“I thought you’d burned it,” she reminded him, her lips curving with a knowing smile.
His confiscation of her book still nettled her, and she couldn’t resist the urge to needle him in turn. Of course he hadn’t burned it. Indeed, she’d wager he was reading it just as she’d accused. His flush had said enough.
The flippancy fled from his expression, and he was once more his customary self, all angles and irreproachable lines. He glowered. “Of course I did, but that doesn’t mean I don’t suspect you of infiltrating my library again with the hopes of proving me wrong.”
She pursed her lips, noting that his gaze lowered and clung to her mouth for a beat before raising once more. “Do you think me a fool, Your Grace?”
He appeared to consider her words. “I think you impulsive, obstinate, and improper. But not a fool, I don’t believe.”
“How gratifying.” Her eyes narrowed. Irksome man. “Why should I imagine you would hide my stolen book in plain sight? Or are you truly that lacking in imagination? One does wonder.”
His brows snapped together in an eloquent illustration of hauteur. “What else would explain your presence here when you’ve already been informed you are most unwelcome?”
“Was I meant to think myself unwelcome?” She favored him with her most winsome smile. “I confess, your conduct yesterday left me with a distinctly different impression, Your Grace.”
His expression remained impassive. Cold and superior. The vulnerability he’d shown her that morning was nowhere to be found. “You’re the most forward bit of baggage I’ve ever met.”
She raised a brow. “Touché, for you’re the most insufferable lout I have ever met.”
“Indeed.” Somehow, he could infuse even a mere word with condescending scorn.
Truly, it made no sense that a man so unyielding could also be capable of kissing her senseless. That a man imbued with such ice was also filled with fire. She found herself staring at his mouth, recalling how those sensual, defined lips had melded perfectly to hers, coaxing and possessing all at once.
She shouldn’t wish to kiss him now, particularly when he was being such a beast. Particularly when every scrap of common sense told her to flee from a marriage with him and from Boswell Manor altogether. But somehow, when she imagined kissing him, absconding was the last thing on her mind.
How could she be so drawn to a man she also wanted to clout over the head?
Her fingers busied themselves, twisting in her silken skirts to cool her agitation. Unfortunately, the distraction did little for her peace of mind. “My sister spoke with Her Grace,” she said at last, addressing the subject they’d managed to dance around thus far.
“I am aware.” His jaw clenched as he clasped his hands behind his back, almost as if he didn’t dare trust where they would land if free.
She knew the feeling, and it left her disgruntled. Rather as she imagined a bear might feel upon being rudely stirred from her hibernation. “And?” Her limited store of patience for him ran thin. “Do stop being so loquacious, Your Grace. My ears cannot possibly stand it.”
He stared, his gaze as flinty as his tone. “Have you any manners at all, my lady?”
She refused to flinch. “I do have comportment enough to keep me from filching other people’s reading material, regardless of whether or not I agree with the subject matter.”
“There is disagreeing and there is obscenity, Lady Boadicea.” His curt tone mocked her. “You are aware of the laws in place against such filth, surely.”
Of course she was. The publisher of the book he’d taken from her had already been sent to gaol for his efforts. But she remained undeterred. Bo was not like other ladies her age, and she never had been. Once upon a time, she had wished she’d been a Lydia Trulle, all golden and lovely, simpering and petite.
Lydia Trulles were always surrounded by admirers. They were perennially thought of as pleasant and lovely. They never dumped ink on the heads of their enemies at finishing school or read wicked books or dared to consider that the world into which they’d been born was meant to be defied and questioned.
But she was no longer a naïf in short skirts, and she’d learned some time ago that being clever was of far more use than being perfect.
It was that reassurance that guided her now as she tilted her head back and considered the handsome, surly duke before her. “Do you mean to see me thrown into the nearest dank prison cell for daring to read the word ‘cockstand’?”
The breath hissed from his lungs, and suddenly, his hands clamped on her waist as he thrust her back against the bookshelves. She released her skirts to grip his upper arms, finding purchase after his sudden movement lest she tip to either side and upend herself before him. The knot of braids at her crown met with the resistance of half a dozen leather-bound books.
“Do you have no shame?” he demanded.
Perhaps she had pushed him too far. But if anyone needed pushing, it was the Duke of Bainbridge. “None,” she said blithely, gifting him with a serene smile that was all bravado, full stop.
His nostrils flared. Those vibrant, emerald eyes glittered with repressed emotion. “What are you to my brother?”
His question took her by surprise, and landed somewhere in the region of her heart with enough force to rekindle the niggling sense of guilt that had not left her since she’d lost her head with Bainbridge yesterday. She liked Lord Harry. He was handsome in a boyish manner, and quick to laugh but slow to anger. Even in appearance, he was the opposite of the duke, all golden-haired and blue-eyed in contrast to Bainbridge’s dark hair, exotic eyes, and beautiful yet severe face.
“Lord Harry is my friend,” she said, struggling to explain, for she’d suspected his feelings toward her ran in a deeper, far different vein than hers to him. But she’d been too caught up in wanting someone—anyone—to aid her and Clara with their Lady’s Suffrage Society that she hadn’t thought to discourage him.
