A frown marred his countenance this morning, and she could not discern whether or not she was the source of his displeasure, or if whatever he had been reading upon her entrance had been. The sight of him wearing the gold-rimmed spectacles had been not just surprising, but charming in an unexpected way. Yet another peek into the true man. One small glimpse.
He gave an abbreviated bow. “Good morning, Miss Hilgrove. Do come in.”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she returned, noting the table containing the typewriter had once more been moved to the far end of the library, to its place before the windows.
Just as well, even if the visual representation of the distance between them sent a pang of regret through her. She crossed the carpet dutifully, trying to forget the temptation he had offered her yesterday. Trying to forget too the stilted atmosphere which had infected the remaining hours of the day. He had been calm. Cool. Almost as if his dare had never been offered.
She seated herself primly, trying and failing to suppress a shiver. The large windows before her seemed to be radiating cold, adding to the chill she could not seem to shake.
“I have a stack of handwritten accounts awaiting you next to the typewriter, Miss Hilgrove,” he called formally.
From so very far away.
She summoned a bright smile and met his gaze down the length of the massive library. “I shall get started at once. Thank you, Your Grace.”
She prepared the paper and began organizing the stack of reports before her, determined to act as if nothing had happened the day before. Because nothing had.
But you wanted it to, and that is the problem, whispered a voice within her.
Sadly, it was true. Worse, she could not blame her foolishness upon wine this time. Merely upon herself. How sad that her devotion to her virtue and her business both could be shaken with such ease. The mere suggestion of wickedness by a handsome lord, and she was all but ready to throw herself into his arms and beg for his kisses.
She sighed, so deep in her thoughts that her frozen fingers sent a sheaf of papers flying to the floor, scattering them like autumn leaves. She was not ordinarily so clumsy. This she could blame on the frigid January weather, though she was certain her discomfit had not helped either.
Isabella slid from her seat and sank to the floor, attempting to pick up the handwritten pages. In her agitation, she had not noticed the duke had crossed the chamber to join her until he bent beside her, collecting papers as well.
He made short work of most of the pages, gathering them into a tidy pile which he offered her. “There you are, Miss Hilgrove.”
“Thank you.” As she accepted the fallen reports from him, their fingers brushed.
Awareness burned through her, chasing the cold. Chasing reason. Her gaze sought his, wondering if he felt the same desperate reaction.
“Your fingers are freezing.” He frowned at her.
“The morning is particularly frigid,” she said, wishing her voice did not sound so dratted breathless.
Wishing she did not inhale the scent of him—decadent, musky cologne—and that it did not send new warmth settling over her like a forbidden caress. Wishing she were not so near to him.
“Bloody hell, woman, you need not suffer,” he bit out, and then he snatched the papers from her and took her hands in both of his.
His hands were large, engulfing hers in warmth. He stood, pulling her to her feet along with him. She found herself grasping his fingers, staring up into his impossible-to-read eyes.
“I wore gloves and a fur muff, but I suppose it was not enough.”
“Come,” he ordered grimly in a tone that brooked no argument.
Before she could respond either way, he began hauling her across the library, to the far end where his desk was strewn with more papers and a crackling fire burned merrily in the immense hearth.
“Your Grace,” she protested. “There is much work to be done, and I have no wish to dither.”
“To the devil with dithering.” He pulled her to the hearth, where more warmth suffused her, but he did not release her hands as he scowled down at her. “Do not be a martyr, Miss Hilgrove. If your fingers are so cold you are throwing papers all over the floor, you must warm them. It is only common sense.”
She tugged at her hands, but he refused to release them. “I am capable of warming myself, sir. I shall only need a moment. I take my obligations quite seriously.”
“As do I.” His tone was stern, his countenance stark in its forbidding beauty. “I will not have you suffering, madam.”
Madam.
How formal of him. She supposed this, too, was an indication of his frustration with her. Why? Because she had not dared to be reckless with him? What had he been urging her to do? To kiss him?
Why was she looking at his lips now?
Why were they so intriguingly sculpted, so sensual?
She licked her own lips, as if that would quell the restlessness rising within her, brimming to the surface despite all her intentions to keep it buried. “I am not suffering. My hands are a bit chilled. That is all.”
“Your hands are like blocks of Wenham Lake ice.” He raised them to the lips she could not seem to stop admiring and blew soft puffs of air on them.
He was fussing over her.
Her hands were alarmingly near to his mouth.
His gaze fastened upon hers.
And in that next breath, everything changed. The air between them went heavy. A charge seemed to rend the moment, the silence. She lost herself in his eyes, in the deep pools of Prussian blue. Need clamored to life. They
