“Well, I wish you a pleasant evening.”
“Streatham?”
Why on earth had Malcolm called him back? Selina gritted her teeth. He rubbed a soothing hand over her back, as though he could sense her discomfort.
“Yes, Caversham?” She could picture the exact way George’s eyebrow would rise, languid and ironical, in a way that Anthea had confided drove her absolutely wild.
“You’re not, ah…” Malcolm cleared his throat delicately. “I thought you and Lady Streatham…”
“Oh, good lord! No, I’m not here on your sort of assignation.” There was an awkward pause. “I had to make a quick escape to avoid the subject of my wife’s latest column,” George explained. Selina could not say why, exactly, but she had the distinct impression that he was lying. “Not the done thing, you know, to cause a scene at a party.”
“No, not at all. Well, I shall leave you to your hideaway.” Malcolm edged Selina towards the door, moving awkwardly so as not to dislodge the jacket. She tried not to think about what it was doing to her hair.
Let alone what the movement of his muscular arms against her body was doing to her.
“Take care to lock the library door, Caversham,” said George. “I’d hate to think of you being disturbed again.”
“Really, Streatham.” Malcolm’s jollity was growing ever more forced. “I’m hardly a novice, you know.”
George let out a brief chuckle quite unlike his usual easy laughter. Malcolm guided Selina out of the doorway. Brighter light filtered through his jacket; someone had left candles lit in the empty library.
Malcolm let her go, gently pulling the jacket to keep her face concealed, and reached around her to close the door.
“Safe,” he said, as it clicked shut. Selina knew before she pulled the jacket from her face that he would be sagging against the doorway with relief.
Malcolm was leaning, forehead pressed to his wrist, against what appeared to be an ordinary part of the wall. The entrance to the secret passageway was hidden beautifully. Nobody would ever have guessed it was there if they did not already know where to look.
He turned to her, one arm still pressed against the secret doorway, amusement curving his lips.
“That was a great deal more exciting than I had anticipated.”
Selina was certain that the warmth inside his jacket had turned her face pink and sweaty, mussed her hair, and left her looking a frightful state. But Malcolm was eyeing her with an expression that suggested he preferred his finery rumpled, rather than pristine.
“I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did,” he said.
“There was nothing to enjoy.” Selina turned on her heel, pressing one hand to the curls that had half-fallen from their pins, and marched past the bookshelves to the library door.
Malcolm took a step towards her. “Wait –”
She turned the key in the lock, and glanced back at him, enquiring. Relief flickered across his face.
He wanted her to stay. He wanted them alone, together, just a little longer. Why, she couldn’t be sure. Or rather, she suspected a great many things, but did not wish to be proven right about any of them.
As though reading her thoughts, Malcolm straightened himself up, tugging his jacket on again. Not meeting her eyes. “You ought to fix your hair before you leave. I’ll hide away in here a while, so no one imagines we’ve been together. Streatham’s eyes are a little too sharp for my comfort.”
“He’s my sister’s husband. Even if he recognised me, he wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t entrust your honour to a man I hardly know.”
Selina could hardly keep from rolling her eyes again. How like Malcolm, to tempt her into a compromising situation and then have a fit of nobility when said situation put her in entirely predictable danger. “George is family. That means something to me.”
He winced. She’d struck a blow there, without meaning to. “You are fortunate. Family has never meant a great deal to me. Even when I had one.”
Her lips parted, trying to form an apology, but he waved it away. “There doesn’t seem to be a mirror in here,” he said. “Let me help you with your hair.”
She lowered her hand, pulling the loose hairpin with it. The curls her maid had arranged so precisely tumbled down to her shoulder.
Malcolm touched one of the fallen locks, winding it around his finger. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
She handed him the hairpin, trying to pretend that his face was not far too close to hers, that his hand on her hair was not far too intimate. “Take a section from the front and twist it around itself, then pin it to match the other side. It doesn’t matter if it’s uneven. I doubt anyone will be looking at me closely enough to notice.”
“You are badly mistaken there,” he said. The catch in his voice drew her eyes to his, and then she could not tear them away. She was lost in his cool, watchful blue, like a moth hypnotised by a flame.
There was no more pretending that nothing lay between them but rivalry. No more ignoring the heat the proximity of his body sparked in hers. Malcolm’s fingers ran through her half-fallen hair, deliberately sensual, stroking sensitive lines across her scalp. His chest heaved with a rush of breath.
“You won’t let me kiss you, will you?”
It was barely a question. He spoke as though he already knew the answer. As though he deeply regretted it.
But he was wrong. Selina realised it with a mix of pain and surprise. If he had tried to kiss her then, she would not have pushed him away. She would have welcomed it.
She broke away from him, not knowing how else to respond to the desire that he had awoken inside her.
“Why?” Malcolm’s voice had a rough edge to it that he stopped to master before continuing. “I’m not suggesting that I’m your ideal match, but it seems you won’t consider letting anybody court you at all. Why not, Selina? Why
