An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2 by Amy Rose Bennett Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t trust himself to speak to her without stammering, drooling or even worse, making a wildly inappropriate suggestion.
    As he made his way toward the Great Hall and then the grounds beyond the front door, he realized his mad obsession with Miss Adams had to stop. But for the life of him, he didn’t know how.
    He ripped off his neckcloth and unbuttoned his waistcoat as he marched across the lawn toward the north end of the lake. He was lying to himself. Of course he bloody knew what he should do to end this insane craving for the governess. There were three options.
    He could send her away to Brighton.
    He could abscond to London and spend a week at his favorite King Street brothel sampling the abundant pleasures on offer until he found a courtesan he particularly liked.
    Or he could proposition Miss Adams and have his wicked way with her. Even though there was smoldering fire in the woman’s gaze whenever she looked at him, he doubted she’d acquiesce. She had a tart tongue and from what he’d seen, she wasn’t afraid to use it.
    God, her mouth... What he wouldn’t do to taste it... Taste all of her...
    By the time he reached the shelter of the rhododendron hedge by the folly, he was in such a lather, his shirt stuck to his back as he attempted to wrench it off. His boots and damnably tight breeches quickly followed and then he plunged into the blessedly cool waters of the lake and struck out to the far side.
    Nicholas was half-way through his third rigorous lap when he decided the best and fairest course of action to take was to send Miss Abigail Adams to Brighton, just like he should have done in the first place. And as soon as he’d completed his business here, he’d return to the capital. And swive himself stupid.
    Maybe then he’d feel sane again.

    * * *
    A bigail gnawed at her bottom lip in the wake of Sir Nicholas’s swift exit from the library. He’d looked so stern and indifferent as he’d given her a curt nod on his way out. She wondered if someone or something had displeased him, but she had no idea who or what that might be. She was fairly certain it had nothing to do with her. How could it?
    She placed Rousseau’s Julie; or The New Heloise onto the appropriate pile and pushed a loose strand of hair away from her perspiration-beaded forehead. For the last few hours she had diligently gone about the task Sir Nicholas had assigned her, removing books from the shelves and trying to organize them into broad but logical categories by subject matter: classical literature, history, the sciences, mathematics, geography, art, philosophy, agriculture, and animal husbandry. And then there was the large collection of novels that Lady Barsby purchased from Hatchards. It was a monotonous, laborious undertaking to be sure, particularly given the library was as stifling as an oven, but Abigail didn’t feel like she was wilting. No, not at all.
    Not with Sir Nicholas in the very next room.
    All morning, the air around her seemed heavy, not only with humidity, but with pulsating awareness. Sexual awareness. The kind of awareness that made Abigail’s lower belly ache with longing. The dampness between her thighs had nothing to do with the heat.
    Every so often, when she had glanced over to Mr. Cruikshank’s cramped, stuffy study, she had caught Sir Nicholas watching her, his gaze heavy-lidded and more than a little speculative. At one point, he’d arched a dark eyebrow—as if inviting her to do something wicked—and she’d blushed so hotly, she had immediately looked away.
    Curse the man and curse her vulnerability. Why did he have to be so sinfully attractive? And why couldn’t she be as dry and dusty and as unresponsive as the ancient, leather-bound tomes she’d been handling?
    But she wasn’t. Even now, Sir Nicholas’s tantalizing scent—a potent mix of sandalwood and pleasant male muskiness—wrapped around her, teasing her, taunting her. Making her want things no young woman in her position, or