Fearless Duke

Westmorland House library was now her employer. She must be dutiful, she reminded herself firmly, respectful as well. She must hold her tongue, numb her sense of pride, stay her restlessly beating heart.
“Benny!” Callie’s smile grew, her tone warm with undeniable caring. “What are you doing skulking about? You gave me a fright.”
Her affection for her brother was obvious.
“Lady Calliope.” He inclined his head, his tone curt. He offered a bow in his sister’s direction, then another in Isabella’s. “Miss Hilgrove. Forgive my…skulking.”
No Miss Killjoy, she noted. And did she detect a touch of levity behind his grim smile? Or was his leniency for his sister alone?
Once more, Isabella dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace.”
“Well.” Callie’s gaze flitted from Isabella to the duke. “I know there is a veritable mountain of work awaiting, and precious little time in which to manage the doing. I shall leave the two of you to your efforts. It was a great pleasure meeting you this morning, Isabella.”
“You as well, Lady Calliope.”
“Callie,” her new friend insisted. “And do not forget what I said, my dear.”
“Callie,” interrupted the Duke of Westmorland sternly before Isabella could speak. “You may go now. Do try to stay out of trouble today, goose.”
“I always stay out of trouble, dearest brother.” With a grin and a wink, Callie was gone.
Westmorland gestured toward the library. “Come, Miss Hilgrove. Time is wasting.”
It was clear that her brief glimpse into the man hiding behind his haughty façade was at an end. Never mind. She had not come to Westmorland House to learn about its enigmatic master. She had come here to perform a job.
Isabella swept into the cavernous library, tamping down a sudden surge of foreboding.

Chapter Three
He should have accepted Roberta’s invitation last night. He ought to have joined her after the damned surprise ball and lost himself in her willing body and sweetly scented curves. But he had not.
And the reason was seated by the window overlooking the Westmorland House gardens, her slim fingers moving rapidly over the keys of her typewriter as fluently as if she played an instrument. She had worn black again, damn her. But the mournful dearth of color in her gown did nothing to abate his raging cockstand. Nor did the shapelessness of the sack she had donned, likely in an effort to further displease him.
He had intentionally placed her as far away from himself as possible. Callie’s ball had raged on until two o’clock in the morning, at which point, he had ruthlessly kicked out the stragglers on their arses and gone to bed. As exhausted as he had been, he had still managed to take himself in hand to thoughts of the vexing woman who had already worked through a stack of reports with nary a tear, a hum, or a sniffle.
Of course she had.
Her work was without fault. And he had been studying each page she provided him in an effort to find errors. Not a skipped word, nor one letter out of place. He strummed his fingers on the desk, watching her work surreptitiously through a lowered gaze under the guise of reading the most recent report she had completed.
Who the hell would have thought watching a woman engaged in the act of typing would be so damned erotic? Perhaps it was the way she bit her lower lip as she concentrated. Or the manner in which her tongue occasionally stole over the seam of her mouth. Perhaps it was that he had gone too long without a woman in his bed.
But that was not the answer either, was it? For he could have easily followed Roberta to the house he kept for just such a purpose. At the time, he had convinced himself it was because he was weary, and because taking a carriage back through the London streets seemed far too taxing an endeavor. In truth, it had been because as beautiful as Roberta was, the lust pounding through him had not been caused by his lover, and he had no wish to answer it with her.
“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” asked the true source of his rampant desire then.
Even her husky voice affected him, sending vivid imaginings through his restless mind. He realized her eyes were upon him. That her fingers had stilled upon her instrument.
He raised his head, meeting the relentless blue of her gaze directly. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hilgrove?”
“You made a sound,” she elaborated. “I thought perhaps something was wrong. Have you found a mistake in my work?”
Christ, had he made a sound? Likely one of choked lust. He was like a starving mongrel, slavering over a bone. What the devil ailed him?
He cleared his throat, willing his erection to diminish. “No errors, Miss Hilgrove. Yet.”
He was a bastard for needling her, and he knew it. The moment he implied she was bound to make a mistake, her back stiffened in ramrod fashion.
“I shall endeavor to maintain my record.” Her voice was an icy reproach.
She lowered her head and resumed typing.
He lowered his head and resumed watching her instead of accomplishing any of the tasks he needed to complete for the day. How the hell was he going to survive the next week? He had placed her at the opposite end of one of the largest rooms in Westmorland House, and the distance did nothing to lessen his need.
If anything, he longed for her more.
Perhaps tomorrow, he would have to place her in a different chamber entirely. She could remain in the grand library, and he would remove himself to his study. If she had questions, she could send him a note via Young. He ground his molars, irritated with himself for this stupid bloody idea.
He had thought to teach the irritating woman a lesson. Instead, he had quickly proven to himself just how little restraint he possessed. Perhaps he was more perverse than he had supposed, that his tastes extended to disagreeable females who would make joyless bedmates.
Not just any disagreeable females,