“Bo,” her sister protested.
“It is done.”
“Lady Boadicea, you’ve been selected next,” announced Lady Hyacinth Beaufort.
Bo had never met a female with a flower as her namesake that she’d liked. Lady Hyacinth was no exception, simpering and perfectly coifed, narrow of waist, melodic of voice, honeyed in her every manor, and dressed at all times as though she were a confection.
“Bo,” Cleo said again, her voice stern. “I meant what I said.”
She stood, shaking out her skirts, and forced a feigned smile to her lips. “It would be my great delight,” she lied to the chamber at large. She cast a glance back at her sister. “I did as well, Cleo. The announcement will be made, and that is that.”
And then she made her way to the forefront of the festivities, feeling like nothing so much as a doomed prisoner en route to the gallows. In more ways than one.
Bo slipped into the Duke of Bainbridge’s private library for the second time in two days. But today, she was more than aware that she trespassed and whom it was that she trespassed against. She didn’t give a damn.
Charades ended, and Bo had somehow managed to throw enough feeling into her representation of Anne Boleyn to be declared the unofficial—and unenthusiastic—champion of the entertainment. It seemed bleakly appropriate, if a bit silly for someone who made no secret of her distaste for trifles like insipid amusements.
While the ladies had thankfully dispersed, she hadn’t been able to return to her chamber for a quiet nap before dressing for the first of the Duchess of Bainbridge’s two balls that week. No, indeed. Her mind was far too preoccupied.
The door closed at her back, enveloping her in silence and the beloved scent of books blending with leather and another scent that her body recognized as the duke’s, although he was nowhere within the library’s charming confines. She rather liked this room, even if she didn’t belong here, and in spite of her inauspicious initiation to it.
“Hello?” she called out as she strode across the luxurious carpet, just to be certain that he was still otherwise engaged with the gentlemen of the gathering.
No one answered.
Alone, then.
“Good,” she murmured to herself, going to the wall of spines nearest to her in search of something that piqued her interest. She didn’t wish to have another clash with the duke. But she did require some distraction, and what better method than reading? Bainbridge had to possess something here, some volume, worthy of a read. He had stolen the only book she’d brought along with her.
“Latin,” she grumbled as she studied the spines before her, finger skating over them one by one.
“You don’t know the language?”
The voice, deep and low just over her shoulder and so delicious that it could have been velvet itself drawn over her bare skin, made her finger go still. Where had he been hiding? Of course, that explained the reason why she had smelled him.
She stiffened but refused to turn for fear of his nearness and his capacity to disarm her. “I know it well enough.”
“Ah. These works are not prurient enough for your voluptuary tastes, I take it, Lady Boadicea?” His delicious baritone raised gooseflesh on her arms. Was it just her imagination, or had he drawn nearer? Was that the heat of his breath that she felt upon her neck, just below her right ear? And why did the word ”voluptuary” uttered in his sinful voice incite tingles in her belly?
“Not nearly enough,” she quipped with a frivolity she little felt, wishing that the tomes before her hadn’t become a jumbled sea of nothingness. How he unnerved her. The knowledge that she would become betrothed to him tonight did not aid in the matter.
“Quid tu hic?” he asked.Why are you here?The question, bold and without a hint of artifice, somehow had the opposite effect upon her of what it should have had.
Instead of warning her, chilling her, reminding her that she had once again ventured where she didn’t belong, she was riveted to the spot. Intrigued. Keeping her back to him was somehow thrilling. How could his cool arrogance make the heat rise within her? It defied explanation, and yet her response to him was undeniable.
“Why areyouhere?” she returned. “I thought the gentlemen of the assembly were all otherwise engaged. Should you not be off somewhere drinking yourself to oblivion in the name of sport?”
“Undoubtedly yes, and yet here I am, once more discovering an intruder in my library.” He paused, and she glared at the stamped spine of the book nearest to her, trying to ignore the unsettling effect of his deep voice. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You stole my book from me,” she told the wall of books.
“And you thought to find it alongside Ovid?” He sounded amused.
That did it. She spun about to face him, startled to discover that he was nearer than she had even imagined. Her gaze collided with vibrant green. Why did he have to possess such beautiful eyes, the lush, verdant hue of new grass in spring? All she needed to do was lean forward a scant inch, and her mouth would brush against his throat. For some reason, that realization wasn’t at all alarming. Indeed, she couldn’t help but wonder if he would smell every bit as divine there, in that sensitive and private place where his jaw met his neck.
No, Boadicea. You must not harbor such thoughts.
What had he said? Oh, yes.The book.
