Page 9 of Hazardous to a Duke’s Heart (Lords of Hazard #1)

J on told himself he was merely giving her more experience with men, tempting her into considering marriage as her father had desired. But he was lying to himself. He’d wanted to do this from the first moment he’d seen her.

He only hoped his skills weren’t too rusty. Because her innocent responses entranced him even more than he’d expected. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He just kept kissing her soft, yielding lips, anchoring her luscious body to his, and reveling in the pleasures of her. He wanted to explore her, to peel off her dull black gown and worship every inch of her body with his mouth. She tasted like plums, sweet and succulent and ripe for the taking.

No taking allowed , he reminded himself.

But with her supple body pressed to his, her breasts practically imprinting themselves on his chest, he wanted desperately to fill his hands with that plump flesh and show her—

He forced his mouth from hers. “We must stop this,” he breathed. It was downright dangerous, especially given how long he’d been without a woman. Besides, he was supposed to be helping her, not thinking of ways to seduce her.

A sigh escaped her. “Yes.” Leaving his arms, she drew back to smooth her gown. “Forgive me, for . . . for—”

“Letting me kiss you so thoroughly? I won’t forgive you for that. Not when I enjoyed it so very much.” He wondered if she was blushing. He couldn’t tell in the dim light, but he could imagine it—the swift pinkening of her cheeks as warmth climbed through her.

Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

Her eyes gleamed up at him. “I enjoyed it, too, I must confess. Thank you for the . . . er . . . lesson, Duke.”

“Come now, given what we’ve been doing, surely you can call me Jon, at least in private.”

She averted her gaze. “We shouldn’t be in private again.”

“It’s unavoidable. Our lessons will be private. And surely, we’ll encounter each other in the house from time to time.”

“Very well . . . Jon,” she said softly. “Under such circumstances, you may call me Tory.” Then she released a shuddery breath that made him want to kiss her once more. “But not around Chloe or your mother. They’ll read too much into it.”

Oh, they definitely would, damn their eyes. “Still, Tory , it was nothing more than a kiss between friends. A lesson, as you say, in kissing.” One he wished he could repeat over and over.

God save him.

“Of course,” she said with an overbright smile. “A very good lesson, so there’s no reason to have another.”

Wasn’t there?

No. He was doomed if he kissed her again. Another kiss and he could never go back to thinking of her as Morris’s daughter, a woman he was supposed to be helping to a better husband.

In any case, he dared not start a dalliance with his sister’s governess. And a dalliance was all it could be until he had his life more settled. Perhaps not even then. Because how could he be sure that once she knew everything about what had happened in France, she wouldn’t hate him for taking her father from her, in more ways than one?

“So, we’re agreed,” he said. “We mustn’t let this happen again.”

“We mustn’t,” she echoed, still not looking at him. “Besides, as pleasurable as your kisses were, they haven’t changed my mind about marriage. I still would rather have my school for artists.”

Pleasurable , she called them. Not irresistible . Not even exciting .

He groaned. So much for tempting her. Although that was how it should be. Better that she be tempted by the man who would convince her to marry. It couldn’t be him, mustn’t be him.

“In any case, my encounters with Mr. Dixon make me fear that many men are incapable of fidelity.” Tory glanced at the curtain. “Thankfully, I think he is long gone now.”

“And if he isn’t,” Jon said in a hard voice, “I might take the opportunity to knock him down a peg.” If only for making her doubt men’s fidelity.

“My word, don’t do anything like that,” she said, wide-eyed in alarm. “It would merely rouse his suspicions about what’s going on between you and me.”

Of course. “Then I will restrain myself. But only because you ask it.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking bemused.

He walked toward the curtain and glanced out, disappointed that no one was around. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to take out his frustrations on Dixon. “It appears the coast is clear.” He offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”

Hesitantly, she took his arm. “Of course.”

After that, there was no more discussion about kisses and Dixon and why she didn’t want to marry.

He fought the urge to pull out his pocket watch and check the time. He ought to make an excuse for why they should leave early. He had to visit the détenu forger, so he could, with any luck, get the codicil work accomplished before meeting with her solicitor.

But he was loath to end their morning. She’d seemed so delighted to be teaching him about sculpting that he hated to spoil her fun, especially after that arse Dixon had said such asinine things about her.

Especially after Jon himself had kissed her so audaciously, knowing he had no right to do so.

Instead, he let her take him through the Townley gallery. She said little at first, obviously still uncertain of her footing with him. But he asked questions, and she soon warmed to her topic.

She pointed out different mediums of sculpting—bronze, marble, and terra-cotta—then expounded on how they would be approached by the artist, and which was most effective for which subject. She talked about themes and techniques and tools.

To his surprise, she proved quite knowledgeable about her craft. From the way his mother had spoken of her interests, Jon had assumed she was more of a dilettante. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

“Do you have a preferred medium for sculpting?” he asked. “Or a preferred subject?”

