“I don’t need it.”
“Nevertheless.” He gestured to a chair, one of the sweeping, lordly gestures he made without appearing to notice. He was so used to command that he behaved as though his whims could not be denied.
She sat. Malcolm stood before her, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Oddly diffident, now. An entirely different man to the Gorgeous Grace the girls thought they’d catch, if they chased him hard enough.
He cleared his throat. “Let me tell you why I hate the rain.”
10
He really intended to tell her. He did.
What he meant to do was strip his soul before her, as she’d stripped hers.
But when they were interrupted, he did not try to salvage the moment. He ran from it, like a coward.
Like the weak boy his father had always told him he was.
The handle of the library door rattled again. Selina got to her feet, alarm flaring on her face.
“It’s locked!” exclaimed a puzzled voice from behind the door. “It’s been locked from the inside!”
“Back into the passageway with you,” said Malcolm, taking Selina by the arm. “Wait there for ten minutes. I’ll get rid of whoever this is by then. And then come out and make your way back to the ballroom. We shouldn’t try to speak again tonight.”
Coward, coward, the voices chimed in his head. He found the hidden panel, twisted the secret handle, and bundled Selina into the waiting darkness.
“What about George?” she asked, as he closed the door on her lovely face.
“He’ll be long gone.” Malcolm prayed he was correct. He rested his forehead for a moment on the hidden door, collecting his thoughts.
Imagining Selina pressing a hand to the other side of it. Imagining the touch of her, soft and tempting, through the impenetrable wood.
He shook his head, casting the foolish images away, and went to the real door of the library, unlocking it with his best ducal glare affixed to his face.
It was so effective that Lucius Whitby took a step back, crashing into his father, who stood behind.
“Caversham! I do apologise.”
Malcolm softened his features to a smile. “It is I who should apologise, Whitby. I only wanted a moment’s respite from the crowd. You have a very interesting collection of books here.”
Lucius exchanged a knowing glance with his father and winced. “Ah. I take it my youngest sister and her friends have made their presence known?”
“Those girls have no sense of propriety,” grumbled old Mr Whitby. “It’s my wife’s fault.”
Malcolm stepped out of the library, closing the door behind him, and clapped a hand to Lucius’s shoulder. “Not at all. They are charming girls, every one of them. In fact, I should very much like to dance with Miss Georgiana again, if you can help me find her.”
Lucius lowered his brows suspiciously, but his father’s eagerness overrode him.
“Of course, Your Grace! Nothing would please her more. Come with us, please. We’ll track the girl down in a jiffy.”
Malcolm allowed himself to be led back to the ballroom, nodding with polite interest as Mr Whitby enumerated every one of his youngest daughter’s accomplishments.
It was as good a birthday gift as any, he supposed, to dance twice in one night with a duke. And whatever Lucius and his father had been looking for in the library was forgotten. Selina would be able to make her escape.
He did his best to dissipate the churn of emotions swirling through his chest in the surface-level pleasures of the ball. Georgiana Whitby fluttered her eyelashes after him most obligingly, enjoying her unexpected present to the full. There was no end to silly young girls to distract himself with, if he had cared to look at any of them.
He found Isobel Balfour sitting in a corner beside the musicians, her eyes half closed as she listened to the music.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, speaking softly so as not to startle her.
Isobel’s eyes opened fully, round and pale, unlike Selina’s, and far too intelligent – just like her sister’s. “Are you going to ask me where my sister is? Or invite me to dance, in the hope of winning her approval, like you did before?”
He winced. “And people call you the quiet Balfour.”
“Wallflowers have eyes, you know.” Isobel held out her hand. He blinked with surprise, not realising for several seconds too long that she intended him to take it.
“Don’t tell me you are throwing your support behind my quest to make Lady Icicle notice that I exist.”
“I have reasons of my own to be seen dancing with a duke.” Isobel rose to her feet and marched towards the dance floor, all but dragging him behind her. “There’s a certain gentleman who would benefit from knowing that I am not the sad wallflower he imagines.”
“Is he here tonight?”
“No. But people are certain to talk.” She took her place opposite him in the dance. “And, Caversham? Call Selina Lady Icicle again and I’ll…” She stopped, frowning. “Well, I don’t know what I can do to make you sorry for it, but I’ll find something. I promise you that.”
“I’ll take you at your word.”
The music began, and Malcolm moved through the steps of the dance out of habit rather than enthusiasm. Isobel left off her duke-baiting and made the polite conversation required of the moment, and he answered her mechanically.
He was unable to tear his thoughts from Selina. The sensation of her hair in his fingers, as soft and precious as a blessing. Her brutal honesty. How wonderful she’d looked with her hair half-fallen, her customary haughtiness forgotten.
The heat of her, as she’d pressed her face to his shoulder, hiding from ruin.
He owed her a debt, now, and he intended to pay it. He was not sure when he’d get the opportunity, but he was accustomed to making things happen. When he wanted something, it
