Undone By The Billionaire Duke

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“I didn’t expect to see you, Your Grace,” Mrs. Redding said when she swept out of the nursery that was now a playroom and found Hugo inspecting the rather horrifying paintings hanging on the walls in the hall that he remembered from his own childhood.

“I can’t imagine why not, Mrs. Redding.” Hugo kept studying the garish painting in front of him as he spoke. “I do own the house and am known to be in residence. Surely I could be expected to turn up sooner or later.”

“In the child’s wing? Unlikely.” The older woman could still manage to infuse every syllable with genteel condemnation. A true skill, he’d always thought. “And yet here you are.”

Hugo turned then, smiling faintly at Mrs. Redding as he looked behind her to where Eleanor stood.

And he understood in an instant that he’d made a terrible mistake.

Because Eleanor was not as puffy and large as her coat had suggested. Nor was she as whipcord-skinny as a gazelle’s thigh, as many of her predecessors had been, eyes gleaming with avarice and ambition.

Quite the opposite, god help him.

The damned woman had the body of a goddess. A naughty fertility goddess. Eleanor had lush hips and generous breasts, sweetly separated by a tiny waist that made him hunger to test the span of it with his own hands. She was dressed in a perfectly conservative and appropriately opaque blouse over sensible trousers with a cardigan tossed on besides, and she still looked like an old pinup model. Her body was so markedly opulent that it made her harshly scraped back hair all the more intriguing—in that Hugo wanted to get his hands in it. Or feel it all over his naked body while she was engaged in other things, none of them involving any sort of harsh scraping at all.

Hugo knew he needed to stop. Now.

He needed to turn around this minute and get himself away from her, especially when she frowned at him from behind Mrs. Redding, and from beneath that fringe of hers. The legions of other women who had come this house and tried it on with him had pouted at him. They’d simpered and giggled. They’d made eyes at him over his ward’s head and had dressed in preposterously inappropriate clothing while supposedly out taking walks on the grounds in the middle of rainstorms in the hope of attracting his notice.

Eleanor Andrews, on the other hand, barreled about in the ugliest coat he’d ever beheld in his life as if she didn’t care whether or not she was found attractive, made no secret of the fact she held Hugo in rather low regard, and aimed disapproving frowns at him while she stood on his property as if she didn’t expect to receive her salary from his accounts.

It was almost as if she didn’t want anything from him.

That notion was so revolutionary it shook him a little. He found himself very nearly frowning himself, but caught it just in time. Hugo Grovesmoor did not frown. That might indicate he had thoughts, and that would never do. He was considered nothing more than a vessel of pointless and predatory evil, sent to earth to ruin every good thing in it at will.

He’d learned his place a long time ago.

And yet, “I’ll finish giving Miss Andrews her tour of the premises,” he heard himself say.

And then wondered if the rest of his admittedly impure thoughts were being broadcast on his face when both women stood there staring back at him. Then again, that was the benefit of owning half of England, wasn’t it? He could bloody well do as he liked.

“Was I unclear?” he asked softly.

Mrs. Redding huffed slightly at that, but excused herself in the next moment because bristle as she might, the woman knew her place. And that left Hugo exactly where he shouldn’t be, under any circumstances. Alone with Eleanor.

His ward’s latest governess who happened to have the kind of body that made him feel like an adolescent boy all over again, all cock and delicious promise.

“How remarkably kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to welcome a lowly member of your staff, Your Grace,” Eleanor said as Mrs. Redding’s steps faded away, down the stairs and off into the busier parts of the house. Leaving them alone with nothing but the wind outside and the far-off sounds of Geraldine at her dinner on the other end of this hall, chattering away with her usual brace of nannies. “When I assume you must have any number of urgent ducal matters that require your attention.”

“Dozens at every moment,” Hugo agreed cheerfully, when what he actually had was the good sense to hire excellent people to handle such things. “And yet here I am, ready to wait on you hand and foot like a good host.”

She smiled. It was a frozen sort of smile that shouldn’t have hit him like that. Like a lick of heat in the place he was entirely too hard already.

“But I am not a guest, Your Grace,” Eleanor said stiffly, as if he’d insulted her by suggesting otherwise.

“I’m certain I heard explicit criticism regarding my hospitality, did I not? Outside, when there was some question as to whether or not you were poaching from the estate?”

“There was never any real question about whether or not I was poaching, surely.”

“And yet I felt as if I had many questions, none of which were answered. And many more of which were complicated by your performance in my foyer.”

