Modern Romance Collection: October 2017 5 - 8. Heidi Rice
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and folded her hands neatly in her lap. She found that if she gazed at Hugo’s chin instead of directly into his overwhelming, challenging gaze, she could pretend to be looking at him without actually risking too much direct eye contact.
And that little disconnection made it possible for her to catch her breath. To keep her heart from beating entirely too fast. Or anyway, pretend that she had herself under control, which would have to be enough.
“She’s quite intelligent. And funny, it turns out. Not all little girls are funny, of course.” Eleanor felt herself flush slightly, because she sounded a great deal as if she was babbling. And she never babbled. “Not that I have vast experience with seven-year-old girls, but I was one.”
Hugo looked boneless and hungry, and the combination made Eleanor’s pulse dance.
“Some time ago, if I’m not mistaken,” he said.
“A lady does not discuss her age, Your Grace.”
“You’re a governess, are you not? Not a lady in the classic sense, if you will excuse the pedantry. But more to the point, you’re entirely too young to become missish and coy about your age. Surely that is the province of women significantly longer in the tooth than you.”
Eleanor found she was meeting his gaze, and had no idea when she’d given up the chin offensive. It was a mistake. She felt as if she’d sat out in the sun too long and was now a miserable prickle everywhere she had skin.
“I’m twenty-seven, if that’s what you’re asking. And I hope that you’re not asking that. Because that would be unpardonably rude.”
Hugo’s lips twitched. “The horror.”
“And I’m surprised that a duke of England should bother himself to pull rank. Surely in the absence of a Windsor lurking about, that’s a bit redundant.”
“You cannot be surprised, Miss Andrews.” The corner of Hugo’s mouth tipped up, but if that was a smile, it was entirely too dark. “I have yet to encounter a single story ever told about me that did not make it clear I am the worst kind of person. A stain upon the nation.”
“Are you suggesting that I believe everything I’ve read about you? My understanding—” culled entirely from books and television and supermarket checkout queues, which she did not plan to share with him “—was that most celebrities claim that the things that are written about them in places like the tabloids are lies.”
Something in his expression shifted. Eleanor couldn’t put her finger on it. It was as if he turned quietly to stone, everywhere, even as his gaze changed. Melted, she would have said, if she were the fanciful sort. Into a far more powerful spirit, more intense than his usual whiskey.
“And if I were to tell you that, indeed, nearly everything that has ever been written about me in the press is a lie, you would believe that?”
Hugo wasn’t exactly smirking, but there was no mistaking the challenge he’d thrown at her or the way he lounged there in the chair opposite her while he did it. His oddly intent gaze was taut on hers while one long finger tapped the side of his jaw, rough now instead of clean-shaven.
He looked decadent. Sinful.
Eleanor had absolutely no trouble believing every wicked thing she’d ever heard about him. Ever.
And it did absolutely nothing to diminish his appeal.
“Your reputation precedes you, of course, Your Grace,” she said briskly, fighting to keep her wits about her when she couldn’t seem to pull in a full breath. “But it is not your reputation that concerns me. It is your ward’s education.”
“A clever dodge, Miss Andrews, but I’d prefer it if you answered the question.”
Eleanor reminded herself that this was not a situation that required her honesty. This man was not interested in her frank opinion of him. How could he be? Hugo was the Duke of Grovesmoor. And her employer. If he wanted to pretend that the stories about him were lies, it was only in Eleanor’s best interest to agree.
Because, as her sister reminded her almost every night, this was about the money. It was most certainly not about that odd weight in her chest that urged her to do the exact opposite of what she knew to be necessary. And smart.
She ignored that weight. She shoved it aside and pretended she couldn’t feel it. She made herself smile. Politely.
“Everyone knows the tabloids are filled with lies,” she murmured, hoping that placated him. “All smoke, no fire.”
Hugo shook his head as if he were disappointed in her. “I believe you are lying, Miss Andrews, and I am shocked onto my soul.” That curve in the corner of his mouth deepened. “And yes, I do have one. Clouded and murky though it may be.”
It was entirely too easy to drift off, staring at this man in all his dark, threatening beauty, as if he was an approaching storm and the worst that could happen to her was that she’d get a bit wet. But she had to stop thinking of him that way. She had to do something about the strange signals her body sent off that made her entirely too nervous. That tightness in her breasts. The knotted thing in her belly. And that odd, melting sensation lower still.
She had to remember what she was doing here. It was about the money and it was about Geraldine, and all these strange electrical moments were distractions, nothing more.
Because of course they couldn’t be anything more.
“I’ve given Geraldine a series of tests and have found she’s well above her year in most areas. Whatever the previous fourteen governesses might have lacked, they were clearly decent tutors. She’s very bright and quite advanced.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.” He did not sound delighted.
“I believe she will make you proud,” Eleanor said, and realized almost instantly that it was the wrong thing to say. Of course it was the wrong thing to say. The child was not his. Geraldine was his ward, not his daughter. It was entirely possible that the only proud day of his life would be the day she reached her majority and was no longer his responsibility.
And none of that was her business, as Mrs. Redding had suggested.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, before he could respond. Then, as if the apology needed explanation, she pushed on. “I always wanted to be a teacher when I was younger, but then I took a little bit of a detour.”
“Into a number of office positions in London,” he said, without consulting any notes. Meaning he just knew that. Eleanor told herself that wasn’t strange at all, and there was absolutely no reason that prickling feeling should intensify until she felt goose bumps on her arms.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “This governess position is new to me. Perhaps in my enthusiasm, I’ve overstepped.”
For a long moment, Hugo said nothing. But it wasn’t as if his silences were empty. On the contrary, everything felt thick. The air. That raw thing that kept expanding inside her chest, until once again, she didn’t think she could pull in a full breath. But the longer she stared at his mesmerizing face, and those unholy eyes of his, the less she cared.
“You do not treat me like a monster, Miss Andrews.” Hugo’s voice was a smooth lick against the quiet that surrounded them. “I find it disconcerting that you do not, when everyone else does. Why don’t you?”
Eleanor felt her lips part at that, and quickly snapped her mouth shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. Women normally approach me in one of two ways. They either fling themselves at me, desperate for my touch and my attention. Or they cower, certain that a stray graze of my finger will ruin their reputations forever, and more importantly, leave them mere, shivering wrecks of their former selves thanks to my supposed evil powers—but not in any fun way. Yet you do neither.”
There was a note in his voice that she didn’t understand, but it seemed to wind its way through her like