The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(48)

“You always were too proud for your own good, Regina Spark.” The hint of tobacco on his lips, mingled with brandy, whispered across her cheek.

Her heart quickened. It was the first time he’d ever referred to her by the whole of her name. And done so with his breath wafting over her cheeks, fanning a loose curl at her temple, which wrought chaos on her resolve. The masculine scents that clung to him were not unfamiliar in the gaming hell she’d called home, but on this man, they enticed. Tempted.

She breathed in deep.

How many times did I dream of being this close to him?

He lowered his brow, closer, closer still, erasing the space between them, sucking the air from the room so that only the two of them existed.

His gaze dipped to her mouth, lingering there, and the world stopped spinning.

Reggie didn’t blink for endless seconds.

He is going to kiss me . . .

A virtuous miss might have mistaken the passion darkening his irises. But Reggie was no innocent and felt the pull of that desire for what it was, and after years of being invisible, she reveled in that hungering.

She, who’d vowed to never again suffer through the unpleasantness of any embrace, wanted to know this man’s kiss. Because with an intuition as ancient as Eve born of the first taste of sin, Reggie knew. Knew that being in Broderick’s arms, surrendering her mouth to his, and opening herself to him, would be nothing like the sloppy embraces she’d made herself suffer through with Lord Oliver. That it would be . . . magic.

She tipped her head back to receive that kiss.

The powerful muscles of his neck moved hard under the force of his swallow.

“You are a reflection of me and my family, and of our wealth.” As he spoke, Broderick’s lips nearly brushed hers, and yet that steely pronouncement effectively doused her ardor and snapped her back to the harsh, ugly reality of this exchange. He worked his gaze over her drab day dress, and she went hot with mortification. “Given that you will attend formal gatherings, your garments must reflect your role as Gertrude’s companion, Miss Spark.”

Broderick stepped back.

Reggie. Her chest constricted. She’d spent so many years hating his use of that hideous male moniker, only to now find, as he failed to utter it, how very much she missed it. Nay, she missed the ease that had once existed between them, and she felt a sudden urge to cry at the loss of his friendship.

“No one will say the Killorans are impoverished.” He leveled her with a stare. “And no one will speak ill of anyone in my employ.” She winced. “When your wardrobe is readied, you’ll begin your services.” Just any member of his staff was what she was. It was what she’d always been.

But then, her ears pricked up at that latter part.

“When my wardrobe is ready?” she asked cautiously.

He inclined his head. “Until then, Cleo and Ophelia will serve as Gertrude’s companions.”

Her mind raced.

She’d been granted a stay of execution.

Albeit a slight one.

Drifting past him, she wandered to the fabrics on display throughout the room. She dusted her fingertips over a bolt of sapphire silk. “Very well,” she grudgingly conceded. “But I do not wish for anything . . .” He drifted closer. “Anything that will earn me any notice,” she said quickly.

“Ah,” he said as he captured a lone red curl that had tumbled to her shoulder. He rubbed that strand between his fingertips in a possessive hold. “An impossible feat for a spitfire with hair the shade of sunset.”

Her chest quickened. With just the slightest touch and but a handful of words that contained only the faintest hint of seduction, Broderick was able to cause this weakening in her. But then, that was the potency of Broderick Killoran. He possessed an effortless ability to bewitch. Why, even now, he toyed with her. Just as another man had. Lord Oliver, who’d destroyed part of her.

You’ve been seduced by one man . . . do not allow yourself to be a fool for yet another who only seeks to manipulate you.

Reggie slipped her hair from his grip. “I don’t need more than two dresses. I’m a companion, Broderick. Dull colors, drab garments, are suitable attire for a servant.” And safest. “Not . . .”—Reggie held aloft lavender satin best reserved for a debutante—“cheerful, extravagant garments.”

He clasped his hands behind him and wandered over. “You know so very much about serving as a companion.”

Largely a statement, there was still the hint of a question there. Her mouth went dry, and she struggled to throw some flippant reply back . . . that would not come. “I . . .”

For . . . she did know something about it. Too much. And what would this man who’d built an empire from nothing but his hands and hard efforts think of all the failures that marked her soul? So instead, she offered him nothing but a lie. “Don’t be s-silly.”

Their exchange highlighted the fact that for all they’d shared over the years, most of who they each truly were remained a mystery to the other. They’d taken pains to hide away their pasts and focus on this world they lived within now.

Broderick stopped on the opposite side of the upholstered Chippendale piece.

“No,” she finally said, letting the fabric fall back to the scalloped edge of the sofa. “I don’t.” She’d never been a companion, but rather a governess. The slightest distinction kept that from being a full lie.