“Research?”
“Curiosity,” she snapped, abandoning all pretense of composure. “Is a woman not allowed to read fiction in your household, Your Grace?”
“On the contrary.” He straightened, the movement bringing him close enough that she could smell his shaving soap—something clean and masculine that made her thoughts scatter like leaves in a windstorm. “I find it rather refreshing. Most ladies of my acquaintance claim to read only improving works.”
“Well, I’m not most ladies.”
“No.” His gaze traveled slowly from her flushed face to the books clutched against her chest. “You certainly are not.”
Stop looking at me like that.
The way his eyes lingered on her mouth made her acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every traitorous response her body seemed determined to have in his presence.
“The medical journals are on the third shelf from the top,” he said, gesturing toward a section lined with serious-looking volumes. “Though I suspect you’ll find Mrs. Radcliffe considerably more entertaining.”
“I prefer factual information to romantic nonsense,” she said stiffly.
“Do you?” he stepped closer, and she caught a glimpse of something predatory in his expression. “How disappointing.”
“Disappointing?”
“I rather hoped you might have a romantic streak buried beneath all that admirable practicality.”
Dangerous territory. Retreat immediately.
But her feet seemed rooted to the carpet as he reached past her, ostensibly to retrieve a medical journal from the high shelf. The movement brought his chest within inches of hers, and she found herself staring at the strong column of his throat above his precisely tied cravat.
Don’t think about what it would feel like to press your lips there.
“This should prove more educational,” he said, placing a thick volume on diseases of the respiratory system in her hands. “Though considerably less thrilling than tales of mysterious castles and brooding heroes.”
“I don’t need fiction to complicate my life further.”
“Ah, but complications can be quite… invigorating.” His voice had dropped to that intimate register that made her pulse race. “Particularly when they involve two people who understand each other.”
She stared at him, caught off guard by the shift from teasing to something far more serious.
“You don’t understand me at all,” she said quietly.
“Don’t I?” Before she could step away, he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentle brush of his fingers against her temple sent shockwaves through her entire body. “I understand that you’re terrified of wanting something you think you can’t have.”
I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
Sybil jerked backward as though she’d been burned, nearly dropping the medical journal in the process. “Stop.”
“Stop what, exactly? Noticing that your breath catches when I’m close? Seeing how your eyes darken when I touch you? ”
Heat flooded her face. “Your Grace?—”
“Hugo.” His amber eyes burned with intensity. “If we’re to be married, you should at least use my given name.”
Married.The word hung between them like a loaded pistol.
“That’s rather presumptuous,” she managed. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Haven’t you?” He braced one hand against the shelf beside her head, effectively caging her against the leather-bound volumes. “Then why are you here, looking for ways to fill your time in my house? Why do you watch my daughters with such fierce protectiveness? Why do you care whether they’re happy?”
Each question was accurate and devastating in its clarity.
