estate manager’s calls growing fainter as they moved away.