Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(25)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

A delectable picture he made, to be sure. His shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, cuffs straining over thick wrists. His waistcoat hugged his tight torso, and his open shirt gave her a tantalizing glimpse of brown throat.

“I can’t chain him to the bed.” Bertie clenched her hands. “Or sleep stretched across the door. Wouldn’t matter—Andrew would just climb down the drainpipe. Letting him open the bedroom door himself is safer.”

Sinclair’s brows drew down, his frown unfortunately making him even more handsome. “I’m paying you to watch them.”

“Only until you hire a new governess, you said.” Bertie shook her head. “You ain’t really angry because I wasn’t watching Andrew. You’re angry because you wanted to get into that woman’s knickers, and I stopped you. A mercy I did, wasn’t it? Imagine, you taking her all cooing and sighing into your bedroom and dropping her right down on top of Andrew.” She broke off with a laugh. “That would have been something to see.”

Sinclair took a step closer and unfolded one arm to point his finger at Bertie’s face. His cuff rode up his wrist, revealing a round, puckered scar. “You work for me. That means what I get up to in my own house is my business, and nothing for you to speculate on. ‘That woman,’ as you call her, is a friend to my sisters-in-law.”

“I saw them bring her in.” Bertie cocked her head, studying the tip of his finger. “A tart is still a tart—don’t matter that she’s in thick with duchesses. I saved you some bother, you know. She’d have found some way to twist you into marrying her so she could get her hands on your money. I’ve seen her sort before.”

Sinclair’s mouth tightened. “Mrs. Thomalin is a widow with plenty of money—” He broke off, as though realizing he had no idea of her financial situation. “And I have no intention of marrying—” His words cut off as he drew a long breath. “Anyone.”

“In that case, she truly is a tart,” Bertie said. And here’s me, pretending I’m all virtuous when I’d give anything to take her place.

Sinclair’s broad forefinger jabbed at Bertie again. “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I mean, it doesn’t matter if she’s upper crust. People are people, ain’t they? She wants your body, but she’ll take your money too, if she can get it.”

“Stop.”

“I’m only saying what I see.” Bertie made herself shrug. “So you missed taking some time with her. Serves you right for never coming home, and being so grumpy when you do.”

Sinclair’s face went deep red. Bertie knew she’d gone too far, but the hurt that clenched her insides wouldn’t cease. Let him sling her out into the street—Bertie had survived before, and she would again.

With a great empty hole in her heart.

Sinclair took another step toward her, and Bertie moved back, until she found herself pressed into the wall. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture on this landing, just bare walls and one gas lamp between the two rooms.

Sinclair hemmed her in, his warmth driving away all chill. She could see nothing but him, hear nothing but his voice, the rest of the world receding into a vague blur.

He was speaking again, saying something-or-other, his broad finger an inch from her nose. He kept his nails nicely trimmed and clean, though his blunt hand was more suited to holding a sword than a pen. “Bertie, you—”

Bertie, her heart thumping, leaned forward and nipped the tip of his finger.

Sinclair froze, words dying, his gray gaze fixing on her mouth closing on his fingertip. His chest rose sharply.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

The next thing Bertie knew, she was flat against the wall, her hands lifted over her head. Her wrists were trapped in his grip, the wallpaper cool to the backs of her fingers. Sinclair leaned to her, close enough that the barest inch separated their bodies.

Bertie’s heart thumped and thudded, her hands confined under his strong, firm fingers. She smelled the cloying note of Mrs. Thomalin’s perfume on his clothes along with his crisp male scent and the sweetness of champagne.

Sinclair closed his eyes, head bowing a little, and leaned nearer. “You are so warm.”

“Well, it is stuffy in here,” Bertie whispered. Sinclair’s house shut out much of the winter cold.

Sinclair shook his head, thumbs caressing her wrists. He came closer still, his nose skimming her cheek. “So warm.”

Let me warm you then. I’ve got it to spare.

Sinclair pulled her left hand away from the wall. His long body was nearly against hers, but not quite. A breeze, if there was one, could pass between them. The light pressure of his thighs on Bertie’s skirts and his hands on her wrists were their only points of contact.

The gaslight, dimmed for night, burnished the gold of Sinclair’s hair as he turned his head. He studied her hand a moment, caressing the back of it with his thumb. Heat streaked down Bertie’s arm, straight to her heart.

Sinclair straightened her forefinger and brought it to his lips. He kissed the tip of her finger, then as Bertie had done to him, closed his teeth around it.

Bertie let out a faint cry, more of a gasp by the time it reached the air. Sinclair nibbled a moment, before he closed his eyes and drew her finger all the way into his mouth.

Fire poured through her body in a molten stream. She’d never felt anything like it, and Sinclair was barely doing anything—sucking on her finger, that was all. But the heat of his tongue, the pull of his lips, stoked the fires inside her. Her br**sts felt heavy, pushing against the tightness of her corset.

Sinclair’s lashes, like his hair, were light, stark lines on his sunburned skin. Bertie wanted to draw him to her, smooth his hair, rub the back of his neck, soothe away all his lines of pain. But she was afraid to touch him, afraid to break the spell.

Sinclair stepped all the way against her, the space for the breeze vanishing.

He might claim he needed warmth, but Sinclair was plenty warm himself. He let go of Bertie’s other hand to brace himself against the wall, while he licked her forefinger and then pulled a second finger into his mouth.

Bertie’s gasp was louder this time, echoing around the high hall and the carved frieze at the ceiling. Sinclair made not a sound as his body pressed hers, his mouth working.

The strength of his tongue, the tug on her fingers, turned Bertie’s body incandescent. She knew she ought to jerk away and tell him to stop—she’d die if he didn’t. But then he might stop.