Page 40 of In Service to the Duke

“I’m sure you have a few hidden gems tucked away about this statue, things they don’t teach ladies such as myself. Perhaps you should enlighten me as to the hidden meanings.”

“I could, but then I’d be deprived of hearing your thoughts,” he replies, a small smile twitching his lips.

Blast. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. Once more, I look upon the statue, my insides clenching as I do my best to bring up even a mere crumb of remembrance. But there’s nothing.

You would think I’d remember something so evocative. And yet, as I stand there, I find I wish to slink away. I was daft to think I could go toe-to-toe with a force to be reckoned with like the duke and manage to succeed.

With a soft chuckle, he wraps his arms around my waist. The intimate gesture causes me to jerk in his arms, pulling forward so I can escape. But he doesn’t allow it. He curls around me even tighter, hugging me so close to him I can feel his buttons through my clothing.

Too close. Far too close. Especially where everyone can see us. I wish to chide him, to ask him to remove himself from my person, but I find I cannot. I’m far too weak to resist him. With a soft sigh, I lean into his touch, nearly groaning as his body molds around mine.

Perfect.

It’s the only word I have for it.

“This is Apollo and Daphne,” he murmurs in my ear, reaching forward to stroke the marble. “Created in 1625 by the skilled Gian Lorenzo Bernini. Are you familiar with their story?”

“No, Your Grace.” My voice is soft, breathy as I stand there, entranced by his words.

“Your lack of knowledge of Greek myths will be addressed later,” he growls, the promise of retribution heavy on his lips. “Apollo was madly in love with Daphne. Obsessed, even. He craved her, wanted her, desired her above all else.”

Blackport’s fingers dig into my stomach, nearly mimicking the stance of Apollo. My body burns at his treatment of me and clouds my head.

“Your Grace,” I plead, but he doesn’t listen.

“Daphne was a virgin. She swore to never lie with a man. But Apollo did not listen. He didn’t care about something as miniscule as her honor. Not when his desire burned so hot. And so he pursued her, capturing her. But as he grabbed his prize.” He trails off, punctuating his words by tightening his grip until it’s almost painful. “She turned into a laurel tree. Tell me, Miss Gillet, do you fear turning into a tree before my very eyes?”

I shake my head, unable to formulate words. His very touch discombobulates me. For all my mind is worth, I might as well be a tree. After a few more scandalous moments, he eventually pulls away.

“However, there are other things to discuss besides this statue to futility and longing. I thought I made my instructions clear. I told you to meet me in my study. As arresting as this piece is, this is not where I commanded you to be, Miss Gillet.” His voice is tight, not nearly a growl, but close enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“No, it is not, Your Grace.”

“Shall we remedy that?”

I turn then and gaze into his sapphire eyes. My breath stills in my throat as I watch them turn nearly black. But it must be my imagination. Soon, they’re back to the blue I see every time I close my eyes.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

“Precisely.” Glancing behind us, he ensures we’re alone before ushering me into my room of punishment.

Now that I’m here, I want nothing more than to throw myself at his feet and beg for his worst. But we both know that cannot happen. And so, I walk over to his desk and wait, doing my best to remain patient as he locks the door and turns to face me.

CHAPTER 18

EMMA

He stands there, tall and imposing. Just like the statue in the hallway. His eyes glint with some unnamed emotion as he crosses his arms and leans against the door. Every inch of him exudes power and authority, making me weak in the knees.

“What am I going to do with you, my little governess?” The way he nearly purrs out the word governess makes my heart race and my palms dampen.

I’m so caught up in the tone of his voice I almost miss the word my. Such a small word. Normally, it would be insignificant, easily missed. But combined with his nickname for me makes it all the more important.

When did I become his anything? Have I missed some fundamental shift between us? My heart pounds in my chest as yearning races through me. How desperately I wish to be his.

Would it still be considered part of my mother’s machinations if he were the one to ask it of me instead of me trapping him? For the first time since I’ve been planted here, hope blooms into my chest, sending a tendril of giddiness through my abdomen.

I almost burst out in hysterical laughter, but I contain myself, desperate for him to see me as someone refined and restrained—a proper duchess. I may not be the wisest omega. I certainly am not the most skilled. But I can learn. I can mold myself into what he wants. Anything he wants.