How tempting those words were. How tempting the man who had spoken them.
That single sentence, along with all the possibility behind it, had haunted Isabella through the interminable hours of work which followed their utterance. They had haunted her all evening long as she had returned to her school to oversee a new training class. They had haunted her during her quiet dinner. As she had lain awake in her bed, unable to sleep.
They haunted her now as she followed Young to the library for the third morning in a row.
Four more days, she told herself. Four more days, and then an endorsement in theTimes. She would prove him wrong, and having the approval of the Duke of Westmorland, leader of the Special League, would be a massive boon. It was worth it, she told herself. She simply had to cease being a ninny.
The picture gallery was gloomier than normal today as they passed through, dozens of eyes memorialized in oil paints seemingly watching her with silent condemnation. Surely Westmorland’s ancestors could not guess at the tumult roiling within her.
This morning had dawned grim and gray and cold. She had shivered as she dressed, shivered all the way here, and her hands were still numb, although she had worn gloves and hidden them deep within her fur muff for the short journey. A hot brick at her feet had aided her toes. But she needed her hands to be warm for typing. She flexed her fingers at her sides as Young stopped at the door to the library.
“Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace,” the servant announced.
With a bow, he was gone, leaving Isabella alone to face the man who had been plaguing her every hour, or so it seemed. He had been seated at his desk upon her arrival, but he stood now, whisking off a pair of glasses perched on his patrician nose and setting them atop the mound of papers upon the desk.
A frown marred his countenance this morning, and she could not discern whether or not she was the source of his displeasure, or if whatever he had been reading upon her entrance had been. The sight of him wearing the gold-rimmed spectacles had been not just surprising, but charming in an unexpected way. Yet another peek into the true man. One small glimpse.
He gave an abbreviated bow. “Good morning, Miss Hilgrove. Do come in.”
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she returned, noting the table containing the typewriter had once more been moved to the far end of the library, to its place before the windows.
Just as well, even if the visual representation of the distance between them sent a pang of regret through her. She crossed the carpet dutifully, trying to forget the temptation he had offered her yesterday. Trying to forget too the stilted atmosphere which had infected the remaining hours of the day. He had been calm. Cool. Almost as if his dare had never been offered.
She seated herself primly, trying and failing to suppress a shiver. The large windows before her seemed to be radiating cold, adding to the chill she could not seem to shake.
“I have a stack of handwritten accounts awaiting you next to the typewriter, Miss Hilgrove,” he called formally.
From so very far away.
She summoned a bright smile and met his gaze down the length of the massive library. “I shall get started at once. Thank you, Your Grace.”
She prepared the paper and began organizing the stack of reports before her, determined to act as if nothing had happened the day before. Because nothing had.
But you wanted it to, and that is the problem, whispered a voice within her.
Sadly, it was true. Worse, she could not blame her foolishness upon wine this time. Merely upon herself. How sad that her devotion to her virtue and her business both could be shaken with such ease. The mere suggestion of wickedness by a handsome lord, and she was all but ready to throw herself into his arms and beg for his kisses.
She sighed, so deep in her thoughts that her frozen fingers sent a sheaf of papers flying to the floor, scattering them like autumn leaves. She was not ordinarily so clumsy. This she could blame on the frigid January weather, though she was certain her discomfit had not helped either.
Isabella slid from her seat and sank to the floor, attempting to pick up the handwritten pages. In her agitation, she had not noticed the duke had crossed the chamber to join her until he bent beside her, collecting papers as well.
He made short work of most of the pages, gathering them into a tidy pile which he offered her. “There you are, Miss Hilgrove.”
“Thank you.” As she accepted the fallen reports from him, their fingers brushed.
Awareness burned through her, chasing the cold. Chasing reason. Her gaze sought his, wondering if he felt the same desperate reaction.
“Your fingers are freezing.” He frowned at her.
“The morning is particularly frigid,” she said, wishing her voice did not sound so dratted breathless.
Wishing she did not inhale the scent of him—decadent, musky cologne—and that it did not send new warmth settling over her like a forbidden caress. Wishing she were not so near to him.
“Bloody hell, woman, you need not suffer,” he bit out, and then he snatched the papers from her and took her hands in both of his.
His hands were large, engulfing hers in warmth. He stood, pulling her to her feet along with him. She found herself grasping his fingers, staring up into his impossible-to-read eyes.
“I wore gloves and a fur muff, but I suppose it was not enough.”
