Marguerite Kaye - Scandal At The Christmas Ball - A Governess for Christmas / Dancing with the Duke’s Heir

‘Why not?’

‘The army always came first with me, and the army is no place for a woman.’

‘But there are army wives...’

‘And a very rough time they have of it. No,’ he said decidedly. ‘I would never want a wife of mine to lead that life.’

‘But since you left the army?’

‘Since I left the army, my life has been—uncertain, as unsuited to marriage as life in the army. And so I have never allowed myself to become anywhere near fond enough of any woman to ask her to marry me.’

‘Never allowed?’ Joanna exclaimed. ‘You find it so easy to place a leash on your emotions?’

Drummond gazed down at their hands, twining his fingers between hers, a frown furrowing his brow. ‘Normally,’ he said, looking up to meet her squarely, ‘but you seem to be providing a sterner test.’

Her throat went dry. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I don’t know, exactly. What about you, Joanna? Have you ever been in love?’

‘Good heavens, no,’ she exclaimed, thrown by his abrupt turn of the subject. ‘That is, I have never swooned or palpitated or—or felt as if I would die for the want of some man. I am no Clarissa, nor indeed Madame de Tourvel. Les Liaisons Dangereuses,’ she added, at Drummond’s questioning look. ‘Madame de Tourvel is seduced by Valmont and—oh, it doesn’t matter. What I’m saying is...’

‘That you have never been in love. But you have been kissed.’

She blushed. ‘Yes, most expertly by you, several times now.’

‘It is not like you to be coy. You know perfectly well I meant before.’

‘Sorry.’ She loosed her hands from his to try to cool her cheeks. ‘It is really very hot in here.’

Drummond shook out a large kerchief and dipped it in a little waterfall, handing it to her, watching her silently while she dabbed it gratefully on her heated skin, aware all the time that he was biding his time, that he would not let the subject drop. So she sighed and nodded. ‘There was a man. His name was Evan. We had known each other all our lives, and it was always assumed that we would marry, I suppose. He proposed to me on my eighteenth birthday, though there was no question of our marrying for some years, for Papa needed me. Then Papa died, and it made a great deal of sense for us to marry for I had no home, but I realised that I had never really—well, the truth is, I’d never really thought too much about it, and when I did think about it...’

‘You didn’t love him?’

‘Well, no, but I never thought I did, and he never pretended—we were very fond of one another, it would have been a very amicable marriage, but—oh, dear, this sounds dreadful—but it would have been so frightfully tedious, Drummond. You probably think me a most unnatural female. Evan did, but I knew I would not have made him happy. I was twenty-one. I had never ventured more than ten miles from home, and though I loved Papa with all my heart, I cannot pretend that his passing—it felt like a release. I didn’t want to swap one life of duty and devotion for another. As I said, you probably think that unnatural...’

‘Actually, I think it perfectly natural, and admirable.’

She was feeling hot again, though it had nothing to do with the heated succession house. It was the look on Drummond’s face. Desire warring with caution. ‘You said I’m proving a stern test.’

‘What I meant is that I fear we are playing a very dangerous game.’

‘But that’s exactly why it is not dangerous. It is a game, Drummond, it is not real. We both know that whatever happens between us will come to an abrupt end when we leave here.’

‘Is that truly how you feel?’

‘I cannot afford to feel anything else, and nor can you. We both have too much to lose. Despite your ambivalence, you need this post with Wellington, don’t you? And for Wellington to appoint you, the Duke of Brockmore must first approve you and then continue to vouch for you,’ she continued when he nodded reluctantly. ‘He would not approve of your association with me, Drummond. Believe me, if he had an inkling...’

‘I reckon the Silver Fox’s reputation for being all-seeing and all-knowing is much overstated.’

‘And I reckon we are making far too much of this—this attraction which exists between us,’ Joanna said, as much for her own sake as his. ‘I think our feelings have been exaggerated by the situation.’

‘Because we know we’ve so little time, you mean?’

‘Exactly,’ Joanna said. That is exactly it, she told herself.

Drummond pulled them both to their feet. ‘So you don’t think this—this thing between us, has any real foundation?’

Though it shimmered between them, it was most likely the succession-house heat haze, Joanna thought. Did a heat haze have the power to draw one body to another, or was it the gentle pressure of Drummond’s hands on her waist?

‘I think it is—I don’t know what it is,’ she said, her own hand lifting of its own accord to curl her fingers into the silky, damp curls at the nape of his neck. The heat was affecting her breathing. And his. She stared mesmerised at his mouth. His lips were sinful. That was every bit as preposterous as saying that hers were like cherries, or rose petals, yet there was something inexplicably sultry in the contrast of his full bottom lip, the thinness of his upper that made sinful the perfect word to describe them.

‘If we are playing with fire,’ Drummond said, ‘the sensible thing would be to extinguish the flame.’

There was barely an inch separating them now. One of his hands rested lightly on the base of her spine. One of hers lay flat on his chest, just at the point where his coat met his waistcoat. She could feel the dull, steady thud of his heart. Her own was hammering. ‘Is that what you want?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps it will fizzle out of its own accord,’ Joanna said, aware she sounded unconvincing.

‘If we indulge it, you mean?’

‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Do you want to indulge it?’

‘You have no idea how much.’

This kiss was different. No tasting, no sampling, no pretence, this was a raw kiss. A hungry kiss. A kiss which was every bit as sultry as their surroundings. A passionate kiss, and a very adult one. Joanna clung to Drummond, for if she did not, she was sure her legs would not support her. All her energy went into that kiss. Their tongues tangled, their hands stroked and roamed. Hers on his back, sliding inside his waistcoat, flattening over the hard wall of his chest. His skin was heated, his shirt damp. His chest rose and fell rhythmically.

Their kiss deepened. She arched against him, pressing herself into him, shuddering as the evidence of his arousal pressed against her thigh, relishing the way her touch made him groan. Panting between kisses, she was drowsy with heat and with passion. His hand cupped her bottom. His other stroked up from her waist, brushing the side of her breast, drawing a sharp intake of breath from her, which he took for a protest. ‘No,’ Joanna said, ‘don’t stop.’

He kissed her again, and she kissed him back, matching him, kiss for kiss, touch for touch, eyes drifting shut, lost in the sensations he was rousing. His hand was on her breast now, carefully cupping, then his thumb, swirling circles round her nipple that made her ache for more, that made her want to tear off her clothing, for it was so tantalising, so delightful, and yet not nearly enough.

Who knew that passion could be as intense as this? she thought dimly as Drummond kissed her throat, the hollow of her neck, his tongue lingering on the fluttering pulse there. Positively aching for the feel of flesh on flesh, skin on skin, her clutching hands tugged at him, down his back, the sleek, taut muscles of his buttocks, pulling him closer. She was shockingly aware of his manhood, a hard ridge nudging against her belly, and felt her own throbbing response inside. Who knew that it could be like this? So urgent yet so sweet, kisses like cloying honey, her blood roaring in her veins. Dear God, who knew?