He had wanted to be more, however. For a brief, fanciful period of time, she had persuaded herself he could be more, and that likewise, she could be more to him. But reality had intruded, as always. She was thankful for the lesson she had learned. If only she had remembered it before allowing the Duke of Westmorland to kiss her senseless two nights ago. And eight days before that…
“Henry.” Westmorland’s lip curled. “How is it you are on such familiar terms with a useless fribble like Lord Lambert and yet you can scarcely bear to refer to me by my title?”
She had been young and naïve when Viscount Lambert had wooed her at a country house party, one of her rare forays into the world her mother had left behind when she had married her father. But what she had felt for Henry was pallid compared to the brilliance of what she felt for the Duke of Westmorland. She was wise enough, in spite of all her failings, to note the difference. And to understand that if she had not been good enough for a viscount, she would never bring a duke up to scratch.
“He is an old friend,” she said softly, guardedly. “I have since learned the necessity of recalling the difference in stations between myself and peers of the realm. And for good reason. But enough of my past acquaintances. Let us return to the reason for your visit, which was not to pilfer my library. I daresay you have books enough to occupy you in Westmorland House.”
“Just who are you, Isabella Hilgrove?” he asked, studying her in a way she could not like.
It was far too familiar, and, she feared, saw far too much. No one had ever looked upon her in the way Westmorland did. Not even Henry. And it shook her resolve.
She put some distance between them, moving to the window, needing to remove herself from his space. “What manner of question is that? You know who I am.”
“I begin to think I do not.”
His delicious baritone was near. Too near.
He had followed her.
She spun about, finding him towering over her, all masculine strength and cool, patrician beauty. His stare seemed to reach inside her, and there was his scent, maddening and musky and male. So familiar and beloved.
Lord help her, but she was ever a hopeless hen wit when it came to this man. “You need a typewriter,” she reminded them both, hating the sudden breathlessness of her voice.
“Yes,” he agreed, but he moved closer.
Close enough to touch. Close enough to tempt.
“Find someone else,” she told him.
She knew she should move away, but all she wanted to do was throw herself at him and cover his mouth with hers.
He shook his head, his countenance grim. “If there was someone else, I would have already found her. It must be you, I am afraid.”
Why did she have the feeling he was talking about more than her typewriting skills? Why did her heart ache? Why did she want him so much?
She lingered at the window, the cold from the world beyond seeping through the leaden pane. It did nothing to cool the inferno raging within her. “I am not the only typewriter in London. I will find another lady in need of a situation and place her with you.”
“I do not want another typewriter. I want you.”
He watched her intently but still made no effort to touch her.
It felt as if he had sucked all the air from the chamber. “You cannot have me.”
“I am lost without your assistance. Your proficiency is unmatched. I have a mountain of reports to be prepared and no time in which to prepare them.” He paused, his gaze dipping to her lips before flicking back to meet hers once more. “I am prepared to pay you handsomely.”
“I cannot work with you, Your Grace.” This much, she knew without question. She could not bear to spend hours alone with him in that cavernous library, typing away on a machine, knowing he was but a few paces from her. That she could close the distance at any moment and kiss him.
And if she kissed the Duke of Westmorland again, she very much feared she would not stop. If she did not stop…
“You need not work with me,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “I will work from my study whilst you are in the library. You need not see me. I have dozens of servants who can pass communications between us.”
He was attempting to assuage her concerns, she knew, but the thought of such physical distance seemed a worse fate than being trapped in the library with him. Surely anything to do with this man was ruinous. She could not accept. She had no need of his funds, but she did desperately need to stay away from him. Her honor and her good name both depended upon it.
“Thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but I am firm in my refusal.” She took a deep, bracing breath before continuing, reminding herself as well as him of all the reasons for her denial. “My school is growing, and I must attend to it to ensure its success. I have already needed to add an additional instruction class.”
His jaw tightened. “One thousand pounds for a week of your time.”
His words shocked her. “That is a fortune, Your Grace, and I cannot accept it, as such an offer undoubtedly comes with other requirements I would find untenable.”
She would not be his mistress. No amount of money he could pay her would mollify the damage to her pride or her honor. To say nothing of her heart…
“Other requirements?” He raised a brow at her, looking every inch the haughty duke. “What are you insinuating, my dear?”
“I will not share your bed,” she elucidated, gritting her teeth. “Nor will I be your mistress.”
“I did not ask, madam, having already been turned
