“I will take you to His Grace’s chambers,” Andrews replied. “This way, Your Grace.”
He took her to a room in the East wing and tried the knob; the door opened with a soft screech. “I will leave you to it, Your Grace.”
Pushing the door in, she marched inside and blinked twice at how deathly dark it was in here. She barely made out the edges of scant furniture, a large bed, and a body curled up on it.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she went to the drapes and yanked them aside.
“What the deuce—!” Cassian swore as he flung an arm up and yanked his head away from the sunlight streaming into the room. “Close the damned drapes unless you want to blind me! The rays are liquefying my eyeballs.”
Concerned, Cecilia tugged one back in place but left a sliver so light could come in. It did not take her long to see the reason for Cassian’s aversion to light—the dark bottle, barely corked, on his bedside table.
She pressed her lips tight. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” he grunted. “And what are you doing in my bedchamber?”
“I came to ask you why you ordered your men to burn books,” she declared. It was only when the words left her mouth, she realized she sounded more like a shrew than ever. Swallowing, she tempered her tone. “I will not allow it.”
“Fine,” he grunted, flopping on his back. The sheets slipped to his waist, and she felt her pulse skipping a beat as she took in his male grace.
She gazed in muffled awe at the muscular breadth of his shoulders, the granite slabs of his chest with its wiry furring. “Rescue the books like the unfortunate urchins they are. Now, please, close the drapes and let me sleep.”
Tugging the curtains close, she moved to his side. “You are not dying, are you?”
“If you let more light in, my brain will burn if that helps,” he grunted, his dark hair flopping over his eyes. “Are you finished yet?”
“No,” she said, lifting the bottle. Taking it cautiously, she sniffed the beverage. Her nose wrinkled in the burn. “What the devils’ swill is this?”
“Rum, of course. The beverage of choice amongst pirates and drunkards. Try some.”
His suggestion spurred a questioning curiosity inside her, and squaring her slim shoulders, she took a breath and downed a mouthful in one gulp.
Her chest burned, her eyes watered, and she began to sputter. “Goodness, that is—” she sucked in a breath and set the bottle down, hastily corking it, “—repugnant.”
“I suppose your sensibilities are more attuned to sherry,” Cassian lifted an eye and looked at her pointedly. “Isn’t that right?”
She reddened at his tease. “Bounder.”
He shifted again, and the sheets slipped further down his body and down to his manhood, and when she saw the line of hair leading to the thick root of him—she almost panicked.
“Are you sleepingnaked?”
“There is no other way to sleep.” He shifted a little more before peeling his eyes open to half-mast. “Has little Miss Perfect never seen a man before?”
“What doyouthink?” she demanded, training her eyes on the headboard.
His laugh was deep and mocking. Cassian grasped the sheets and began to lift, “Maybe it’s time you see one—”
“Don’t you dare,” she glared.
“Then I suggest you leave my room, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his neck.
Cecilia spun on her heel and managed to temper her stride—and the burn on her face. She found the butler waiting by the doorway of the old study and gave a succinct order.
“Please take the boxes to the set of rooms in the West wing, to the room I’ve decided my private parlor will be,” she ordered. “I need to have shelves built as well.”
“I do have the contact of some excellent carpenters in the town, Your Grace,” Andrews replied. “But if you prefer, we can have furniture from London. However, in the interim, it may be best to take the shelves from the study as well.”
After considering it, she decided, “That does make sense. Please do that. And engage the carpenters for a new escritoire.”
