His dark eyes were warm and beseeching. “I couldn’t leave without speaking to you alone. Cecilia, tesoro.” He lifted his hand as if to take hers, but dropped it before they could touch—but she could not let anyone see how this broke her heart.
“The moment I learned I had to leave,” he continued, “I wanted to tell you. But there wasn’t time.”
The longing in his gaze pierced her. “You plan on remaining in London, I imagine.”
“There’s so much that needs attending to.” His jaw tensed.
“Naturally.” She gazed at the house, a handsome structure of warm stone that had been built shortly after the Restoration and sat grandly atop a long, gently rising hill. It was the sort of home that proclaimed the family’s ancient lineage, the care and continuation of which would always be attended to by its lord. Which included preservation of the bloodline through the getting of legitimate heirs. Precisely the reminder embodied by the farthing Owen’s father had given him.
She was a governess, while he, the duke, existed in the highest echelon, swathed in power and significance. What was she to him?
Transitory. She was transitory—there was no alternative.
“I’ve heard London is delightful during the Season,” she said.
“I wish it all to the Devil,” he said fiercely. “If you aren’t there, it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”
Her heart clutched. “What you and I have—it’s fleeting.”
“I know,” he said broodingly.
More than anything, she wanted to close the distance between them. Her palm throbbed with the need to feel his cheek, and she craved the taste of him on her lips.
She remained precisely where she stood. A tall hedge served to shield them from his mother, but someone in the house might see.
“Go to London,” she said. “Live your ducal life and surround yourself with the kind of people you are meant to. We’ve known from the beginning that this was finite.”
He looked agonized, his expression tight as he gave the barest of nods. Which fractured her heart, just a little, because even he, a duke, could not fight several centuries of tradition and responsibility.
She took a step toward the house, her every movement away from him a source of agony. As was proper, she curtsied again, showing respect to her better. “Have a safe journey, Your Grace.”
Chapter Seven
Afternoon lessons concluded, Cecilia headed along the corridor leading to the narrow servants’ stairs. Hopefully, the glorious early summer weather would lift her mood, though given the way her humor had steadily plummeted in the past week since Owen had gone to London, the chances of anything stirring her emotions was close to nil.
She passed a housemaid and tried to smile at the girl. It was important to maintain some semblance of good cheer for everyone at Tarrington House, yet the cost was far higher than she would have believed.
Missing him was a palpable ache, yet it was the scope of the loss that surprised her the most. She walked Tarrington House straining to hear his footsteps. On her solitary rambles, she drifted past the stables, hoping to see Orion in his stall as proof that Owen had returned.
Never with other lovers had she wished for more, or yearned for what might have been. Yet with Owen gone—likely flirting with dewy, genteel debutantes—pain took up residence in the hollow of her chest.
There were no letters, naturally. He couldn’t write to her without arousing suspicion, and she feared what such correspondence might contain. Either he missed her as much as she longed for him, or in the whirl and excitement of the Season, he’d forgotten her.
He’d sent letters to his mother and sisters—she’d known because Ellie and Maria sometimes chatted about him as they’d come in for their lessons—and once, when Cecilia had admired Maria’s new coral necklace, the girl had said it was a gift from her brother. For Ellie, he’d sent a book called The Tower of London’s Most Blood-Curdling Executions, which had made Cecilia smile. He knew his sisters well.
She’d been unable to question any of his family for information about Owen, partly out of fear that they might grow suspicious of her interest in him, and partly because she didn’t want to know if he was having a grand time, whirling from private ball to theatre box to dinner party. She didn’t want to learn that young and eligible girls were paraded in front of the new duke, hoping to secure his attention.
Continuing down the empty hallway, her steps slowed as her body turned leaden. It was a relief not to have to pretend her entire being was suffused with longing, if only for a few minutes.
She straightened her slumped shoulders when quick, heavy footsteps sounded behind her. Thinking that it was one of the footmen dispatched on an errand, she manufactured another smile and turned to offer a greeting.
Words shriveled and her face froze when she found herself looking at Owen.
He was windblown, slightly disheveled. Tiny flecks of dirt marred his breeches and boots, and his neckcloth was rumpled. Dimly, she recognized that the state of his person revealed that he’d just come from the road—he hadn’t been in his carriage, but on horseback.
She could only stare, riveted by the sight of him. God only knew what expression she wore, but he looked fevered, almost wild.
“I need more lessons,” he said gruffly.
She took a step closer. Her hand rose of its own volition, heeding the unrelenting call of her body to touch him.
He reached for her, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. This small touch sent pure heat pouring through her.
Her gaze fell on the door to a diminutive closet, then back to him. “In there.”
In an instant, he’d opened the closet door and stepped inside, tugging her in after him. He had the presence of mind to shut the door softly behind them.
The closet’s darkness enfolded her, turning her sightless, but she barely noticed as Owen pulled her against him. Their lips found each other, desperate with desire. She moaned into his mouth as his hands roamed over her body, cupping her arse, molding to her breasts, devouring her by touch. She caressed him, skimming her palms across his wide shoulders and down the sinewy length of his arms. The heat of him scorched her and she let herself be burned after an interminable week without him.
A low cabinet bumped against her back, and suddenly he lifted her, sitting her atop it.
He stood between her open legs as they kissed and stroked each other. When he rocked his hips into hers, despite the barrier of his breeches and her skirts, she felt the ridge of his arousal sliding snugly against her quim.
He gathered her skirts, gliding up her legs, past her knees and thighs. She bit down a cry when he glossed through her outer lips before swirling deeper, where she was wet and aching, and when he plunged two fingers into her, she clamped her jaws shut to keep from wailing with pleasure. His thumb moved back and forth over her clitoris as he pumped into her. His jacket’s woolen cuff brushed against her thighs, and the feel of the fabric only heightened urgency.
Her climax struck hard and fast, and she bowed up with the force of it. Her throat was aflame from stifling her sounds of release.
He moved her, pulling her to her feet but turning her so that her hands braced against the top of the cabinet.
“Yes?” he growled as he bared her.