Chapter 3
In the welcoming confines of the Fangfoss Manor library the next day, Clementine sighed with appreciation as she walked along the shelf-lined walls in search of something suitable to read. Miss Julia had settled upon a walk following breakfast for the morning’s entertainment, and Clementine had seized upon her still-healing bee sting as the perfect excuse to remain behind.
And avoid Dorset as well.
She huffed with irritation as she thought of the manner in which he had made certain their sham betrothal would be announced, as if it were a happy occasion to be celebrated. How she would have liked to have stomped on his overly large foot. Yes, she had noticed the size of his shoes. Everything about the marquess was large. His hands, his height, his feet. Well, not his nose.
His nose was exceedingly fine, straight and perfectly proportioned. Not that she had noticed.
“Drat the man,” she muttered to herself.
He was a source of irritation even when he was no longer beneath the same roof, having gone off on the walk. As she passed the nearly floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows that looked out over the park, dark clouds threatening the horizon appeared an ominous portent of how the walk would end. If there was any justice in the world, Lord Dorset would find himself in the midst of a downpour. Soaked to the skin.
But curse him. Even that fantasy ended with thoughts of what he would look like with his crisp white shirt sodden and clinging to his chest.
She passed a group of shelves where Roman artifacts—presumably from the Fangfoss Manor ruins—were on display, and then moved to the final wall of books. There were no volumes catching her eye at the moment. Lord Fangfoss possessed deplorable taste in literature. Spying a ladder that led to the higher shelves, she decided to explore the books above.
But by the time she climbed to the rung that was third from the top, she realized the ladder was not properly planted on the rug as she reached for a spine and the ladder pitched beneath her movement. She clung wildly to the shelves, her heart leaping into her throat.
Dear sweet heavens.Her position was tenuous at best. One wrong move, and she would topple several feet to the floor below. A bee sting would be the least of her worries.
Stay calm. Stay still. Shift to the left.
She did, and the ladder tilted precariously.
With a cry, she scrambled for purchase. Her frantic fingers found leather tomes and shelf edges. Books dropped to the floor. Oh good Lord, now she was destroying Fangfoss Manor books. Which was better? Breaking her neck or breaking her host and hostess’s spines? She could not be certain.
Could she make her way back down the ladder safely?
The carpets loomed far, far below. She felt suddenly dizzy. Clementine grasped at more books. These, too, fell. They rained to the floor in an eerie imitation of the impending precipitation she was sure would fall upon the house party guests who were out on their walk.
“Does your appetite for ruin know no end?”
The deep, familiar voice had her gasping and jerking toward its source. The Marquess of Dorset was strolling across the library toward her. Oh, what was the devil doing here? Why was he not on the walk with the rest of the guests?
She meant to issue a blistering response. But in the next moment, the ladder pitched, listing to the right, much like a ship in a storm-swept sea. As she scrambled to grab hold of something, she was certain she could right herself. But this time, her fingertips slid over smooth surfaces.
And she was falling.
Fear rose. A scream tore from her throat. The ceiling swam before her as she catapulted backward, heart pounding, her terrible landing undeniable until…
She landed in a familiar pair of arms.
The Marquess of Dorset made a grunting sound as he clutched her to him, sparing her from a terrible landing upon the floor. Saving her from injury. Cradling her against his broad, strong chest.
His warmth bit into her. She grasped his shoulders, acting instinctively.
“I have you,” he said.
And for a moment, those words were the most reassuring and comforting she had ever heard. Until she realized who had spoken them.
Dorset.
A rake. A scoundrel. The man who resented her for having arranged the marriage between the Marquess of Huntly and the former Lady Anna Harcastle. The man who had insisted upon carrying on with a feigned betrothal.
The man who had commented upon her lack of drawers.
Despicable.
