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careful.”
    “Thank you.” She didn’t know why she was thanking him. But there were men who shredded governesses’ reputations and didn’t care, as long as they got what they wanted.
    Her chest lifted with fierce breasts.
    “What about pleasure?” he asked. “You don’t want to live your entire life without knowing desire. Have you ever climaxed, Miss Winsome?”
    She had no idea what exactly he meant, but it sounded naughty. “Your Grace, stop this at once.”
    He walked around her, but he did not hold her or trap her. She could just walk past him, but her legs felt strangely shaky and she could not seem to make them move. If she ran, he might follow. What she must do, she reasoned, was stand still, let him make his seduction attempt, then show it did not affect her at all.
    “You are luscious, you know. No matter how severe and horrible your dress, I can detect the beautiful curves beneath. Your body was made for sex. To deny it is more than just sinful—it’s a crying shame.
    “I would devote myself to your pleasure,” he continued. “I could spend an afternoon playing with your delectable breasts. Stroking them, then sucking your nipples. Imagine lying on a messy bed in a sun-filled bedroom, letting me suck on your tits until I make you come.”
    A dozen emotions exploded at once. Languorous delight at the thought of lying on a bed with no work to do. Shock at the crude word. A spike of desire at the image of his sensual mouth all over her breasts.
    And under it all, struggling to be heard: the voice of good sense.
    “I like to take a lady’s seduction slowly, angel,” he murmured. “I’d like to tie you to a bed and lick your cunny for hours, building you to climax again and again, but not letting you get there. Until I finally let you explode in an orgasm that makes you scream the house down.”
    She could barely breathe, and she closed her eyes. As for her heart—could hearts race so fast without exploding?
    Something stroked her lower lip, sending a shower of sparks through her body. She smelled leather and knew he’d brushed his glove-clad thumb across her mouth.
    That was just one little touch . Imagine a kiss.
    Imagine more!
    “No.”
    The word came out as such a croak, she thought it was a groan of the house. No, sense still existed inside her and it was clamoring to get out. “No,” she said, more fiercely. She pulled her hands free of his. “No. I can’t. I won’t, Your Grace.”
    She expected to see fury in his eyes. Instead, a slow smile curved his sensual mouth. “So I can’t tempt you with steamy sex and abundant luxury?”
    “I want to be decent. You must leave me alone.” As soon as she said it, she winced. She was not supposed to demand he leave her alone.
    “I’m afraid I will not do that. I want you,” he growled. “Wrong as it is—sinful, dastardly, unforgivable as it is—I have to have you.”

3
    A fter three days of rain, the sun finally shone again. Thank heaven, for children cooped up for so long turned into wild savages. Helena herded the children—the boys and Lady Sophie—to Berkeley Square. Warmth and abundant rain had brought out all the May blossoms, and she was reading from a book entitled Improving Stories for Children when she sensed the children staring at something behind her, mouths gaping, eyes like saucers.
    A young footman, with white wig and emerald and silver livery, stood behind her. He bowed with extreme correctness. “Miss Helena Winsome? I have for you a message from His Grace, the Duke of Greybrooke.”
    With that, the lad thrust out a letter sealed with a blob of scarlet wax.
    Startled, she took it. The footman bowed again, swiveled on his heel, and marched away.
    No longer were just the children gaping in curiosity. Dozens of people watched her.
    “It’s from Uncle Grey,” Michael declared. “Why would Uncle send you a letter?”
    Helena made it a rule to never lie to children. Sometimes, of course, one could not give the