Part Three: A Kiss Under the Mistletoe
Chapter Four
Anne was pacing her room, seized by a strange sort of distress. It was Christmas Eve and they were to have their dinner together. Why she felt so excited to be dining alone with His Grace, was beyond her comprehension. It was not as if this was the first time she had done so.
She critically studied her reflection in the mirror and almost decided to change. She’d chosen her green silk – a gift Georgie and Jane had given her last Christmas. She’d never had the chance to wear the gown before. It had felt too fancy for their rather informal dinners here. Besides, while by no means immodest, it was fashionably low cut.
Privately she thought that it displayed her bosom to the best advantage. What a wicked thought! What interest could His Grace possibly have in her bosom? Even worse! What if His Grace believed that she had chosen to make an embarrassing display of her charms in front of him?
Defeated, she patted her hair. The Greek hair style she’d chosen displayed the elegant silver combs the girls had gifted her with, the simplicity of her coiffure making a pleasing contrast with the more vibrant colour of the dress. It was a dress of jade green that quite closely matched her eyes. For the first time in years, she liked her own image in the mirror.
She sighed. It was Christmas Eve after all. She felt she had the right to dress to the occasion tonight, even if she was only in His Grace’s company. And if His Grace did not like it or considered it too much, well, she decided she would not really care. It was with these bold thoughts that she decided to head downstairs.
However, she felt somewhat relieved when His Grace did not choose to comment at all upon her appearance. But as the dinner progressed, she became acutely aware that His Grace chose to say quite little during dinner. Instead, he was steadily drinking the lovely red wine of which she herself had already drunk a glass. A glass had always been her limit – and she had never been able to drink more than that. Tonight she however decided to emulate His Grace’s example and to indulge a little bit more.
The butler was probably shocked when she asked for her glass to be refilled, but obliged her. Anne gradually began to feel more at ease, starting to understand that His Grace was most certainly missing his daughters terribly tonight. She could not fault him for being so uncommunicative.
Henry had already finished what must have been his fourth wine glass, when he realised that the evening was still young. They were not even past the third course. It was her fault, really, he decided. Miss Archer’s. What business had she had dressing in that green dress that reminded him of woods and nymphs and laurels?
It was a dress that made her green eyes even greener, and which displayed what he perceived to be a considerable amount of extremely enticing bosom. Why on earth had he not been able to notice before that Miss Archer had a lovely bosom? Eight years ago he might not have hired her. This was decidedly the bosom of a temptress and not that of a governess.
He strived not to ogle her, becoming painfully aware of his state of semi arousal. Why was it that, after all these years, tonight of all nights he had become so bloody aware of her female presence? But, you see, that treacherous voice inside of him started whispering, somehow you have always been aware of her, deep down inside yourself. You have always known of her luscious hair and sparkling eyes. You just chose to push them back, in the depths of your consciousness, locking them there like a forgotten memory. And you chose to do so because you knew too well that she was not for you.
He caught himself almost muttering under his breath, and furtively raised his eyes to see if she’d noticed it. Blissfully, at the moment, she seemed unaware of him, her eyes having the dreamy look of one caught in a world of her own. What would she be thinking now, his newly discovered Daphne?
As for his own thoughts, there was only one word that could be used to describe them. Lewd. He pictured himself in an ancient forest, chasing after her and finally catching up with her, pinning her to the ground in the grass, among wild flowers and fallen boughs. She would gaze into his eyes levelly and laugh, pleased that she had finally been caught, not caring that his kisses would scorch her, revelling in the rough love that he would most certainly bestow on her. He pictured himself taking the silver combs out of her brown hair and burying his hands into its thick mass. He pictured himself ripping the bodice of the green dress, licking and nibbling the tip of a full breast.
The train of his lewd thoughts was fortunately interrupted by her voice. The sentence that she uttered had an instantly sobering effect upon him.
“I’m sure they’re having great fun. You needn’t worry, Your Grace!” Miss Archer said.
She was most certainly speaking of his daughters. And he felt terribly ashamed. His daughters cherished Miss Archer. She was their governess. Not some woman that he had the right to fantasise about.
The rest of the dinner was sheer torture for Henry, although Cook had obviously made her best efforts to ensure it was a delicious affair. There was roast beef and capon and goose and, naturally, there was Christmas pie. There was pudding and Cook’s famous gingerbread. It was all delicious, but tonight he cared nothing for the taste of what he was eating. He simply wanted something else. And he knew precisely what he wanted – a taste of Miss Archer.
Steadily drinking, he studied her through narrowed eyes. She seemed to be enjoying herself so tremendously that he instantly envied her. She was praising the dishes and chattering happily at him, not deterred by his terse or mechanical responses. It was quite unlike her to be so talkative and unmindful of those around her.
He suddenly realized that she too, no doubt lured by the gaudily merry spirit of this thing that they called Christmas, had imbibed too much. Too much…He almost laughed. For her too much would probably be just a little more than the glass of wine that she had upon occasion with her dinner.
