He gritted his teeth. Another titter escaped the dining room. “From this moment forward, Young, it is in reference to every bloody thing Lady Calliope does. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Young bowed. “Of course. Quite clear, Your Grace.”
With a nod, he turned and stalked to his private library, slamming the door at his back. Within, he took his time straightening the papers on his desk. He then spent a good quarter hour ruminating on which reports he would provide to Miss Hilgrove in the morning. The accounts of the suspected fates of the London Bridge dynamitards were not fit for a lady’s consumption, and yet he could hardly be expected to go pecking at the keys himself, could he?
Hell.
It rather presented a conundrum he had not concerned himself with when supplying reports to her predecessors. Not because he cared for her any more than he had cared for the three prior typists she had sent him. No. Nor because he was attracted to her when he had scarcely noticed the existence of the others. But because she had accomplished more on her first day than any of her students had.
Because you sent them away, reminded the irritating voice of his conscience.
Because they were watering pots, irritants, and contagions, he told his bloody conscience.
On a sigh, he put the reports to the side, telling himself he had ample time to ponder the matter further. He had hours until he next saw Miss Hilgrove. And damn him if the empty expanse of darkness and subsequent dawn between now and then did not seem like an eternity.
What the devil was the matter with him? He stood, irritated with himself, and began pacing the length of the lesser library like a caged tiger in a menagerie. When was the last time he had been so affected by a woman?
Never, gloated that same old voice.
By God, she was a menace. What was it about her? She was neither beautiful nor worldly, both qualities he appreciated in a woman. She had not been civil to him in much of their discourse thus far. Two days, that was all. Two days since she had first marched into his study like an invading phalanx of enemy soldiers, sending poor Young scurrying. It hardly seemed possible for him to be so besotted with any female after a mere two days, let alone one who irritated him and hardened his prick in equal measures.
He stalked to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. Despite the fact that he ordinarily abstained from spirits altogether, this evening, coupled with the last and his furious desires for Miss Hilgrove, was enough to force him to drink. Too much claret chased with brandy was decidedly not the thing, but he did not give a damn.
Mayhap if he was plagued with a headache in the morning, he would not be so concerned with his unwanted lust for his delicious little proprietress. Good God, she had turned him into a satyr. He quaffed the brandy, then poured some more of the would-be elixir.
His glass was halfway to his lips when the door to his library opened, and a miracle crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her. Her golden hair was styled in a becoming Grecian braid coiled at her crown, with soft ringlets escaping. Her dinner gown was a rich, decadent jonquil and gold silk velvet that complemented the burnished beauty of her blonde locks. But that was not all. A fashionably square décolletage revealed her bosom, at last unrestrained by a mille passus of buttons and hideous black fabric.
Wide, blue eyes settled upon him, searing him to his core. “Oh dear.”
“That is putting it mildly, my dear,” he said grimly, taking another fortifying sip of his brandy.
If Miss Isabella Hilgrove was going to appear in his private library wearing a gown that showed off her feminine curves to perfection, looking every inch the desirable goddess she was and did her best to hide, he was going to need to be in his cups. Otherwise, he would have her in his arms in less than fifteen seconds, and his mouth would be crashing down upon hers.
She swayed, then hiccupped.
Her hand crept to her lips, eyes going wider still as her cheeks flushed. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I do believe I somehow took a wrong turn. I was certain Lady Calliope told me the fourth door on the left was where I might find her library. There was a book she wished for me to fetch…”
Had he thought Miss Hilgrove a miracle? She was, by all that was holy. A drunken one.
And his sister had sent her to his library, suggesting it was hers? He was going to have Callie’s hide for this. But first?
First, he was going to enjoy it.
Isabella was in trouble.
She had sensed it before she had entered the lesser library of Westmorland House—good heavens, the house was so immense it boasted two chambers laden with precious books—at her hostess’ suggestion. But she had been having such a lovely time at dinner, speaking with so many ladies about a cause that was dear to her as well—gaining the vote for women.
How refreshing it had been to be treated as a peer rather than as the former shop girl, the daughter of trade. The ladies, Callie included, had been so warm and welcoming. The wine, which she did not often take, had been flowing quite freely.
She was in her cups.
She thought.
When Callie had suggested Isabella secure a volume of poetry from her private library, Isabella ought to have declined. And yet, buoyed by the wine coiling through her veins like a snake, she had left the gathering, determined to locate the book in question.
A book she was beginning to suspect did not exist.
Much like the library that was purportedly Callie’s.
Because the instant she had set foot inside this distinctly masculine domain, she had realized, instinctively, that it did
