The strangest thing happened then, as she struggled to control her coughing. A large, warm hand flattened on her spine, directly between her shoulder blades, then moved up and down in tender, soothing strokes.
He wastouchingher, she realized. Rubbing her back. The duke’s ungloved hand was upon her. And worse, despite the choke of the brandy she had foolishly tossed down her gullet, she liked the way his touch felt. Strong and powerful, yet gentle. Almost like a caress.
“There now, say something if you please.” He stroked her back some more.
Some nefarious part of her—clearly also inspired by the wine—wondered if he would continue his ministrations should she fail to answer him. But the rest of Isabella, the rational, shopkeeper’s daughter part of her, knew she did not dare tempt fate any more than she already had.
“That was horrid,” she forced herself to say, her voice scarcely more than a choked rasp.
“It is the best brandy to be had.” His voice was wry.
He had not ceased the movement of his hand. Up and down her spine it traveled. Slower now. Almost as if he relished the contact. But she did not dare believe such a flight of fancy. She was his social inferior. Handsome dukes did not seduce proprietresses of typing schools. They wooed the most celebrated beauties of their day. Opera singers, actresses, demimondaines. Women who were lovely and sensual and who did not wander about with hiccups before nearly vomiting on the Axminster.
“The brandy tastes like wine, only worse,” she told him, forcing all unwanted, fanciful notions from her mind.
“You seemed to enjoy the wine at dinner this evening,” he pointed out.
And nor was he wrong, the cad.
“I enjoy wine. Merely not brandy.” She made the mistake of turning toward him then, for he had bent at the waist, bringing his face shockingly near to her despite the disparity between their heights.
Prussian-blue eyes settled on her lips. “And yet, the remedy held true. You no longer have the hiccups, just as I promised.”
“If I believed the promises of men, I would be a woman possessed of far less intellect than I have.” Some of her frost returned as her composure restored itself to her also.
“Spoken in the fashion of a woman who has been scorned.” His voice lowered. He made no move to put distance between them, and neither did he cease rubbing her back, although her coughing fits had subsided. “Who has scorned you, Miss Hilgrove?”
He sounded curious. About her.
Ridiculous, of course. This debonair man had no need to take an interest in her.
And yet, there was something mesmerizing—nay,intoxicating—about this moment, alone in his private library, surrounded by all the books and objects most important to him, his hand upon her…
Still, she could not unburden herself. Not to him. He was her enemy, she reminded herself. This evening would change nothing for them.
“No one has scorned me. I am merely a woman of sense and reason.” A new glow had begun burning through her, likely from the brandy.
“Sense and reason,” he echoed, a small, mocking smile curving his sensual lips.
She hated herself for taking note of how delightfully well-formed they were. In her rebellious youth, she had kissed more than her fair share of suitors. In the years since, she had believed herself too mature for the vestiges of desire that had once consumed her.
She was proving herself wrong. This vexing man did strange things to her. Strange and irksome and altogether delicious things. Things she would have indulged in, once upon a time…
That time was over.
“Sense and reason, just as I said,” she told him. “Your remedy only worked because I was ill-prepared for the brandy. It took me by surprise and nearly choked me. But I am cured of the hiccups for now, at least.”
“Cured.” His hand stilled on her back, just at the small of it, the natural curve just above her bottom. “You are welcome, my dear.”
She had not been grateful, had she? But how could she be when he was touching her so? And looking at her thus? Making her want to feel his mouth pressed to hers…
It is only the wine.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
His head dipped toward hers, his breath hot and brandy-scented, teasing over her lips, a prelude to a kiss. “Perhaps I should—”
A light knocking at the door interrupted his words, leaving Isabella wondering what he would have said.
