If only there had been more time with Father. If only the late duke hadn’t gone riding alone that day, so someone could have been there when he’d fallen from his horse. They could have fetched a physician in time. If only. If only.
Owen touched the black band on his sleeve as if he could somehow touch his father’s hand once more, but all he felt was the strip of crepe.
His attempt to temporarily escape the weight of responsibility and grief yesterday had become something far more surprising and wonderful than anything he had a right to feel.
Miss Holme had encouraged him to release the tether of propriety that kept him pinned in place. Still, he would have said nothing had he not sensed her attraction to him. The way her gaze remained on his body, his mouth. How her touch had lingered on him.
He had been prepared to immediately apologize to her for harboring such thoughts and laying them bare before her. Instead, the most remarkable thing had happened. She admitted her own attraction to him.
He’d been granted one of his deepest, most cherished wishes.
To kiss Miss Holme. Touch her. Feel her become aroused for him.
His body responded at once to the memory of her. She’d guided him and he had been her eager student, discovering things she desired. And as he had made those discoveries, he’d felt something within himself that he hadn’t anticipated—he could give her pleasure. It was intoxicating and heady, and he craved more of it, even as it unsettled him.
He’d had to frig himself three times last night as he relived those moments with her in the woods. He had pumped his hand furiously on his cock over and over. It hadn’t been enough, but at the least, he’d been able to dull the gleaming edge of his hunger, and managed to tumble into a few hours of sleep.
For five years, he’d fantasized hearing her say that she desired him. The reality had far outpaced the dream, especially seeing the desire in her hazel eyes. Desire for him. Fate had bestowed a cruel sort of torment, to grant him this long-held hope in the midst of his grief and confusion. But she’d given him something else besides physical pleasure, and by turning toward their shared hunger, she had eased the crushing weight of his loss.
His fever for more broke under the chill of reality. What happened at the pond could never happen again.
He hadn’t told Miss Holme everything about his father’s farthing. It had come with another warning: a duke’s personal life was everyone’s business. With the title came tremendous responsibility, and that included his romantic affairs. Many men of rank abused their female servants and social inferiors. Some of those aristocrats believed it was their right to do so. But his father insisted that being the Duke of Tarrington carried more accountability, not less. As the duke, Owen could not, would not, hurt anyone in his employ—especially women.
That included his sisters’ governess. He had known it yesterday, but desire had overridden sense. In the aftermath, he’d faced the truth that he’d done something terribly wrong, and had to make it right.
A tap sounded at the door.
“Enter,” Owen said, hoping he sounded properly ducal.
Vale, the butler, appeared. “You asked me to remind you that Mr. Leaton and Mr. Sulham would be arriving by this afternoon, Your Grace.”
Owen glanced toward the clock. It was just after eleven in the morning. He’d spent the hours since breakfast reviewing the mountains of paperwork requiring his attention in preparation for meetings with Leaton and Sulham. They were part of his army of men of business, and had met Owen already in London. Those had been only for preliminary discussions.
I’m just a geologist, he wanted to shout.
“Very good, Vale,” he said. “How is my mother?”
“She is well, Your Grace. Currently she is in her parlor, reviewing correspondence, I believe. Would you care for me to summon Her Grace?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Then, “My sisters?”
“Having lessons, Your Grace. Though I believe Miss Holme usually permits them to take some exercise in the hour before luncheon.”
That could be right now. “Does Miss Holme usually take exercise with them?”
“On occasion, Your Grace. Other times, she remains in the schoolroom and plans her lessons for the afternoon and following day.”
A fine film of sweat coated Owen’s back, and his shirt clung to his skin. He should not appear too eager, not where the governess was concerned. “I’ll want Orion saddled once Mr. Leaton and Mr. Sulham and I have concluded for the day.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“That will be all, Vale,” Owen said.
The butler bowed and retreated, leaving Owen alone again in the study.
He glanced at the desk, with its towers of ledgers, letters, and other papers. The wisest, most ducal thing to do would be to sit himself down and apply himself to a serious and studious examination of all the documents.
The need to simply see Miss Holme drummed through him, urging him toward the door. Scenes from yesterday reverberated in his mind and body. The feel of her in his arms. Her hands upon his skin. The taste of her mouth. The assured, instructive words she’d spoken, guiding him in the ways to bring her pleasure. Even now, he shuddered with need.
Miss Holme had pulled the truth from him and revealed her own. She’d said that she wanted him—yet full consent was not possible if she was in his employ.
The thought of forcing her into doing anything churned in his stomach. He’d sooner tear the flesh from his body than make her act against her will.
He ought to ask for her forgiveness. He had to. But that wasn’t enough. She needed to know that he’d put his mother in charge of Miss Holme’s employment to ensure the governess’s security.
His mother had thought it odd, but he’d explained that as the new duke with new demands on his time, he would not be able to devote adequate attention to his sisters’ education. Fortunately, his mother had agreed.
Suddenly, he was in the corridor, and then up the stairs, climbing higher and higher to the schoolroom on the second story. On the way, he passed a few servants, who bowed or curtsied, reminding him that he was the master of this home. The care and protection of all his staff and tenants fell to him, and he’d never abuse that.
He nearly turned around to return to the study. Yet he could simply poke his head into the schoolroom, talk briefly with Miss Holme, offer his apologies, and then go back to the tasks that required his attention.
The door to the schoolroom stood open, revealing a small but sunlit chamber that contained two desks for students, and a larger desk for the instructor. Miss Holme sat at it now, the sunshine turning her light brown hair into a soft wheaten color that gleamed. She wrote in a notebook as she studied a volume, her pen scratching pleasantly as it moved across the pages.
For the briefest moment, he permitted himself the pleasure of watching her, unobserved. She had a habit of rubbing her bottom lip when she contemplated something—the gesture had fascinated him as a boy and enthralled him as a man. He could study her face forever, following the angular lines of her cheekbones, learning the shaped of her eyebrows lowered in thought, skimming his gaze across her wide mouth. His gaze went lower. Her figure was abundant—now he knew what her breasts felt like, as well as the generous span of her hips.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he took several steadying breaths. At this rate, he’d come barreling into the schoolroom with a raging erection, and that went against his purpose for being here.