Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(36)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

He touched the buttons at the top of her bodice, and one slid out of its buttonhole. Bertie held still, not daring to breathe, as another button opened, and another.

“Too prim,” he said, his rough fingertips on the skin of her throat. “Prim doesn’t suit you, Bertie.”

“I’m a governess.” She could barely speak. “I’m supposed to be prim.”

His answering smile, small as it was, made her burn. “If I bought you gowns, they’d be bright and frothy, swirling around you like gossamer.”

Bertie’s mind filled with a vision of herself spinning away, laughing, in light silks like Eleanor wore, floating as she went. Sinclair would catch hold of the loose skirts and pull her back to him, laughing his sinful laugh.

He smiled now, and licked the hollow of her throat.

Taste of sweet, sweet woman. Sinclair’s blood heated as Bertie’s bosom rose under his touch, the placket opening for him, her scent intoxicating. She was a sweet, plump armful, something to curl up against in the nighttime. Everything about her was strong, a woman Sinclair could hold on to, and yet soft and feminine, a woman for wanting.

Sinclair kissed her throat. Warmth, that was Bertie. When she’d taken him into her hiding place under the street, what should have been tomb cold had seemed plenty hot. Her warmth permeated him now, as it did his house. Coming home hadn’t held this kind of joy in a long time.

Her body was a fine place, flattening against his, her breath on his cheek. Sinclair gently eased the bodice apart and kissed the softness of her breast, swelling over her corset. Bertie’s fingers slid to his hair, tightening as she drew a quick breath.

Sinclair licked her skin, kissed it. He tasted her longing, and at the same time, her innocence.

He moved his kisses down to the space between her br**sts. She was nothing but heat, and he licked that heat into his mouth. Need wound through him, so much need—his c**k was hard with it. He wanted to unbutton her bodice to her waist, unlace her stays, spread his hand across her bare back.

If he took her, maybe on the floor of this severe drawing room, would he be finished with her, sated and done?

He didn’t think so. Bertie was different. She’d give him her cheeky smile, and he’d never let her out of his life.

Sinclair licked between her br**sts again, tasting the salt of her skin, then he lifted his head and kissed her lips. He couldn’t get enough of her, savoring her while his need soared.

When Sinclair finally broke the kiss, he had no breath, and he didn’t care.

He cupped her shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over the flesh he’d bared. “Bertie.” The name itself was cheeky. “Roberta.”

“That’s me,” she whispered. Her eyes sparkled.

“We should button you up again.” Sinclair touched his forehead to hers. “But I don’t want to.”

Bertie’s grin flashed. “Mrs. Hill might fall over if she saw.”

Sinclair nodded. He wanted to laugh at the image of the stately Mrs. Hill falling stiffly to the floor, but it was all he could do to draw air into his body. He held on to Bertie, knowing he’d be the one on his backside if he let go.

Bertie traced his cheek. “You’re a good man, Basher McBride.”

“No, I’m not.” Sinclair caressed her again. “I follow rules because I have to, but that doesn’t make me good.”

“You are. You just don’t know what to do about it.”

Sinclair turned his head and kissed her fingertips. “Oh, I know what I want to do about it.” He licked her forefinger. Who cared about breathing?

“I’m right that you’re a good man,” Bertie said softly. “Don’t tell me I’m not. I’m the one who’s bad. I stole from you, I followed you home, and I stayed, when it was clear I shouldn’t. So I’m going to make this easy for you.”

She twined her hand around his, lifted his fingers to her mouth, kissed them, and gently withdrew from his grip.

The heat in Sinclair’s veins flared, and then plunged into the coldest temperatures as Bertie turned and walked away.

“Where the devil are you going?” Sinclair’s voice was harsh, his breath trying to desert him again.

Bertie swung back, buttoning her bodice. “I’m only going up to my chamber, before Mrs. Hill gives me a lecture.”

Sinclair coughed, and made his chest expand with a normal inhalation. “You enjoy confounding me, don’t you?” He came to her, trying to remain in control as he reached for her placket and started doing up the buttons for her. “Here, let’s fix you. I won’t have Mrs. Hill come down on you because of me.”

Bertie’s smile was soft. “Cheers.”

Sinclair buttoned the last button, hiding her from him again. He kissed her lips, lightly this time. If he didn’t keep it light, he’d have her on the floor, to hell with Mrs. Hill or anyone else who happened to walk in.

Sinclair deliberately stepped away from her and opened the door. “Go,” he said.

“Good night,” Bertie answered. She glided out of the room, then she turned around, grinning, holding up his handkerchief and his silver case again.

Sinclair slapped his hands to his pockets. “Wretch!”

Laughing, Bertie came back to him and slid the things into his pockets. Her hands were warm, enticing as they moved on his body, but Sinclair made himself not touch her.

She whirled away again and was gone, the warmth leaving with her. Sinclair watched her skim up the stairs, his body aching and stiff, the night grown cold.

The next morning, Bertie looked up from the large book she held in her lap when Sinclair shoved open the library door.

Light from the hall haloed him, making his hair glisten golden. He looked like an angel from the pages of an illustrated Bible—one of those big, strong archangels who made everyone tremble.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded.

Andrew answered, his loud voice cutting through Bertie’s headache. “We’re learning books!”

“What, all of you?”

Sinclair’s sharp gaze swept around the library, taking in Cat, Andrew, Macaulay, Aoife, Peter, Mrs. Hill, and the cook—who rarely came out of her kitchen—bent over books in various parts of the room.

Bertie placed a ribbon in the tome on the English Civil War, closed the book, and got to her feet. “It was my idea. Don’t be angry at them.”

The members of Sinclair’s household looked up, except for Cat and the cook, who kept reading. Cat had found she liked the books on art best, and the cook was reading hard about constellations of the southern hemisphere.