She made no apparent attempt to keep herself from frowning at him all the more furiously. “My ‘performance’?”

Hugo waited, brows raised expectantly, and her frown deepened.

“Your Grace,” she managed to get out, sounding even stiffer than before.

Hugo tried as hard as he could to keep his mind free of any thoughts about Geraldine. Lest they stray from the girl he’d been called upon to care for, and end up on her mother instead.

And the less he thought about Isobel, the better.

The less anyone thought about Isobel, the better, in his opinion. Not that anyone had asked Hugo’s opinion on Isobel in quite some time.

But as was to be expected, thoughts of Isobel and the damage she’d done—and still did despite the fact she was dead and buried—only made him angrier.

Not that he was angry, of course.

Hugo Grovesmoor was never angry. Angry was for people who had emotions, and it had been established long ago that he lacked that particular human frailty. In every paper possible. Over and over again.

“I don’t know what else to call it but a performance.” He felt his gaze go narrow. “Perhaps you can explain to me why you gave a little girl such false hope. Is that your angle?”

“Geraldine is a lovely young girl,” Eleanor said in her prim way that made Hugo feel more of the sorts of things he was famous for never, ever feeling. In a great mad rush that made his fingers itch to touch her. “She does seem lonely and a bit lost, if I’m honest.” Eleanor’s startling gaze, frank and sturdy on his, made an interesting sort of heat pool inside of him. Hugo didn’t like it. But not liking it, it turned out, didn’t make it go away. “I look forward to being able to help her in some way. Assuming, of course, I’m allowed to do that.”

“Do you imagine I would prevent you from doing the job for which I hired you in the first place? You have the most curious notions, Miss Andrews. Quite a fanciful imagination, it appears. Are you entirely certain that you are the best choice for a little girl you consider lost and lonely?”

The unfathomable woman shrugged as if it was no matter. “Whether I’m a good choice or bad choice, it appears I’m the only governess here.”

“A circumstance that could change in an instant. On a whim. My whim.”

Another shrug. “There’s nothing I can do to control your whims, Your Grace. Is there? Best to muddle along and hope for the best, I think.”

“The best being today’s display? Telling a vulnerable child you’ll always be her friend before you’ve taken off your coat or unpacked? Without knowing if she even likes you?” He shook his head. “Most women in your position play their games with me, Miss Andrews. They tend to leave the girl alone.”

She stood there in her frumpy little outfit that should have made her look dumpy and instead made him think that he’d never seen a woman more magnetic. Especially since she didn’t seem to be the least bit aware of it.

“All the more reason that someone ought to pay attention to the poor thing,” she said briskly. “She’s thirsty for a little companionship, clearly.”

Eleanor was still eyeing him as if he was something distinctly unsavory as she spoke. And there was absolutely nothing new about that look. Hugo had seen that particular expression on more faces than he could begin to count. Friends, family members—or what few of each remained, anyway—and strangers on the street alike. He wasn’t usually a receptacle for friendly glances, a fact of his existence he’d become inured to long since.

But for some reason, seeing that same old look on this woman’s face dug into him. As if that you are judged and found wanting gaze she kept trained on him was attached to a sharp implement and she was raking it over his skin, if not jabbing it straight into his gut.

“Why do you want this job?” He didn’t know why he bothered asking when he already knew. There were two reasons women applied for this position and Eleanor clearly wasn’t thinking she’d angle her way into bed, which was a crying shame any way he looked at it. That left the money.

“Why wouldn’t I want this job?” she asked, very coolly, in reply. “Fourteen other women had this job before me. It’s obviously very popular.”

“That’s not an answer. And I can actually tell the difference between an answer and a nonanswer, which I accept may come as something of a surprise to you.” He smiled at her, and made sure to show all his teeth. “I’m not just a pretty face, Miss Andrews.”

If possible, her frown darkened even further. “I’m not following this conversation at all. Have you decided, now that I’ve actually moved into this house and have already met your ward, that it might be a good time to conduct a personal interview?”

“And if I am?”

“I think it’s a little late. Don’t you?”

“And I think, unless I’m very much mistaken or have succumbed to death without my knowledge—which should make this conversation significantly more upsetting than you seem to find it at present—that I am your employer. Or am I lost in some kind of dread fever dream, imagining myself the Duke of Grovesmoor?”

Hugo didn’t know exactly when he realized he’d moved a little too close to her. Or perhaps she’d moved to close to him, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that they were no longer standing across from each other on different sides of the wide hallway. Instead they’d somehow closed the distance, and had met in the middle now.

