Page 22 of The Moonstone Governess
Brenna looked up at him and huffed. “She did notcatchhim as though he were a trout. Cara and the duke fell in love.”
“Unlike you and Albert. What exactly do the two of you see in each other?”
In truth, she did not know.
Mutual respect? Friendship? Shared intellectual pursuits? It was hard to say. Those reasons had seemed enough until the duke came along and kissed her with enough heat to turn her insides liquid. What had seemed a simple plan—visit Moonstone Landing, stay a few weeks to sell Stoningham Manor, and then return to Oxford and Albert’s waiting arms—was not so simple anymore.
But Albert would never take her in his arms, certainly not if anyone else was looking. Would he be more amorous if they were alone?
She simply did not know, because they had never been alone. He had never eventriedto get her alone.
Would he ever kiss her as the duke had? Or make her body melt?
“You cannot marry him, Brenna. Is this what you will tell him?”
She refused to answer. “Good day, Your Grace.”
She opened the door to the cottage and walked in, quickly slamming the door in his face. Only then did she groan and lean against it.
She heard his rich chuckle on the other side of the door. “I’ll see you this evening, Miss Angel. Do not forget to save a waltz for me.”
She wanted to fling open the door and tell him she would never dance with him, but who was she hurting other than herself?
He was infuriating.
But he was also the handsomest man in Moonstone Landing, and a duke, no less. Why give up the chance to share a waltz with him?
She could school her features, appear to appreciate his offer of a dance, and keep a polite but unaffected smile on her face while he twirled her about the floor.
He was to be her tenant. Should she not maintain a cordial relation with him?
However, there was one small problem. A tiny one that she ought to be able to overcome…
Oughtto be able, but how did one prevent one’s traitorous body from turning molten in response to this gorgeous duke’s touch?
Chapter Five
The Kestrel Innwas quite lively as Daire walked down the hall with his entourage toward the large dining room, now devoid of tables so that it might serve as a ballroom for the evening. The orchestra was tuning up in a far corner beside some potted ferns, and the inn itself was packed with villagers standing in the doorways and spilling out of all the main rooms that had been set up for the entertainment of the attendees.
The library now served as a cards room, and one of the smaller, private dining rooms had long tables lined against the walls, upon which had been placed trays of sweets, glasses of champagne, bowls of orgeat and ratafia punch, and kegs of ale.
The villagers had donned their finest clothes for the festivities. Of course, Hollingsworth, Danson, and the ladies wasted no time in passing their condescending remarks.
“Have they never heard of silk?” Lady Sarah remarked as she eyed several of the local ladies whose gowns were of muslin, to which they had attached lace collars in an attempt to transform their attire to suitable evening wear.
“Oh, and those horrid scraps of lace. Not to mention every one of them is wearing cheap jewelry,” Lady Gemma said with a sneer. “They would be laughed out of Almack’s if they dared appear in those appalling garments.”
“Now, I say. She’s not bad,” Danson interjected with a leer toward Brenna, who was chatting with several locals Daire presumed to be her cousins, since they bore a slight resemblance to her. She looked breathtaking in a cream silk gown she must have acquired in Oxford, because it was fashionably elegant. She wore no jewelry other than tiny diamond earrings.
“She’s worth bedding,” Hollingsworth drawled.
Daire shot him a quelling glance. “Touch her and you shall never see your hand again.”
His friends stared at him in surprise.
“Fine, Claymore. If you want her that badly, she’s yours,” Hollingsworth said. “Looks like a virgin, anyway. Too much effort required.”
Daire sighed.
