Isabella was introuble.
She had sensed it before she had entered the lesser library of Westmorland House—good heavens, the house was so immense it boasted two chambers laden with precious books—at her hostess’ suggestion. But she had been having such a lovely time at dinner, speaking with so many ladies about a cause that was dear to her as well—gaining the vote for women.
How refreshing it had been to be treated as a peer rather than as the former shop girl, the daughter of trade. The ladies, Callie included, had been so warm and welcoming. The wine, which she did not often take, had been flowing quite freely.
She was in her cups.
She thought.
When Callie had suggested Isabella secure a volume of poetry from her private library, Isabella ought to have declined. And yet, buoyed by the wine coiling through her veins like a snake, she had left the gathering, determined to locate the book in question.
A book she was beginning to suspect did not exist.
Much like the library that was purportedly Callie’s.
Because the instant she had set foot inside this distinctly masculine domain, she had realized, instinctively, that it did not belong to her hostess. Everything about it suggested it was his—the dark shelves laden with books, sideboard decorated with nymphs and goddesses, the distinctly masculine nature of the vignettes scattered about, along with the scent.
His scent.
She would have recognized it anywhere. Until the electric current of awareness had sparked through her, and the sensation of a thousand butterflies being released at once fluttered in her belly. And her gaze met the stinging blue stare of the man she had not been able to shake from her thoughts ever since she had walked from this massive edifice earlier in the day.
The Duke of Westmorland was staring at her now as if he wanted to devour her.
“Oh good heavens,” she said faintly.
“That is putting it mildly, my dear,” he said before lifting a glass to his beautiful lips and taking a long sip.
Beautiful lips? More trouble. She must not look at them. Nor at him. Why had she closed the door behind her? Why was the room a swirling sea of color, faintly blurred at the edges? It was as if she had wandered into a painting.
Nothing seemed real.
And yet it did, rendered in masterful strokes. Enough to convince her she could close the distance between herself and the duke. That she might rise on her toes and press her lips to his.
How shocking, how foolish. She must strike all such unbecoming thoughts from her mind. Return to the dinner gathering. This was no good. But she felt dizzied and overwhelmed, quite as if someone else were inhabiting her body. Someone far less in control than Isabella Hilgrove prided herself upon being.
Was the room spinning? Was she?
She swayed. A bubble worked its way up her throat. She hiccupped. Loudly.
Merciful angels.She pressed a hand over her mouth as her cheeks flamed. How mortifying. She needed to explain herself. To disappear. To go home. Where to start?
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she managed. “I do believe I somehow took a wrong turn. I was certain Lady Calliope told me the fourth door on the left was where I might find her library. There was a book she wished for me to fetch…”
As she gave voice to the explanation for her presence here, in what was clearly his territory, she knew it sounded foolish. Unbelievable, really. And the room was still swirling. Or perhaps she was swaying once more.
Do not, she cautioned herself sternly,fall to an inglorious heap before the Duke of Westmorland. In his library. Whilst you are inebriated.
“What book did my sister wish for you to fetch?” he asked, sounding curious as he swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass and contemplated her with a fathomless gaze.
A gaze she felt all the way to her core. Between her thighs. In a place she did not dare think of, let alone touch. Not directly. Not even in the bath. For it was wicked. Only, the sensations vibrating to life there now hardly felt wicked. No, indeed. They felt shockingly, deliciously right.
“Miss Hilgrove,” he prodded, sauntering nearer.
She thought about fleeing. Took a step in retreat, only to recall she had closed the door at her back as she slammed first her heel and then her rump into it. But of course, she had already known she closed it.
How much wine had she consumed? And what question had the Duke of Westmorland posed? She searched her inundated mind and could not seem to find an answer to either question.
“Your Grace,” she breathed as he came closer.
