Fearless Duke

into action. She swept forward, small of stature and yet all womanly curves. She was golden-haired, pale of visage, and delectable of form. Her gown was dour: ebony and gray, conservative silk bereft of ornamentation.
But beneath it all hid the lush body of a woman. Her breasts were large and full. Her curves were plentiful, the sort that could not be hidden by plain dress. She was, all of her, from head to toe, woman.
And his cock sprang to life. Feminine curves were his sole weakness, and he knew it.
“Your Grace,” she greeted him.
Though to call her address a greeting was perhaps granting too much. She spoke with icy formality, dipping into a puritanical curtsey as if she were lowering herself to be in his presence.
Intriguing.
“Miss Orange Grove, was it?” he asked, deliberately baiting her as he stood and swept into a mocking bow.
Twin spots of pink flared to life in her cheeks. “It is Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace.”
He glanced to his perturbed butler, who was glaring at their unexpected interloper. “Thank you, Young. That will be all.”
When he needed to toss out this brazen woman on her rump, he would see her to the door himself. But first, he intended to amuse himself. Why not? He was already having a devil of a day.
“Of course, Your Grace.” The servant bowed elegantly, and then discreetly closed the door behind him.
Linking his hands behind his back, Benedict strolled toward the latest offering sent to him by the Ladies’ Typewriting School. She was not conventionally beautiful, this woman. But there was something about her prim bearing and tightly laced, conservative dress that intrigued him. She had the body of a Venus, and a face that was…interesting.
That was the word for it. Her eyes were too wide, and as he drew nearer, he discovered they were an astounding blue, fringed with thick lashes a shade darker than the almost wintry gold of her hair. Her lips were a full, puckered pout, her nose charmingly retroussé. But for all the softness of her face and figure, her mien was prickly as a rosebush. She held herself stiffly, rather in the fashion of an effigy at Madame Tussaud’s Waxwork Exhibition.
Her nostrils flared. “Have you finished, Your Grace?”
She referred to his unabashed perusal of her. She was bold, by God.
He liked it.
“No, I have not.” He raised a brow at her and paused, with a scant few paces separating them. “Turn.”
“I beg your pardon?” she demanded, with all the ice of a queen.
He wondered if she had ever been a governess, with that rigid spine and perfect tone of disapproval. Toying with her was proving amusing. Just the distraction he was in need of, making him forget, momentarily, about the plague that was menacing London.
A plague he was expected to purge.
At least some of the fellows responsible had hopefully beaten him to the task, by rendering themselves nothing more than flotsam in the Thames.
“Turn,” he repeated, not wanting to think about the dynamitards and the Fenian menace.
Perhaps for ten minutes, he could entertain himself by nettling this unique and thorny woman. At least, until he sent her on her way like he had her predecessors.
“I do not understand, Your Grace.” Her hauteur was more defined than ever. She drew herself up, as if she could make herself seem larger or menacing.
The color in her cheeks had deepened, and he found himself staring at the high collar of her gown, the place where silk and creamy feminine skin met. Setting his lips there suddenly seemed like the most delicious prospect in the world.
But he knew Miss Hilgrove had no intention of allowing herself to be seduced. Moreover, he hardly had the time to spare for a frantic fuck with his seasoned mistress, let alone a slow and protracted wooing with a virginal miss such as the woman before him. When had he ever had any interest in virginal misses anyway? Never, he was sure. Nor would he begin now.
He shook himself free of the brief, lustful urge. “Spin about, Miss Killjoy. I need to make certain your attire is appropriate, given your attempt to represent the office of the Special League as my typist.”
“My name is Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” she snapped, standing perfectly still and denying him the joy of watching her turn for him.
Pity. He would not have minded admiring her from the rear as well. There was something positively erotic about the curve of a woman’s neck, the secret hollow behind her ear.
Good God, he obviously needed to pay a visit to Roberta. What was he doing, slavering over a frigid lady typewriter who was not nearly as beautiful?
He would put an end to this, here and now.
“If you will not spin for me, you cannot remain in my study,” he told her pointedly. “And if you will not heed me as your employer, then I cannot, in good conscience, retain you in my employ. Nor can I send you away with a reference. Indeed, I cannot imagine why the Ladies’ Typewriting School would hope to employ such a dour, disagreeable creature as yourself.”
“The Ladies’ Typewriting School does not employ me, Your Grace.” Her full lips flattened into a grim line as the weight of her disgust for him attempted to emerge. “Nor do you. Indeed, I would not subject myself to laboring for a tyrant. Nor will I subject any of my typists to it.”
Her words gave him pause. Dimly, he recalled having read an article in the Times about a Society for Promoting the Employment of Women. A Miss Hilgrove had been mentioned within it, he felt certain. At the time, he had envisioned a woman every bit as dour but thrice the age of the woman currently looking at him as if he were vermin she had just discovered running across the floor.
“Your typists,” he said, casting another glance over her. “Explain, madam.”
“I am the proprietress of the Ladies’ Typewriting School, Your Grace,” she bit out. “And I have come to