Chapter Seven

P hilippa couldn't breathe. It was as if her lungs had simply seized at the first touch of his lips. It was both everything she remembered and so much more. Intoxicating, seductive, mind-numbingly pleasurable.

Courtesy of growing up in the Darrow School, she was not so sheltered and ignorant as most women were. She knew the particulars of lovemaking in theory, even if she'd never put them to practice. But, oh, how she wanted to!

The heat of his large body pressed against hers, of every firmly muscled plane still damp from his bath and now covered only by the silk of his robe—it was impossible to resist. Especially as resisting was the very last thing she wished to do.

When his lips left hers, she wanted to cry out in protest, to plead with him to continue. But then his mouth settled on her throat, his teeth and tongue teasing flesh that she hadn't even known could be so sensitive. Her head fell back, bumping against the wall, and she didn't care.

Then came a horrible sound. An invasive sound. Something that broke the perfect spell they were wrapped in. It was the voice of Mrs. Baynard.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

Ramsey, the valet, replied, "I cannot say, Mrs. Baynard. Mr. Falconer only informed me that he intended to lie down. It is not my place, nor yours, to ensure that he does so!"

"I must speak with him, Ramsey. This governess is too much! Leaving Elizabeth unattended in the schoolroom and going off to do who knows what with who knows whom! Is that really the sort of woman our employer wishes to have shaping and molding the mind of his young niece?"

If ever a phrase had been crafted to purposely cool her ardor, that would be it. Apparently, he felt the same. His arms left her, dropping to his sides, and he stepped back. There were only inches between them, but it might have been miles. In one fateful exchange between those two servants, her place—her position and her obligations—had been brought rushing back to the forefront of her mind.

"Wait here," he said, the words little more than a whisper. "Behind the mirror. You will not be seen."

Philippa did as instructed, the whole while berating herself for her lapse in judgement. It had been foolhardy to take the risk of coming to his rooms, even assuming he was gone. Because in doing so, she'd only created an opportunity for disaster. And perhaps, in some secret part of her, she'd hoped that events would transpire in just such a way.

*

Emerging from his dressing room, Devon leveled a quelling stare at Mrs. Baynard. "Why are you barging into my chambers, Mrs. Baynard?"

"That governess, whom I had many doubts about to start, has abandoned her duties! Elizabeth sits alone in her schoolroom right now with no supervision and no instruction!"

Devon merely cocked an eyebrow. "And what is Elizabeth doing while she is unsupervised?"

The housekeeper's lips pressed into a thin hard line. "She was completing her sums, sir. But with no help from the very woman who has been hired to attend her."

"In instructing her to do those sums, Mrs. Baynard, Miss Thomas was attending Elizabeth. I'm certain that whatever has pulled Miss Thomas from the schoolroom is none of your concern. The governess stays. And you... you will go. And you will never again enter this chamber to take me to task for things far beyond your scope. You overstep, madame. Greatly."

Mrs. Baynard drew herself up to what was still a very diminutive height, but her spine was straight and her thin shoulders squared as she said, "Very well, sir. I shall keep my opinion of Miss Thomas to myself. It's quite clear that your priorities have shifted in a direction that does not allow for reason."

"My apologies, Mr. Falconer. I tried to stop her," Ramsey offered apologetically.

"She is an unstoppable force. You need not apologize for her."

The valet nodded and then exited the room, clearly relieved that he was still employed. When he was alone once more, Devon returned to the dressing room. But it was empty. There was no sign of Philippa. She'd escaped through the bathing room that connected the two bedchambers of the master suite. While he understood the necessity of her action, he couldn't stop the disappointment that he felt at not having a chance to speak with her. Because Mrs. Baynard was right about one thing. His priorities had shifted. And decisions, much as she might be loath to hear them, had been made.