He almost chided her out loud. How foolish of you, Miss Archer! Just a drop of wine more than your usual, and you may fall prey to those who are panting to steal your virtue. You may fall prey to those who might take advantage of your state. You may fall prey to those who might take advantage of this moment.
It was with relief that he saw dinner draw at an end. It was still early and it was Christmas Eve, but he felt resolved to bid her good night as soon as possible. Instead, he found himself dismissing the servants and luring her under the mistletoe that was hanging above the front door. Obviously, still under the effects of the supplementary drop of wine that she had imbibed, she seemed oblivious to this ploy.
It was only when she raised her green gaze that Miss Archer noted that they had been, for a while now, standing under the mistletoe. She returned her gaze on him, her eyes wide with disbelief and then with sudden understanding.
He smiled, and thought that in her eyes his smile might certainly look predatory. But hadn’t she herself told him earlier today that predators were just predators, being unable change their nature?
“It is tradition,” he said gruffly.
One kiss for the lord and master. It was all that he required. Not that much, after all. It wasn’t as if he were asking her for the right primae noctis.
He suddenly heard her acquiesce.
“Fine,” he heard her whisper.
This was all the incentive he needed. He hotly traced the seam of her lips with his tongue before proceeding to kiss her. It was only after he’d revelled in the budding, tingling sensation that the sweetness of her lips gave him, that he decided to fully kiss her. Casting all teasing and gentleness aside, he captured her lips and preyed upon them hungrily. He kissed her long and hard – trying to make this an eight-year worth kiss.
It was with a difficulty that he broke this kiss, but told himself this was enough. Such a deep kiss would surely be enough. Enough to make him feel sated and never long for her again. The moment he told himself that, he knew he was lying. The kiss had just whetted his appetite. He had been all too aware of her full breasts crushed against him, of her hips warmly pressed against his body.
She stood there, looking at him with eyes that were full of some sort of wildness. He saw her take her fingers to her lips and trace their lush contour, as if to rekindle the memory of the kiss he’d just bestowed there.
“Kiss me again,” she told him and there was nothing of the polite, unobtrusive Miss Archer in her tone.
Her tone bespoke a command – that of a wood nymph that orders her lover to pleasure her in the primeval forest.
As he did so, he became very much aware of her lips following the dance initiated by his own. Of her hands entwined in his hair. Of her tongue playfully meeting his. She had been kissed before, by another man, he jealously realised.
Anger – most certainly unjustified – surged inside him, as well as jealousy towards her unknown previous lover. He jealously wondered if her lover had ever kissed her this deep. Would she be thinking of this lover when he carried her to his bed and buried himself inside her warmth?
At this thought, he willed himself to stop. He had enough wits left to know that what he’d been contemplating was utterly wrong.
Struggling to retrieve shreds of his ducal dignity, he broke the kiss, choosing instead to plant a featherweight kiss on her hand.
“Forgive me, Miss Archer. I am not myself tonight. It was not my intention to take undue advantage of you.”
He bowed, then turned on his heel and took his leave, without a single glance over his shoulder. He had behaved wretchedly, that much he realised. He had the sinking feeling that it would be only tomorrow that he would fully realise just how wretched his behaviour had been.
**
Anne fell asleep with her lips still tingling from the kiss. That night she dreamt of golden gods and wood nymphs, of a world at the beginning of time where one could freely love and not feel shamed by it.
She awoke with a start, remembering the events that had taken place last night. It did feel like a dream – those unreal deep golden kisses that he’d bestowed upon her – kisses for which he’d later apologised.
Had it been her fault? she asked herself. Had her dress and reprehensible conduct last night prompted this? She should feel ashamed, she reasoned. It was nobody’s fault but her own that they had come to this. She should feel ashamed, she repeated to herself. Yet, in truth, she did not.
Of course, everything that had taken place last night had been completely improper. Which of them was more to blame for it, His Grace or she herself, was quite difficult to decide. She settled that they were both equally guilty.
Yet, she did not feel guilty at all. Quite on the contrary – she felt wonderful. More alive than she’d felt in years. She traced the seam of her lips, remembering how good it had been to have the velvet of his tongue brush over them.
His Grace. She smiled. Somehow she could not bring herself to call him otherwise – not even in her mind. She realised now with full clarity something that she had never had the courage to plainly admit to herself. In her fancies, when she’d pictured a golden god making passionate love to her, she’d always pictured him in the image of His Grace.
Of course, she’d always known this dream lover of hers was not really the duke himself, but a figment of her own imagination. He was just a perfect man she’d conjured up, who wore the face and body of the duke. It was, however, the duke’s sun-kissed hair that she imagined burying her hands into, his broad shoulders that she would lean her head upon, his big strong hands that would caress her cheek.
She sighed. She was being silly and cowardly, never having the courage to tell herself that, like a wanton, she’d lusted after the body of the duke ever since she’d first set eyes on him, that morning eight years ago when he had carried her interview.
