Miss Clara Thorne, governess to Lord Ashford’s brats, was prim as a prayer book—until Captain James, Ashford’s roguish brother, returned from India. His sun-bronzed jaw and devilish grin could unravel a corset from ten paces. Clara caught him staring during tea, his eyes promising scandals unfit for Dickens. She fanned herself, blaming the hearth, but her pulse was a waltz gone wild.
One evening, tasked with fetching a book from the library, Clara found James there, shirt unbuttoned, brandy in hand. “Miss Thorne, you’re a vision,” he slurred, stepping close. His voice was velvet, and Clara’s propriety wobbled like a poorly tied bustle. “Sir, I’m here for Tennyson,” she said, clutching a shelf, her imagination staging a very un-Victorian scene.
He plucked a volume from her hands, his fingers grazing hers. “Poetry’s dull without passion,” he murmured, his breath warm on her neck. Clara’s knees betrayed her, and she knocked over a candlestick, setting a curtain ablaze. “Blast!” she squeaked, dousing it with a vase of roses. James roared with laughter, steadying her, his touch a spark to her kindling.
“Clumsy governess,” he teased, but his eyes burned hotter than the near-fire. Clara fled, her cheeks flaming, and spent the night cursing her wanton heart. Lord Ashford would sack her if he knew; society would shun her. Yet when James slipped a note into her hymnbook—Library, midnight—she donned her best shawl. Respectability be damned; she’d have her scandal, even if it singed her soul.