The Governess Game (Girl Meets Duke #2)(53)

“That was sheer stubbornness. That cursed doll wasn’t going to die for good. Not if I could help it.”

She smiled a little. “I know. And that’s why I believe you’ll make the girls an excellent guardian. Because you’ve made mistakes and you’ve learned from them.”

“I’ve learned, yes. I’ve learned that I’m not to be trusted with that kind of responsibility.”

“Your only true responsibility is to love them. Everything else will fall in line.”

She ticked off a sequence of statements on her fingers. No sugar lumps or liquor decanters about, he supposed.

“You care for them. They worship you. Financially, you can provide for their every need. They’re bound to break things, and you’ll get to hammer them back together.” She was down to her little finger. “Without them in your life, you’ll be alone.”

That last one twisted like a dagger in his chest.

She held out her hand, fingers extended. “Look, Chase. It’s as plain as the fingers on my hand. All you have to do is reach out to them. And then hold tight.”

She didn’t understand. Chase didn’t doubt his capacity to love. Rosamund and Daisy had captured his heart within hours of entering his life. The problem was, he couldn’t imagine ever ceasing to despise himself—and that was his downfall, again and again. Self-loathing was what drove him to the distraction of a woman’s embrace. Not boredom, not lust. Concentrating on a woman’s pleasure was the only way he could forget his shame. When a lover wrapped her legs tight about his waist, when he heard a husky, feminine voice begging him for more . . . for a few blessed minutes, he felt something other than worthless.

And then afterward . . .

Well, was there a word for being less than worthless? Because the moment lovemaking was over, he felt that.

No matter how many times he vowed that he’d stop—telling himself he ought to be man enough to shoulder his well-deserved guilt, rather than go burying it in the depths of a lady’s bountiful cleavage—inevitably, he caved to temptation. The nights were too dark and quiet. Memories took advantage of the emptiness, rushing in to fill the void the way rainwater collected in a ditch.

The way blood filled the cracks between cobblestones.

The way handfuls of dirt filled a grave.

The clubs, the parties, the brandy . . . they helped, but they helped only so much. Perhaps he’d manage a week of celibacy, sometimes two. But in the end, he always gave in.

How the devil could he vow to take care of these girls? He couldn’t even keep the promises he made to himself.

“Consider the rumors that swirl about me,” he said. “How can I raise those girls in any respectable fashion when people believe me a murderer? You heard the duke. There’s no denying that his death worked to my benefit.”

“Very well,” she said. “A good part of the ton doubts your character. Perhaps they even have reason to do so. But by withdrawing from polite society you’ve made certain they don’t have any evidence to the contrary. Seeing you dote on a pair of young girls, and watching you encourage and protect them as they grow into remarkable young women . . . that would probably cause some to reconsider their opinions. Don’t you think?”

Everything she said was so relentlessly logical. Of course it was. She was always sensible.

He hadn’t realized how badly he’d been craving this. Someone who didn’t have any wish to accuse him or forgive him, but to sit down and discuss the facts of the matter in a calm, rational way.

“If you give them the chance, people will see that you’ve changed, Chase. You will see that you’ve changed.”

God. He wanted so desperately to believe her, and he almost could—here, now, staring deep into her lovely eyes and feeling her looking deep into his. He trusted her opinion of his character more than he trusted his own. She made him want to be better. She always had, from the first.

But when she left him, he’d be lost all over again. It would never work, unless . . .

Unless he didn’t let her go.

Keep her close. Make her stay. Make her yours.

He dragged her into his arms and kissed her.

There was no more contemplation in his mind. No more logic or reason or sense. Only a wild impulse that roared to life inside him and pounded in his blood like an ancient drum. One his cave-dwelling ancestors likely pounded in some torch-lit mating ceremony followed by a buffet of raw antelope. Each beat resonated as a primal urge.

Want. Need. Take. Claim. Mine.

He laid her back against the divan, trailing a path of hot, openmouthed kisses down her neck, grazing her shoulder with his teeth. He hiked her nightclothes with one hand, pushing them up to her thighs and reaching beneath to find the heart of her. The place where she was wild and needing and uncivilized, too.

After parting her with a light, sweeping touch, he pushed two fingers into her heat. She wasn’t as ready as he typically made her with caresses of both hands and tongue. But he had no patience for finesse tonight. He probed deep, relishing the tight grip of her sex and the gasps he wrenched from her throat.

He reached down to unbutton his trouser falls and free his cock. He slid the thick, hard shaft up and down her sex, grinding and rubbing against her until she was wet for him. Then he backed off to pump his hand over his length, slicking himself with her essence. With his hips, he spread her thighs wide and positioned the head of his cock at her entrance.