Closer.
Closer.
Until he stopped. So near, his spicy cologne washed over her. More butterflies took up residence in her traitorous stomach. More heat slid between her thighs.
“Miss Hilgrove,” he said again, his voice low.
Was he staring at her mouth? Were his eyes always a hundred different shades of blue at once? Why did his delicious baritone send need straight to the heart of her?
“What did you ask me?” She swallowed, attempting to ignore his proximity, to pretend he had no effect upon her at all. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but I have somehow forgotten your original question.”
The wine was the reason for this, she was sure. Blast the servant who had steadily refilled her glass. And blast herself for so steadily draining it.
“And do likewise forgive me, Miss Hilgrove, but I instructed you to call me Westmorland earlier today. Perhaps you might try it now, in this intimate setting, so very different from earlier.”
Intimate? He thought this setting intimate?
Her heart snapped into a faster pace. A glance around her confirmed the truth of his words. Thiswasmore intimate. It was evening. She was wearing one of her finest dresses. She had taken care with her hair. She was in her cups. They were alone.
Oh dear.
She did not dare make any concessions. Not when he was standing in such devastating proximity. Not when she could not trust her wits to guide her with prudence and care.
At long last, his question returned to her, filtered through a wine-soaked haze.What book did my sister wish for you to fetch?
“A book of poetry, Your Grace,” she said, irritated at how breathless she sounded. “Lady Calliope sent me to find a volume of poems containing verse which might aid the cause.”
“Odd indeed.” He tapped his chin, his expression turning thoughtful. “You will find no verse in my library, I am afraid. I cannot abide by the lyrical.”
His response surprised her, as he confirmed what she had already known—this dark, masculine haven was his alone. “You do not care for poetry?”
His stare continued to pin her in place, as if he studied her. “Lovesick twaddle. I prefer fact. Histories suit me best.”
“Poetry is not all lovesick twaddle,” she found herself arguing although she knew she ought to go.
Now.
An amused smile curved his lips. “Of course it is.”
How different he looked this evening, somehow less formidable than he had before. Softer. More lighthearted as well.
Or perhaps that was merely the wine she had consumed. Either way, continuing to linger alone with the Duke of Westmorland was a mistake.
“I should return. The others are likely wondering where I have gone.” But though she gave voice to her concern, she was not moving.
Rather, she remained where she was.
His smile faded, his lips taking on a derisive twist. “I would wager my sister knows where you have gone.”
As would she, though she could not fathom why Callie wanted their paths to cross. Unless perhaps she hoped to irk her brother?
“Still,” she persisted, wishing she could break herself free from his penetrating gaze, “it is remiss of me to interrupt your solitude. And quite improper as well.”
His grin returned. “My dear Miss Hilgrove, you were alone with me for the majority of the day. What can possibly be improper about remaining here for a few moments?”
She did not know what to do with a Duke of Westmorland who was grinning at her. His neck cloth was loosened, she belatedly took note, and his coat was gone. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
Dangerous.
