What the Duke Wants(19)

No, a virgin young lady.

Who wasn’t noble. Who was his governess.

Well, not his governess, his ward’s governess… but that made her under his employ and technically his governess as well… it got confusing after that. So he poured himself a glass of brandy, relishing the fiery trail it blazed to his stomach. He drained the glass, and promptly poured himself another.

As he sipped, he tried to think of a way that would let Carlotta know he was, well, what was he exactly? Sorry? No. He damn well wasn’t sorry about kissing her. That was quite possibly the most perfect kiss he’d experienced in some time. And he’d just insult her further if he said he was sorry. She’d take it all wrong. Being female, she’d think he regretted her. Which he did, but not in the way she thought. Or would think… or…


“What in the bloody hell happened to all the brandy?” he said to no one in particular, because he was alone.

A warm sensation began tingling in his toes, spreading to his other limbs before settling with its center in his belly. As a few minutes passed and he stared into the fire, he began to feel a bit more, able. Able to leave, that is. His study. He glanced about the room. Yes. That’s where he was. His stomach rumbled, and he tried to remember when he had last eaten. Noon? No…

“Hang it all.” He spoke to the fire. “Bloody governess. Coming in, waltzing in and stealing my… thoughts. Yes! My thoughts. I never was one to be so… unthoughtful,” he grumbled. “You know—” Again, he spoke to no one in particular. “—I don’t have to apologize! I’m a duke! I bloody well take what I want! I wanted a kiss. I took it. There. That’s the end. If I want another kiss, I’ll simply… well…” He realized with a wave of annoyance at himself, that though quite deep in his cups at this point, he was not that drunk to steal another kiss. Or take another kiss, or whatever had happened. At this point, it was all growing quite fuzzy. Perhaps if he were to eat dinner?

He glanced to the door then remembered he was trapped. Dinner. If he were to go to dinner, he’d see the governess. Carlotta, Miss Lottie… Miss Carlottie… He shook his head. Blast and Damn.

He couldn’t bloody well starve.

It was his house after all; he had to leave his study sometime. With a fortifying breath and summoning the courage only a blasphemous amount of brandy could incite, he barreled through the door.

“Ah-ha!” He thrust his fist in the air in victory. He glanced back to the door. “You have been bested!” He pointed at the offending portal.

Squaring his shoulders, he pulled his coat up, and smoothed his shirt, tightening his cravat. With purpose and victory brimming his chest, he strode to the dining room… finding it empty. Of both food and people.

“Bloody—”

“Your grace?”

“Murray!” Charles jumped slightly, casting his butler a severely annoyed expression.

“Your grace, are you quite all right?” Murray asked. His tone was monotone but his grey eyes narrowed slightly, as if concerned.

It was possibly the first hint at emotion he’d ever seen from his butler.

And enough to cause him to lose his train of thought.

Perhaps that was simply the brandy, however.

“Your grace… are you… well?” Murray drew out the words, his lean body leaning forward as he studied Charles.

“Of course. I was just wondering when we planned on dining.”

“Your grace, my sincerest apologies… dinner was served quite a while ago. Mrs. Pott searched for you, but when she was unable to locate you, assumed you had gone out, your grace.” Murray nodded nervously.

Charles glanced down to the polished floor. He did have a faint memory of Mrs. Pott knocking on his study door. Why had he not said anything?

Ah yes, the governess. He was hiding.

No, not hiding.

He was thinking. Yes. That sounded ever so much better than hiding.

Which he wasn’t.

“Your grace?”

Murray probably thought he’d lost all his sense. “Yes, well… please have Cook send a tray to my chamber.”

“Of course, your grace.” Murray bowed and departed to the kitchens.

Charles strode out into the hall. “That worked well,” he mumbled to himself.

“What worked well, your grace?”

“Ack! Berta, Roberty. Whatever your name is!” He calmed his racing heart and adjusted his coat, trying to at least appear in control of himself.

“Berty. My name is Berty,” the little girl said a wry tone.

“Where… no… what are you doing?” Charles’ nerves were already shot, if one more person startled him, he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

The little girl shrugged.

“Where are your sisters?” Charles asked, glancing up and down the hall quickly.

“In their room.” She leaned forward. “They’re… wait. I can’t tell you.” She gasped and covered her mouth.

“Tell me what…?” Charles leaned down to Berty’s eye level.

“Well if I told you then it would be a disaster. You’d ruin it!”

“I’d ruin it? How so?” Curiosity mixed with severe apprehension clenched in his chest.

“Because well… it just would.”