Entirely too close to each other for Hugo’s peace of mind, or whatever passed for that state. Because when he was closer to her, he was even more fascinated by her. He’d entertained the notion that it was the novelty of that hideous coat she’d worn earlier that had intrigued him, but no. He was still intrigued now.

More so.

The goddess curves didn’t exactly help the situation, especially when she put her hands on her hips, which only made her lush figure that much more impossible to ignore.

“I don’t know if you’re imagining it or not,” Eleanor said in a tone that only just managed to qualify as polite, “but if you’re not the Duke of Grovesmoor, you’ve certainly managed to take on an identity with a remarkable amount of baggage.”

Even that little swipe at his history intrigued him, because it was so direct. She was unlike any woman he’d ever encountered, even without that eyesore of a coat. It was something about the way she stood, wholly unimpressed and unintimidated by him, hands on her hips and her brown gaze utterly clear of any attempt at feminine wiles. It was the belligerent tilt of her jaw and the way she was clearly endeavoring to look down her nose at him from beneath her razor-sharp fringe. He imagined she did the same with her charges when they got uppity, and it didn’t seem to matter to her that she was much shorter than he was.

And Hugo realized in that moment that he was perfectly content with being hated. He was used to being the focus of any number of dark feelings, vicious rumors, and random character assassinations. But he wasn’t used to outright defiance. And certainly not to his face. For a man who had always considered himself entirely too modern for his circumstances, Hugo found that there was more than a little Ancient Duke in him than he’d ever imagined before. Because he wanted to pull rank. Badly.

Except it was more than that. He didn’t want to crush her. The truth was, this woman made him hungry.

Hugo wanted a taste of her so badly that he could feel the need of it marching inside of him, as if his body was staging a full-scale mutiny. He didn’t think he’d ever felt anything like it in his life. Hell. He knew he hadn’t.

He was ravenous.

“I would suggest, Miss Andrews,” he said, very carefully and very deliberately, and he kept his damned hands to himself despite the fact it took a Herculean application of self-will, “that you endeavor to recall which one of us is the Duke and which one the governess.”

If Hugo expected her to be cowed by that, he was in for a surprise.

“I am not likely to forget that anytime soon,” Eleanor replied without appearing to take even a moment to pause or rethink a thing. Not her belligerence or the way she stood there and took him on, exactly as she had outside. And certainly not her position—here in this house, much less here, in his grasp. “I was promised very little interaction with the owner of the house, Your Grace. That you were not available, ever, was made abundantly clear in all of the interviews.”

“Most of the enterprising women who apply for the position want to see me, Miss Andrews. You must realize that it’s the primary reason they condescend to grace these halls with their presence. And the primary reason they are sacked shortly thereafter.”

She tilted her head slightly to one side. “And what did they do to get sacked?”

“I will leave that to your imagination.”

“Did you chase all of them down on the grounds of the estate, charging about on a great big horse?”

He almost laughed at that. And it might have been that which floored him the most.

“And I ask again, why do you want this job? Because you don’t seem to understand the usual boundaries that govern a woman in your position. Or have the faintest sense of self-preservation.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she said in that same brisk tone, as if she thought she was managing him. As if both he and Geraldine were under her care, and he was the more difficult one by far. “All I’d like to do is start working. There’s a little girl having her tea at the other end of this hall and it would be nice to get to know her a bit before our lessons start. If there isn’t anything else...?”

“I am the boss, Miss Andrews,” he reminded her. From between his teeth. “You are the employee. Everything about the way you are speaking to me is disrespectful, not to mention foolish. Why would you try to antagonize the person who pays your spectacularly generous salary?”

Her frown smoothed out a bit, though she didn’t precisely soften. And still, Hugo wanted to taste that faint crease between her brows, where the edge of her fringe kissed her skin the way he wanted to do.

“In point of fact, I won’t be paid for two weeks,” she said after a moment, as if she couldn’t help herself. Maybe she really couldn’t.

He couldn’t have said why that notion washed through him like a new sort of heat.

“A notable distinction,” Hugo murmured.

And then, because he loved nothing more than complicating any given situation beyond repair, the better to make it worse, he kissed her.

They were standing so close that it seemed almost impossible to avoid for another second. Maybe that was his excuse. He slid his palm over her cheek, marveling at the sensation of such sweet, silken skin beneath his hand despite how severely she’d been regarding him all this time, and then it was the easiest thing in the world to hold her fast and claim her mouth with his.

And then they were in real trouble, because she tasted like magic.