She’d been but twenty at the time and really certain she would not get a position in a household as grand as that of a duke. She’d imagined the duke as some dry old stick and had been surprised to find herself in the presence of a handsome young man, with serious grey eyes, when she’d entered his study.
She had instantly assumed that this was not the duke himself, after all, but the duke’s secretary, who would take care of the interview in his employer’s stead. She knew that the duke was recently widowed, so she had assumed that, in his recent state of bereavement, he had changed his mind about the interview and had delegated his secretary to do this for him.
She had actually felt relief wash over her. It was better to have this secretary interview her, rather than the duke himself. While his eyes seemed flinty and forbidding, there was something about his mouth which softened his demeanour. In spite of the man’s rather grim countenance, those were lips that, she had decided, could curve into a pleasant smile if their owner would choose to do so.
He had not introduced himself to her though, which had not seemed the proper thing to do. He had begun asking his questions in clipped tones, in a methodical manner, sometimes pausing to write things down as they’d progressed.
At first she had been somewhat reluctant to reveal to him her competence in ancient Greek and Latin, which her father had taught her. She had heard it said that most gentlemen disapproved of such an accomplishment in ladies. However, since she had been brought up to be a truthful person, she had eventually decided to reveal this, hoping that such a skill would not be after all thought a downfall in her education.
He’d raised his fine grey eyes in surprise to look at her, and she’d felt that he was measuring her from top to toe.
“Would you consider teaching these ancient languages to your charges?” he’d asked her and she’d breathed a sigh of relief.
“Yes,” she’d answered truthfully. “I believe a knowledge of ancient languages to be beneficial for any person, be it a gentleman or a lady.”
It was then that she had been able to glimpse the ghost of a smile upon his grim countenance.
“So do I, for that matter,” he’d told her.
He’d seemed to peruse her at length, as if making a final decision upon her person.
“What manner of discipline would you consider bestowing upon your charges?” he’d asked her.
She had been brought up to be a truthful person, and decided to speak the truth, although she knew that this would probably lose her the position. Still, she was not the kind of person who could use methods that she did not believe in.
“I believe,” she’d said, attempting to keep her voice steady, “that children should be gently led rather than coerced. I’d never consider whipping a child, even if a parent may allow me to do so. In case discipline is truly needed, I believe chores to be a more effective discipline– not excessive tasks, naturally, but things that a child would be able to do, such as writing an assignment or doing something useful in the house.”
She’d seen him nod, and for the first time it had finally seemed to her that the briefest shadow of a smile had passed his lips.
“I believe, Miss Archer”, he’d said. “That your person will suit my girls’ needs, should you choose to take the position I’m offering.”
She’d barely suppressed a gasp hearing him refer to the girls as to his own offspring. The handsome young man she’d thought a secretary was actually the duke himself.
He had continued, gravely, this time.
“My daughters have recently lost their mother and will need special care and gentleness from their governess. Do you feel up to this task, Miss Archer?”
“I shall try my best, Your Grace,” she had answered in earnest, truly hoping she would be able to do so.
That day, she had left the duke’s residence, feeling some sort of elation over her unexpected success. However, the feeling of elation had been, strangely, accompanied by yet another, peculiarly nagging one. It was disappointment – peculiar disappointment – over the fact that the young man who’d interviewed her was not just a secretary, but a duke.
At present, as she recalled this feeling, she could no longer lie to herself. She had truly wanted him to be a secretary. Simply because she had instantly wanted him to be within her reach, not so far above her in station. Because, in her silliness, she had already envisaged some sort of future romantic attachment possible between them. She also recalled she had firmly decided to dismiss such thoughts and concentrate on taking care of her charges. She’d recognized the foolishness before it had really begun. And she’d put a stop to it. Fortunately, soon she had found her happiness in the company of the girls, and it had been easier to put such thoughts behind her.
Not all of them though, she admitted. She had been unable to stop lustful thoughts and fantasies from creeping into her dreams. And now she was really caught within their net.
It was Christmas morning, she realised. As they were by now literally snowed in and the blizzard did not give any signs it was ready to be on its way, this time there would be no Christmas service that they could attend. Somehow she doubted that His Grace would mind that very much. Although he usually attended church functions, she’d noticed that he did not do so with much enthusiasm. She recalled that at one time he’ d drily told her that going to church was part of those chores one had to put up with when one was a duke. As a clergyman’s daughter and also as the sister of one, she supposed the attitude should shock her, yet it did not. In spite of his profession, her father had maintained a peculiarly dispassionate attitude to religion, being far more interested in scholarly pursuits. And her brother’s tedious sermonizing had not made her particularly fond of the precepts that he ceaselessly preached. So indeed, ever since her father had died, Christmas service had become somewhat of a chore to her. This was to be the first Christmas day she would be free to do what she wanted.
Free. The word sounded frighteningly enticing. She was not surprised though when, some hours later, she was summoned by His Grace. She’d already known that a confrontation between them regarding last night would take place. She knew too well His Grace was nothing but an honourable man.
