Of course, as she attempted to make good on her escape, it occurred to her that traveling in the same path that had led her to the duke was unwise at best and stupid at worst. But the jackanapes charged with confining her to her prison was gaining on her, his feet pounding down the hall behind her as though he competed in a footrace. And above all, she did not wish to be caught. Though she hadn’t been chased by anyone since she’d been in short skirts—not literally, at least—and her robe’s long hem proved something of an impediment, she was still quite quick. And quite determined.
She turned a corner and decided that the best course of action would be to find a chamber and hide herself within until the wretch stomped past. Choosing the first door she came upon, she threw it open and swept inside, closing it as soundlessly and quickly at her back as possible. She leaned against it, catching her breath and holding still as the sound of footfalls pounded in the hall.
Continue on, she urged him inwardly.
All she needed to do was find Cleo and convince her that they must leave this madhouse at once. Perhaps she could even persuade her mother and father to send her to the Continent. Yes, that would be far preferable to consigning herself the fate of being the next Duchess of Bainbridge. The last one had fared none too well. She could lead the Lady’s Suffrage Society from Paris and Clara would do an admirable job of the London post.
The footsteps went past her.
The breath she’d been holding escaped, and she inhaled deeply, as if she had been starved for air. That was when she realized something was amiss. For she smelledhimand his delectable concoction of pine, soap, and musk. Pressing a palm to her pounding heart, she scanned the chamber.
Aside from the color theme—the window dressings, wall coverings, and even rug were all varying shades of green—it seemed innocuous enough. She did not spot any signs of him. Yet why did his scent linger in the air? It made no sense, unless she had gone so mad being trapped for three days that she now suffered from delusions.
What were the odds that she had happened into the chamber to which he had moved? That evening she had run into him, the halls had been dark, and with the tumult of their run-in coupled with Harry’s unexpected presence and her need to hastily disappear, she had not been certain where he’d emerged from or even where they had met in the corridor.
Another thought occurred to her then. If this was indeed the chamber he had taken, then it stood to reason that her book was here. And Bainbridge was not. Elation surging through her, she hastened across the chamber, thinking that his mother ought to be banned from ever again decorating anything.
The deeper she ventured into the chamber, the stronger his scent grew. She was quite certain that he had taken this room, a suspicion that was confirmed when she caught sight of her book lying on a bedside table, still in its neat embroidered cover to keep the true nature of its contents from judgmental eyes.
“There you are,” she said with a gleeful chuckle, snatching it up. “Watching that little book of yours burn in the grate of my library.What balderdash.”
She had known his words for the prevarication they were when he had spoken them. But finding her book at last, laid out at his bedside as though he had been reading it each night, filled her with vindication. She clutched it to her still madly beating heart. Dear Lord, it also filled her with something else. Heat, slow and licking and taunting, spread through her entire body.
Here was the bed he slept in, her book within arm’s reach. Had he read the wicked words and become aroused? She wanted to know so much that she ached with it, and she ground her teeth. This would not do. She would take her book and leave and never look back. On to Paris. The Duke of Bainbridge could melt his own ice. He could…
The chamber door swung open to reveal the object of her frustrated musings. He was dressed as if he had just come from riding. His green gaze crashed into hers, his sensual mouth going tight, his jaw instantly rock-solid. “What in the bloody hell?”
He stepped over the threshold, slamming the door at his back.
She could have asked the same of question of him. His brooding good looks were on full display this morning, and the way his riding boots hugged his muscular calves made her mouth go dry. Was it possible that he was taller, stronger, broader than she had recalled?
“Why are you here?” she demanded, holding the book to her bosom in a protective grip.
He raised an imperious, ducal brow. “Lady Boadicea, you are inmychamber.”
She tipped up her chin, defiance taking charge as her displeasure for his high-handedness replaced her momentary stupor over his unexpected appearance. “I am in the first chamber I could spy after rounding the corner thanks to the jailer you planted at my door for the last few days. Had I known it was yours, I would have taken the risk of managing a few extra steps and landing myself in the next one.”
He stalked toward her, making her resist the urge to retreat to the far end of the chamber. She would not show him her weakness.No.She would be strong. Unyielding. Above all she would not allow him to weaken her resolve or once again take possession of her book. Now that she had it back, she was not giving it up any more than she was flying to the moon.
Bainbridge stopped only when he was so near that his riding boots brushed her hem. She knew she should wonder if he was transferring mud to her silk, but she couldn’t be bothered to look away from his arresting face.
“You took a great fall,” he said slowly, his tone cool. “Being the stubborn, wrongheaded wench that you are, you seemed to have no concern for your wellbeing and recovery. Therefore I, being possessed of sound reasoning, endeavored to make certain that you would rest.”
“I am not yours to order about,” she argued, trying not to notice the strong cords of his neck or the breadth of his chest. Allowing her weakness for him to get the better of her just would not do. “Nor am I a wench, wrongheaded or otherwise. I am a woman fully grown, and if I require rest I shall take it. If I do not, I will not. What I most assuredly do not need, Duke, is a man who thinks he knows better than I making my decisions for me.”
There. Let him stew upon that.
“I care for your wellbeing,” he said quietly. “You are stubborn to a fault, and I did not wish to worry about you wandering the halls at midnight or stealing my horses.”
He’d rather ruined the first bit of what he’d said with the second. She frowned at him. “You are the most vexing man I have ever met. Your unfortunate personality aside, I never stole your horse.”
His expression remained impervious as ever, revealing nothing. “I will not argue semantics with you, my lady. You are, as seems to be your singular talent, once again trespassing where you are not welcome. I need to change. Leave the bawdy book and go.”
Ah, so he had noticed. “This is my book, and I want it back.”
“It is filth.” His lip curled.
“Such filth that you threw it into the fire?” If her tone was arch, it couldn’t be helped. Something about the man before her irked her in ways she could not fully comprehend. He was cold and reserved and forbidding, and yet he also made her melt.