“I like bronzes, but they’re expensive to create, so I generally have to settle for marble. As for subjects, rather than sculpting the usual busts of famous people, I prefer sculpting ordinary people in motion: a mother cooking, a child with a ball, men boxing . . . things like that.”

Until she’d said men boxing , he’d assumed her subjects were all domestic. Apparently not.

“What about you?” she asked. “What subjects do you think would interest you?”

“I haven’t considered that. Something simple, probably, like an object. A pitcher or a bench. Or perhaps an animal, like a horse.”

She smiled. “I know just the thing. But before we start on a piece, you must first try your hand at sketching.”

He eyed her warily. “Why?”

“So you can sketch your object in preparation for sculpting it. It will give you a sort of blueprint for the piece, an idea of how you wish to proceed. That’s what the sketchbooks are for. Have you ever done any sketching?”

He gave her a hard look. “Once again, remember who served as my tutor. Sketching existing works of art or landscapes is part of what every chap does on the grand tour. Especially in places like the Louvre.” He paused to say acidly, “Or, as the emperor renamed it, ‘ Musée Napoléon. ’ ”

She blinked at him. “You’ve been to the Louvre? How fortunate! I would love to visit it.”

“Not now, you wouldn’t. France is still in too much of an uproar for that. Don’t make the mistake I did, of thinking that the war was over when it was merely in a lull.”

“I couldn’t make that mistake even if I wanted to.” She flashed him a thin smile. “I could never afford to visit France. Besides, no respectable woman travels alone, so I would have to find someone to travel with me.”

An enticing image of him and her on a ship headed to Italy or Egypt or Greece, assailed him before he squelched it. He was never leaving England again. France had destroyed his desire to travel after it cut him off from his family.

Unaware of the ridiculous wanderings of his thoughts, Tory halted in front of a fairly simple sphinx figure, then took the satchel from him with a grin. “This is both an animal of sorts and an object, since Townley claimed it was originally used as a support for a candelabrum.” She pulled out a sketchbook. “You could draw it in preparation for making a copy.”

“I could never create a sculpture that elaborate,” he said truthfully. “I don’t have the skill.” For one thing, the sphinx bore the head of a woman, and he feared he wasn’t ready for sculpting a face. He could barely envision sculpting a table.

Tory looked as if she was about to answer when a shaft of sunlight came through the window and shone right in her face. She stopped and stared, then turned to him with a panicked look. “What time is it?”

He pulled out his pocket watch. “About ten minutes till eleven. Why?”

“Eleven!” Tory said to him, her eyes wide. “We have to go. We have to go now. ”

“Again, why?”

Stuffing the sketchbook into the satchel, she looped the strap over her shoulder and headed for the door. “I’m so sorry, but I promised your mother and Chloe that I would join them to go to the dressmaker’s at 11 AM . Apparently, I need gowns for this . . . introduction into society that you’re insisting on.”

Taking the satchel from her, he strode beside her, annoyed that she was the one putting an end to their lesson and not him after he’d chosen to stay. “I seem to recall your saying something about not allowing interruptions and the like. I suppose you mean to follow that rule only when I wish to interrupt our lessons.”

She must have heard the irritation in his voice, for she shot him an arch look. “Absolutely, at least in cases involving my ‘Season.’ After all, it wasn’t my idea to be presented in polite society. And gowns do not make themselves overnight, you know.”

She had a point, which made him even more disgruntled. “Neither do sculptures,” he grumbled.

Lifting her gaze heavenward, she said, “Oh, for pity’s sake, do not pretend you wanted to be here. Now you can hurry off to do your more important duke business.”

Had he wanted to be here? No. Was he glad he’d come? Yes. Because talking to her was nothing like talking to anyone else. He could be himself around her.

And kissing her . . .

No, kissing her had been a mistake. Not one he regretted, but a mistake, nonetheless.

Why was he even arguing with her about cutting their time short, anyway? He did have a great deal to do, after all. “Very well,” he said evenly, “I shall accompany you home and then head off to do my ‘duke’ business.” My mountains of “duke” business.

The very thought of it made him tired.

“You needn’t accompany me,” she said. “I walk to and from the museum by myself all the—”

“That is not negotiable,” he said firmly. “Your father would turn over in his grave if he thought I’d even consider it.”

They headed for the entrance to the museum in silence. After they got out into the sunshine, however, she said, “You and Papa were close, I take it.”

A sudden thickness clogged Jon’s throat. “At the end, he said he considered me as the son he never had.”

She shot him a sharp glance, the color draining from her face.

“What is it?” he asked.

Jerking her gaze from him, she hastened her steps. “Nothing. He always wanted a son. He never was quite sure what to do with a daughter.”

