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

‘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?

It was Drummond who brought them back down to earth. His kisses slowed, became less intense, his hands smoothing, easing her upright, creating space between them where there had been none. Joanna stood, eyes glazed. His hair was dishevelled. His eyes too were glazed. His cheeks slashed with colour. His cravat was askew. And his smile...

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Joanna said. ‘You have a very, very sinful smile.’

He laughed. ‘That is because I’m having very, very sinful thoughts.’

‘I think I may be about to swoon or palpitate for the first time in my life. Does that mean my thoughts are sinful too?’

Drummond swore under his breath. ‘I need a cold bath, not further encouragement. In fact, now I come to think of it...’

He pushed his damp hair back from his brow, picking up her cloak, draping it around her shoulders before shrugging into his greatcoat. His smile had become distinctly mischievous. ‘What are you thinking?’ Joanna asked. Drummond grinned. ‘What are you...?’ She squeaked as he caught her up in his arms, holding her high against his chest. ‘Drummond!’

‘We need to cool down,’ he said, striding back through the succession house, out of the heavy door, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a sparrow. His boots crunched on the hard-packed snow which had become crusty as the temperature dropped.

Joanna clung, still laughing, feeling his laughter reverberating in his chest, until he stopped, just inside a high-walled garden, letting her slide to her feet, though keeping his arms around her waist. ‘Are we cool enough now?’ she asked. ‘Has the danger passed?’

‘Perhaps, but we better make doubly sure,’ Drummond said, falling backwards into the deep snow, and taking her with him.

Monday, 28th December 1818

Drummond was reading the London papers in the library when Joanna found him. Fortunately he was alone, for one look at her face told him she was quite distraught. Casting The Times on to the floor, he hastened to her side. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he said, putting his finger to her lips, before ushering her into the little room off the main reception area where they had first encountered each other on Christmas Eve. As he hoped, it was empty. The fire had been set but not lit, but the tinder box was lying conveniently by the grate. He settled Joanna in a sofa by the hearth, locked the door, and saw to the fire. ‘Fear not, we won’t be disturbed. What on earth has happened to overset you so badly? Do you want me to get you a medicinal brandy?’

She shook her head. She was quite pale, though there were two high spots of colour on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with tears. Drummond sat down beside her, chafing her hands between his.

She stared at him in mute anguish, her throat working. A tear tracked down her cheek, and then another followed. A sob escaped, and she began to tremble. ‘It is just so bloody unfair,’ she said, throwing herself against Drummond’s chest.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her as she sobbed. Such deep, shaking sobs that racked her, there could only be one explanation. The justice she had been anticipating was not forthcoming. Sickened, he tightened his hold around her, smoothing her hair with his palm.

Lying in the snow yesterday afternoon, her body pinned under his, the laughter in her eyes had turned to desire as he kissed her, abandoning restraint, his tongue sliding into her mouth, tangling with hers, his hands roaming over her curves. Rolling on to his back, pulling her on top of him, he had found the contrast of the freezing snow, the heat of her mouth, her body, intoxicating. And it had been the same for her. When their snowy kiss came to a lingering end, he had no doubt she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

It was one thing for them to agree that they were destined to follow separate paths, that this affaire or whatever the hell it was, had a very finite life, but it was quite another to act on this knowledge. He was not only playing with fire, he was playing with his very future, but he could find no appetite to halt the charade, no matter how many very sound reasons there were. Holding her now, soothing her violent sobs, he felt a fierce desire to protect her, to fight whatever battle it was she needed help fighting. It was not his battle though, and she would likely spurn his assistance for his own good. And hers. Whatever that may turn out to be.

Joanna had stopped crying. Her breathing had slowed. She sat up, and before he could offer his kerchief, had retrieved her own, a small, practical square of cotton, which she used ruthlessly on her red-rimmed eyes and nose. ‘I’ve made your shirt damp, I’m afraid,’ she said in a small voice.

‘I’ve plenty other shirts.’ He covered her hands with his. ‘I take it that Her Grace did not offer you satisfactory terms?’

‘Oh, she offered me extremely generous terms,’ Joanna said bitterly, ‘but the one thing she has not offered me is justice. She merely wishes to buy my silence and that is grossly unfair, no matter how generous the settlement. The problem is, I’ve no option but to accede, if I wish to prosper. There, we have that in common too, though I fervently wish we did not.’

Recovering her composure, she folded her kerchief away and pushed herself upright. ‘The two people who owe me a grovelling apology are quite notable by their absence,’ she said, her eyes sparkling, not with tears now, but with fire. ‘Her Grace is merely the intermediary. I was so excited when the invitation to Brockmore came, I didn’t think about the fact that it should have been preceded by a letter from another.’ She pushed a damp tendril of hair back from her cheek and sighed. ‘I didn’t want to tell you the about the whole sordid episode until it was satisfactorily resolved, but now it can have no happy ending—or at least, not the happy ending I’d hoped for.’

‘Then you better tell me now, for if you don’t, how am I supposed to help?’

He was rewarded with a tremulous smile. ‘That is very gallant of you, but I fear my situation is beyond rescuing, even by you.’