The Governess Game (Girl Meets Duke #2)(32)

Chapter Fourteen


Chase kissed her with the desperate fervor of a man going to the gallows. Grappling and moaning, pressing her into the wall at her back.

He palmed her breast—the warm, gentle swell he’d felt melting against him last night. She’d made him so damned hard then, and his cock seemed determined to outdo itself today. Her leg wrapped over his. He kissed his way down her neck—her impossibly delicate, lovely neck—until the collar of her jacket halted his progress.

He felt a twinge of conscience. Most people would think he didn’t have a conscience, but he did. It surfaced about as often as the lost island of Atlantis, but he did possess one, down deep.

And it was bellowing at him now.

Then she arched her back, pressing her breast into his hand, and made a soft, pleading moan.

Conscience? What conscience? Lock the prison bars and throw away the key.

God, this place did something to him.

The infamy of centuries swirled in the air. Imprisoned ghosts rattled their chains. He felt the echoes of suffering ages past. The weight of guilt. Crushing regret. Hunger, and yearning, and loneliness. All the same miserable emotions that held him captive, late at night.

Chase had spent years locked away inside himself. And all too often, holding a woman in his arms felt like his only escape.

But this . . . this was different. Alexandra was different. This wasn’t a moment he’d be wishing to erase from his memory later. On the contrary. He yearned to etch the shape of their entwined bodies into the stone, amid all the names and dates and Bible verses, and leave a mark that time couldn’t erase.

What was it she’d said? We all want to be remembered? Well, Chase wouldn’t be inventing a steam-powered phaeton. No monument would be raised to his heroics, and he’d vowed not to father any children of his own. But even if all that survived of him was this embrace, that would be a legacy he could reflect on with pride.

On this site in 1817, Mr. Chase Reynaud gave Miss Alexandra Mountbatten the most passionate, erotic, bone-melting kiss in recorded history.

As he kissed her deeply, he lifted her, parting her slippers from the floor and pinning her hips to the wall with his own. She stared at him, her lungs working for breath, eyes glassy. He reached between their bodies, finding the buttons of her jacket.

He began to undo them, slipping them free one by one. The task was easily done, and he knew the reason why. She had only the one jacket, and she’d worn it so many times that the buttonholes had gone slack. This tangible evidence of her poverty was convenient, he supposed. Many men of his station would view it as permission to make free with her favors. However, it didn’t strike Chase that way. As he slipped the final button loose, he felt resentful and protective.

She deserved better. A young, unmarried woman of her class lived with the specter of danger, and a threadbare jacket made for a pitiful shield. He wanted to peel the garment from her, cast it aside, and offer himself instead.

Chase wasn’t good for much, but he could stand between her body and the world.

He cupped her breast through the light muslin of her day dress. He found her nipple and rolled it beneath his thumb, teasing it to a hard peak.

“Chase.”

The pleading note in her voice made him wild. He stole inside her open jacket, shoving aside the virginal white fichu, then worked his fingers beneath the muslin of her frock. He knew the layers of a woman’s clothing as well as he knew his own. Better than his own, truthfully, since he had a valet to assist with his own attire.

He eased one of her frock’s sleeves down over her shoulder. The strategy gave him just enough space to reach beneath her stiffened stays and linen shift. With a deft, well-practiced motion, he lifted her breast, liberating it from her stays.

Her eyes fluttered closed. She bit her lip, sealing in a gasp. He would have liked to hear her moan and cry out with pleasure. But there was something about the silence that was just as erotic, if not more.

Breathless, he cradled the soft weight in his hand. Caressing, treasuring. She was so small and slightly built. Her heartbeat thrummed like a bird’s beneath his palm.

Holding her breast was like holding her heart in his hand.

And that scared the life out of him.

Guarding her body was just basic masculine impulse. But he couldn’t take responsibility for her heart.

He broke the embrace with uncharacteristic brusqueness, setting her back on her feet. A bewildered look moved over her face as he rearranged her clothing. He regretted causing her any confusion or disappointment, but this time he’d gone much too far.

More accurately, he’d drawn too close.

He cleared his throat. “Alexandra, this . . .”

“Never happened,” she finished. “I know.” Her lips curved in a smile, but her eyes weren’t in on the joke. She was hurt.

He felt small enough to disappear into a crack in the wall. Well, she couldn’t be surprised. She had no illusions about the sort of man he was. Not when it came to women, anyway. She’d had ample evidence of his rakish history from the start.

Apparently, it was Chase who needed the reminder.

Very well, then. He would go out on the town, find a sophisticated, beautiful, willing woman, bring her back to his retreat, put that new mattress to the test—and rid himself of the desire to paw at the governess like a slavering hound.

And he would do it tonight.