Rules for a Proper Governess

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.

Her blood felt thick. Nothing else existed, nothing in the world but herself and this stern, strong man, pressed against her in the upper halls of his beautiful house.

Bertie couldn’t keep from reaching for him. Her fingers contacted the warm sleekness of his hair, and she caressed it, trailing her touch to the back of his neck. Sinclair made a noise in his throat and pushed closer to her.

He lifted his head, his eyes half-closed, and drew his tongue up Bertie’s first two fingers. Then he took a third one into his mouth. His suckling grew fiercer, as though Sinclair strove to imbibe her warmth.

Bertie’s back was tight against the wall, his weight keeping her there. His mouth was a hot place, tongue caressing, teeth lightly scraping.

It was sensual, erotic, wicked, and yet they were both fully clothed, both standing upright, nowhere near a bed. Nothing improper about it at all. But Bertie’s knees were weak, her insides shaking.

She would fall, but Sinclair would fall with her, and he’d stretch on top of her on the floor. All the while, his glorious mouth would squeeze her fingers with heat and not-pain.

His warmth seeped into her, and nothing else mattered . . .

“Papa?”

Sinclair stilled. Everything in the hall stilled with him, as though the moment froze into a crystal shape, captured, unmoving.

After a silent, very long moment, Sinclair slid Bertie’s hand away from his mouth, lifted his head, and looked to Caitriona standing outside the nursery door, her braid of dark hair over her shoulder, her doll clutched to her chest.

Between one heartbeat to the next, Sinclair changed from the sensual man taking his time with a woman to the empty shell Bertie had watched him become for the first time in the courtroom. The warmth he’d taken from Bertie dissipated into the darkness.

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Caitriona. I thought you were asleep.”

“I had dreams.” Caitriona held her doll closer, her serious gaze taking in her father, Bertie close to him, and Bertie’s scalding face. “I miss Mama.”

“Damn it,” Sinclair whispered so softly Bertie barely heard it. Sinclair’s hand tightened on the wallpaper, and he lowered it, straightening up to his full height.

He left Bertie’s side as though he didn’t notice her there. Bertie leaned back against the wall, the only thing holding her up. Her legs surely weren’t—they were shaking like stalks of tender flowers in the wind.