He stalked after her, still clutching the bloody book in his hand, so intent was he in his pursuit. And now that he had it, it seemed his albatross. What was he to do? Toss it over his shoulder? She swept down the narrow hall lined with its landscape pictures. Without bothering to look over her shoulder, she reached the stairs and began taking them two at a time.
The damned maid was bustling toward him. He caught her eye. “No tea.”
Her round cheeks went pink. “Your Grace, you cannot…what are you…but that is…”
“I can,” he told her firmly. “And I am.”
With that, he left the stuttering servant as he took the stairs three at a time. He was intent upon his quarry now. Isabella was ahead of him, doing her utmost to feign serenity. One look over her shoulder belied her calm. She looked alarmed.
As well she should.
“You cannot follow me to my chamber, Your Grace,” she hissed, hastening her pace.
Poor lamb. She was short, her limbs petite. Her harried strides could not match his long-limbed ones. He was gaining on her with scarcely any effort. One more look over her shoulder and her eyes went wide. She grasped her hideous black skirts in her hands, hiked them to her knees, and began to run.
He gave chase.
Down the hall she ran. Quick, but not quick enough. She disappeared into a chamber, slamming the door behind her just as he wedged his foot over the threshold and braced his forearm against the portal.
There was no way in the world this tiny woman could match his strength, not even as she plied her entire weight to the other side of the door. Her face appeared in the thin slat, blue eyes, delicious pink lips he could not help but want to kiss.
“What do you think you are doing, Westmorland?” she demanded, gritting her teeth as she attempted to move him with all her might.
Almost impossible to believe she was finally referring to him as Westmorland rather than Your Grace when he was all but breaking down her chamber door. This was not the manner in which he had ever anticipated such a victory to unfold.
“I am attempting to speak with you,” he growled. “An audience, damn you, Isabella. That is all I ask.”
“I will not be your mistress,” she snapped. “My answer remains unchanged.”
“I do not want you as my mistress.” He maintained steady pressure on the door, knowing he would have no need to force his way inside. Sooner or later, her persistence would succumb to his, one way or another.
A frown marred her brow. “You do not?”
Of course he still wanted free reign of her gorgeous body. He wanted to unleash her sensual nature. To introduce her to the heights of pleasure. Or, at least, to the heights of pleasure which her ardent Lambert had not already introduced her.
It served as a bitter reminder of why he was here and what he must do.
“No,” he bit out. “I have come because I require a typewriter. Quite desperately.”
The duke had come for her.
But not for the reason she had supposed.
How lowering. She should be pleased. Instead, part of her—the wicked part, to be sure—knew a surge of disappointment as she preceded him into the salon they had so recently vacated. She would meet with him after all, but there was no way she would meet with him in her chamber. Not only was it highly improper for a man to be within her private rooms, but her practical nature recognized that she could not trust herself alone with him in a bedchamber. After all, she had nearly allowed him to make love to her in an orangery.
Heat stung her cheeks as she spun about to face him. It was then that she belatedly realized he was holding a book. Her book, it would appear. The book of verse Henry had given her, years and seemingly another lifetime ago. She had been leafing through it in morose fashion, missing Westmorland.
Feeling foolish. As foolish as she felt now.
She raised a brow, attempting to maintain her composure in whatever fashion possible. “What are you doing with my book, Your Grace? I thought you despised poetry.”
His jaw hardened. “I was passing the time while I waited for your arrival. It seemed more entertaining than declining tea every five minutes.”
She ignored his pointed jibe at Betsy, who she could well imagine had been at sixes and sevens with a duke sitting in the salon. Thankfully, the loyal maid-of-all-work had disappeared back into the kitchen following Isabella’s ignominious flight through the household.
“Do you intend to keep the book, or may I have it back?” she asked acidly, clinging to whatever shreds of pride she yet possessed when it came to this man.
Seeing him again after the moonlit encounter that had changed her forever was uncomfortable. More so because she had assumed he was here to pester her about becoming his mistress, and he had dismissed her concern as if it were ludicrous. Had he forgotten her already? Worse, had it not meant as much to him as it had to her?
He sauntered toward her in that ducal manner of his, as if all the world were his to conquer with a mere look, holding out the volume of poems. “Here you are, my dear. Never let it be said that I parted a lady from the lovesick verse sent her by an ardent and affectionate friend.”
She snatched the book from him, nettled by his derision. “You had no right to make free with my possessions.”
A small smile curved his sensual lips. “I am able to make free with your body, but not with the books from lovers you keep strewn about?”
The book seemed to scald her fingers. She deposited it on the table at her side. “You are not able to make
