And as for whether or not she would make a joyless bedmate? Though she carried herself with the martial severity of a governess, he did not think he was mistaken in suspecting passion lurked beneath her prim exterior. He had seen the stirrings of feminine interest in her gaze. The attraction between them—electric, even from opposite ends of a library—was too strong to be one-sided.
She ceased typing once more, gathered a sheaf of papers together, and rose, moving toward him. He stood in deference and watched her gliding toward him. Her hair was styled harshly, the rich gold locks parted down the middle and captured in a simple chignon. Her ears were unadorned.
He wondered how old she was and guessed she could not be above thirty. He watched her approach without bothering to hide his interest. She moved with a sweet elegance that belied the severity of the rest of her. Unfortunately for her, the loose-fitted bodice did nothing to hide the ample charms hiding beneath her dour layers. Her breasts were large and luscious.
He was briefly tortured with the thought of how delicious it would be to seduce her out of her clothes. The line of jet buttons on her bodice begged to be undone. He could slide his fingers into the silken knot of her chignon, hold her still while he ravished her mouth with kisses. Lift her atop this desk…
She held out another neatly typed document, slicing through his fantasy. “This report is completed, Your Grace.”
Her formality irked. Partly because her scent washed over him then, edging into his senses, chasing all reason. Simple, clean soap. And something else, something sweetly floral and exotic. Orris root, he thought with some surprise. Such a perfume hardly seemed the sort of expense a practical-minded woman like Miss Hilgrove would make.
He accepted the report, seeing that it was an account of a recent failed bombing in Trafalgar Square. “You may call me Westmorland, Miss Hilgrove.”
“As Your Grace wishes.” She turned away.
He was reluctant to allow her to resume the physical distance between them, although he knew getting her to linger in proximity was a mistake. “Miss Hilgrove?”
She stopped, turning back to him, her expression guarded. “Your Grace?”
“Westmorland,” he corrected, not certain why the distinction should suddenly seem so important to him.
“The lack of formality implies a familiarity with Your Grace that I have no wish for your household to suppose I possess.” Her lips compressed, her tone one of gentle rebuke. “My reputation is of utmost importance to me, as the proprietress of my school.”
She was right, of course. But her refusal to call him simply by his title still nettled.
“My household is not currently present, madam. We are alone.” The mere act of pointing out how alone they were—in a remote recess of the cavernous townhome which had been built as a testament to the ego of the fourth duke in the middle of last century—sent another bolt of lust straight to his cock.
“It is not proper,” she countered.
His hand clenched on the report. The delicious scent of her seemed to surround him, taunting. “It is proper if there is no one else about to hear. If we are to be working together for the next week, it stands to reason that you may as well endeavor to please me. Do you not think, Miss Hilgrove? After all, you do want to earn my endorsement of your school…”
Devil take him, he was being an utter scoundrel, blackmailing her to call him Westmorland. She seemed to bring out the worst in him, along with a raging, frustrating desire that would have to go unanswered.
Her gaze searched his, her shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly. “Frankly, Your Grace, whether or not you are pleased is no concern of mine. I have been tasked with providing error-free reports. That is all.”
Stubborn wench. He should allow her to flee back to the safety awaiting her at her typewriter by the window. And yet, he could not.
“You have been tasked with being my typist,” he corrected. “Because your school provided me with three unacceptable neophytes and you are desperate to preserve your reputation so that you may continue to place your ladies in respectable positions. Is that not true, my dear?”
Color flared to life in her cheeks. “You make yourself too familiar, Your Grace.”
“I could make myself more familiar than that, Miss Hilgrove,” he promised before he could think better of the words.
Her lips parted. “How dare you, sirrah?”
The urge to taste those lips seized him. To kiss her into melting submission. He dropped the report to the desk. Loose sheets fluttered, some catching on the air and floating to the floor. He ignored them.
“I dare as I wish.” He skirted the desk, moving nearer to her. “I dare as it pleases me.”
There again was that word. Please, pleasure, pleases. He imagined it leaving her rosebud-pink lips as a seductive entreaty. Please, Westmorland. And he could almost hear it in the air, the throaty sound of this buttoned-up perfectionist coming undone.
How glorious her surrender would be, if only he could have it.
Her eyes were wide as she watched his approach, but she did not flee. “Your Grace, you presume far too much.”
He stopped, leaving a scant distance between their bodies. Her hideous dress was nothing but a small impediment. He could imagine what lay beneath it, the pale perfection and generous curves.
Still, he did not touch her. He would not, even as desire thrummed heady and strong through his veins. Even as the air simmered with carnal intent.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Do you know what I think, my dear? I think you like my presumption. I think it excites you, even.”
Her eyes widened, and he took note of the little flecks of color hiding within their blue depths, the violets and grays, along with the size of her pupils. “Your Grace, I do not know
