The look she directed at him was quelling. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Her mocking emphasis upon his title was not lost on him as she spun about and left, slamming the library door closed behind her. It snapped shut with a particularly deafening slam of finality.
He flinched.
Then turned back to Miss Hilgrove, who was in the act of frantically restoring her buttons. Her countenance was pale save for pink splotches marking her high cheekbones. “I must beg your forgiveness for the rashness of my action, Miss Hilgrove. What I have done is unpardonable. However, rest assured that I will speak to my sister. I promise you that nothing she witnessed here will ever be repeated. You need not fear word of this will travel or have a negative impact upon your school…”
His words trailed off as he realized how very hollow and ineffectual they sounded, even to his own ears. He had just compromised a female in his employ. Wickedly, desperately so. And his lady sister had caught him in the midst of his depravity.
He inhaled slowly and then exhaled on a long sigh, trying to determine what in the hell he ought to do next. Surely, he could not marry Miss Hilgrove. He had no wish to take any woman to wife. His parents’ union had been rooted in enmity, finished in hatred, and he had no wish to repeat the painful process himself. Solitude and bachelorhood suited him.
Miss Hilgrove continued furiously fastening the line of buttons marching up her otherwise unadorned black bodice. “You need say nothing more, Your Grace. I trust Lady Calliope implicitly. It is you whom I distrust.”
Her words cut him. For they were right. And he could not blame her. He did not trust himself when it came to this intriguing, vexing, delicious woman.
He reached for her, thinking to offer aid, but she shrank away from his touch as if he were an asp about to strike. He felt like the world’s greatest ass, and well he should, he supposed.
“Miss Hilgrove, I do not fault you for your lack of confidence in my word. I cannot apologize enough for my actions this morning, which were unbecoming of a gentleman.”
“Ah,” she said bitterly, fastening the final button at her throat. “But you warned me you are not precisely a gentleman, did you not? The fault is mine for not heeding your warning. For not possessing the strength of mind to resist you. It would seem I am every bit as much to blame in this folly as you are.”
Her words were cutting, finding their mark. “I will send for my personal carriage to see you home, Miss Hilgrove. After what has just transpired, I have no wish to keep you here. And neither, I think, would it be wise for you to return.”
He hated himself as he said the words. Good God, the notion of never seeing her again loomed like a horrible eternity. Such a future seemed untenable. Unacceptable. Now that he had kissed her, how could he possibly bear to let her go?
You must, said his conscience.
Make her your mistress, said the devil in him, though he knew Miss Isabella Hilgrove and Roberta were leagues apart. Roberta was a widow; she had no wish to marry again, having suffered a horrible marriage herself. She wanted unencumbered pleasure. Miss Hilgrove was the sort of woman a vicar would be pleased to make his bride.
But what a sin it would be, all that hidden passion, belonging to another…
He wrenched himself from his thoughts.
She sank to the floor, her somber skirts fluttering around her, as she began to gather her hair pins. “Pray, do not send for your carriage, Your Grace. You have already done damage enough. If I am delivered to my residence in the grand carriage of the Duke of Westmorland, my neighbors will take note. I cannot afford the slightest hint of scandal to shadow my reputation or that of my school’s. If I am believed to be an immoral woman, one who is fast and is easily swayed by the practiced seductions of a handsome man, what will be said of the ladies entrusting their futures into my care?”
Anger radiated in her voice, and he did not begrudge her that ire. Indeed, he deserved it and more. Still, he felt compelled to offer his assistance in gathering her hair pins. After all, he was the one responsible for their pell-mell scattering all about, like seeds on the wind. He sank to his haunches and began collecting them.
“I will give you the endorsement, Miss Hilgrove,” he told her. “It will appear in the Times forthwith. Of that, you need have no fear.”
She moved with haste, piling pins into her waiting palm. “The endorsement of an arrogant scoundrel hardly seems worth the price I have had to pay.”
Her clipped observation stung. He felt every inch the scoundrel she accused him of being. Except, he could not allow her to deny she had enjoyed his kiss. His pride and his sense of honor were at war.
“You will pay no price,” he ground out as he retrieved a hair pin. “I have already reassured you that no one will ever be the wiser about this ill-advised interlude. You will have your endorsement. And I would remind you that you enjoyed yourself well enough in my arms.”
Christ, could he sound like any more of a rotter?
“Practiced seductions, as I said.” Her voice was frosty, her eyes hard as shards of ice as they met his. She rose with the air of a queen, apparently thinking better of gathering each discarded pin. “I can only consider myself fortunate it was
