Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons #4)(22)

Ahh, you are not as indifferent toward me as you’d have me believe, sweet. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “And you may be assured, Miss Marshville, you would want it.” He trailed his eyes over her face. “I would kiss the proper from you. I would kiss the frown from your lips. Kiss you until your knees knocked together with weakness and your hands,” he snared one of those hands in his and raised the trembling fingers to his lips. Her mouth quivered, as he kissed the tip of her middle three fingers. “And your hands would not be capable of anything but twining about my neck, with your desire for more.” His gaze fell to the creamy white skin of her neck, to where the pulse throbbed wildly there.

“Y-you are wrong,” she whispered.

Her hand still delicately clasped in his, Jonathan moved the tip of her fingers to that hard, pounding just below her jawbone. “Perhaps I am. But I don’t think so.” He released her suddenly and she sat there at the edge of her seat blinking wildly up at him.

And then she scrambled backward, so quickly her back slammed into the velvet squabs. She directed her attention to the window, and promptly dismissed him. As all good governesses would do.

Jonathan continued to scrutinize Miss Marshville. He’d never met a more spirited and biting lady. In one moment she begged him with her eyes, and the next those same green pools snapped with fury. “It occurs to me that I do not know your name Miss Marshville.”

She faced him. “My name is Juliet.”

Ahh, sweet Juliet. One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun? Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. Never a more apt name for a beauty such as she. He grimaced. By God, next thing he’d be dashing his own horrible lines of poetry to paper remarking on the dusting of freckles along her nose or the sparkle in her…

He fought back another groan.

The rattle of the carriage wheels over the cobblestone roads filled the quiet. “I should mention an important detail, Juliet. Going forward, you’ll be referred to as Miss Marsh.”

“Why is that?” she eyed him the way she might a pickpocket with his hand stuffed in her reticule.

He hooked his ankle over his knee. “Because I prefer it, Juliet.”

Her mouth tightened. “It’s hardly proper for you to refer to me by my Christian name, my lord.”

“No, I imagine it’s not, but I’ve never been accused of being proper, and I insist you call me Sin. Or Sinclair.” Though Sin far suited his unholy, sinful desire to lay claim to the fiery temptress.

She bristled. “I’ll not call you Sinclair.” Pause. “And I assuredly will not call you Sin.”

“Jonathan, then. My name is Jonathan.” Suddenly, it was very important that she call him by his Christian name. He didn’t know why it mattered, only that it did, and in a world where he was Sin to everyone, he wanted to be Jonathan to her. “At least when we meet in private, Juliet,” he demanded when she opened her mouth to protest. “I insist.” He employed the hard edge that brooked no room for argument.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and he studied the distracted movement he’d come to learn indicated the young lady’s uncertainty. “To what purpose will we meet in private, my… Jonathan?”

My Jonathan. Yes, that was far preferable to Sin, Sinclair, or Jonathan alone. “Why, to discuss my sisters, of course. I take a very involved role in their rearing.” Or he did now since hiring the delightful Juliet.

“Do you? How very fortunate for your sisters, then,” she spoke with such droll humor, he lowered his eyebrows.

He carried on as though she’d not uttered her sarcastic response. “We’ll meet weekly.” Only after the words left his mouth did he wish he’d taken a moment to think it through. Wished he’d insisted upon more frequent meetings. Jonathan rested a hand on his thigh. “It did not escape my notice that we failed to discuss the additional terms of your service, Juliet. That strikes me as rather odd.”

Her fingers plucked at the fabric of the skirts. “I want my cottage back, my… Jonathan,” she said bluntly. “Beyond that I’ve not thought about much.”

A momentary twinge tugged at his conscience. He brushed it aside, reminding himself that if he’d merely returned Marshville’s property as the young lady had hoped, then some other lord on the winning end of the baronet’s next losing hand would find himself the proud owner of Rosecliff Cottage.

As it stood now, if the young lady, should carry out her responsibilities, Juliet would be the sole owner of the modest cottage Jonathan hadn’t even bothered to yet visit.

He would not feel bad. He would not feel bad. Jonathan met her gaze squarely. “Your Sundays are your own, Juliet. Your chambers will be on the same floor as your charges.” Not just for entirely selfish reasons, either, but any distance between her and his sisters would be calamitous as evidenced by one or two of the previous governesses. “You’ll take private meals with the family.” That was for selfish reasons. “You’re expected to keep hours from seven until five in the evening. Your salary will be two hundred pounds a year, and you’ll have the freedom to move around the house.” Also for selfish reasons.

She made a small choking sound. “Two hundred pounds?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I imagine you must have questions of your own? Requests you would put to me.” In spite of his generous employment terms, the time he’d spent with women of varying ages—and he’d spent a good deal of time with women of varying ages—Jonathan had learned of an inherent greed. Even his sisters, who he’d duel the devil himself for, were oftentimes driven by ulterior motives. He sat there and could all but see the wheels of Juliet’s clever mind turning.