“Oh, but you and your mother were all he spoke of at the end,” he said gently. “He didn’t know she was dead, of course. I’m sure if he had, he would have been even more insistent that I help you to a good husband.”

A sigh escaped her. “Probably. And of course, he chose you to oversee that endeavor precisely because he saw you as a son, a sort of brother for me, the kind who looks after his sister.”

God, he didn’t feel remotely like Tory’s brother and doubted he ever could. Not when the very nearness of her made him wish he didn’t have to spend his time elsewhere this afternoon. “Then he would be disappointed, since I cannot see you as a sister.”

That apparently startled her into laughing. “I should hope not, given how you kissed me. If you ever kissed Chloe like that—”

“Don’t even think it,” Jon said with a shudder. “Seriously, though, I promise to be more circumspect in the future.”

“Now, I’m disappointed. I like when you’re less than circumspect.” When he shot her a glance, she groaned. “I-I didn’t mean . . .”

“Why, Tory Morris,” he said, “are you flirting with me?”

She gave him a considering look. “Of course. I need the practice if I am to make my grand debut in society and snag a spouse as you and Papa want,” she said bitterly. She swished ahead of him, looking for all the world like a snooty lady of rank. “And who else can I practice upon?”

God help him. If she started honing her feminine wiles on him , she’d have him kneeling at her feet in a matter of days and throwing caution to the winds.

“ Although . . . Given how you three ladies keep protesting my ill manners and my language, I suppose I could use the practice, too.” He flashed her a dark glance. “Not in flirtation, mind you. But in polite society discourse.”

“Excellent idea. I’m a governess, after all. If I can’t help you mend your ways, who can?” She lifted her chin. “We shall start at the first ball we attend. That will give me something to do while I’m waiting around for gentlemen to ask me to dance.”

He seriously doubted she’d be waiting around for dance partners, but she’d find that out for herself soon enough.

She halted two blocks from the house. “And here, Jon, we must part ways, so we don’t enter together.” With a smile, she held out her hand for her satchel, which he gave her grudgingly. “Besides, you have things to do, I’m sure. And if you need a horse or carriage, you can dart back to the mews from here to get one from the sta—From your stables.”

“Very well.” He bowed. “Then I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

Consternation filled her face. “You won’t, actually. Friday is my night off. I spend that evening at the cottage.”

“By yourself?” That seemed odd, but he wasn’t quite sure why it bothered him. Perhaps it was the way she was acting. Bitche had taught him to notice when something was off in a person. Or perhaps he just couldn’t trust anyone after what had happened in France.

“I . . . er . . . have a servant who comes in.” She smiled. “I create my sculptures in my workroom.”

“You don’t have to do your sculptures there,” he said to see how she reacted. “You can bring them to the art room. I’ll make sure you have everything you need to do your work. Just give me a list—”

“Jon,” she said firmly, “I like to work there. I can be alone and uninterrupted. Mrs. Gully gives me dinner, cleans up, and stays with me, while I get a night to myself.” She turned toward the house. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“All right.” He was probably imagining that her night off was odd. Still, after spending so many years alone in a cell with Morris, he couldn’t imagine wanting to be alone in a cottage with a servant. He might feel the weight of the dukedom on his shoulders, but he was still glad to be with his family.

Then again, she wasn’t with her family. She had no family anymore, partly thanks to him.

As she walked away, he called after her, “I’ll watch to make sure you get inside safely.”

“If you insist,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I promise I am perfectly safe in Mayfair, especially dressed like this.”

Then she marched down the street. He watched her go with an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, or that he was even looking forward to tomorrow night when he’d finally get to see her in something other than black.

No. When she was around, she made him feel alive again, which he hadn’t felt in a long time.

All those years at Bitche, he’d had invisible burdens weighing him down. Always having to watch one’s back. Constant worry about Morris’s health. His own fear over what was happening to his family back in England. There’d also been the anger over his and his friends’ unfair situation, the fear that they’d never make it out alive, and the sheer drudgery of days spent trying to keep themselves rested and fed, a nearly impossible task.

Being back in England had lifted that particular weight, but his new situation had given him other burdens. Yet today, when he’d talked to her and witnessed her enthusiasm for her art, when they’d kissed and flirted . . . he’d felt free, if only for a short while.

It made him wish he could marry her. But once he told her about her father, everything about her father, including the fact that Morris had probably been unfaithful to her mother with some young Frenchwoman—she would surely resent him for taking her father away from her and for showing her Morris’s true colors.

No, he mustn’t ever tell her those particular suspicions. That would hurt her deeply, he suspected.

He watched her enter Falcon House. Then he headed for the mews. Time to go see his man Beasley. The sooner he could get that codicil matter worked out for her father’s solicitor, the sooner he could get her married off to someone she liked.

Too bad it wouldn’t be him.