Sheneededthose books.
On a mission, Virtue rose to her feet. She didn’t even bother to smooth her gown before stalking across her chamber, inwardly fuming. She would find the duke and demand the return of her books. Bad enough that he had forced her to surrender the others. She’d thought to retain just a few for her edification and enjoyment until he decided her punishment was at an end or he allowed her to return to Greycote Abbey, whichever came first.
But now, he had invaded her privacy and her chamber both. Worse, he had thieved the few remaining books she had taken care to hide away. She strode down the hall, ignoring the watchful eyes from the portraits of Hunt family ancestors, which seemed to mock. Grumbling to herself, she reached the commanding staircase that lent Hunt House its true air of elegance and wealth and descended.
Her feet flew, her ire growing with each step until she reached his study, only to find the door open and the room deserted. No hint of Ridgely within. She moved carefully about, ascertaining that her books were nowhere to be found.
Disappointment sent her into the hall, where the housekeeper, Mrs. Bell, was bustling.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” Mrs. Bell greeted, offering a curtsy. “May I help you with anything?”
“Yes,” Virtue answered. “I am looking for His Grace.”
“I expect the duke is not currently at home,” the housekeeper replied. “Between twelve and three o’clock on a Wednesday, it is customary for His Grace to visit Angelo’s School of Arms.”
Ah yes, it was Wednesday, was it not? Ridgely’s routines were what the household revolved around, after all. She ought to have remembered. He fenced once a week, which was no doubt partially where his admirable physique hailed from. Not that Virtue wanted to notice. If he was gone, however, that meant that she had ample opportunity to search for where he had taken her books.
She beamed at Mrs. Bell. “Thank you. I shall seek him out upon his return.”
“Of course, my lady.” The housekeeper offered a nod and then departed, carrying on with her undoubtedly endless tasks and leaving Virtue alone to stew upon the location of her missing books.
If I were a dreadful duke, where would I hide my ward’s stolen books?she wondered to herself.
Where was the one place he would suppose she’d never dare to look?
The answer was instant. His bedchamber, of course. Just as she had never truly reckoned he would encroach upon her personal territory, let alone discover each of her hiding places, he likely would not dream she would summon the boldness to so trespass in return.
But she was more intrepid than he could ever know.
Gathering her gown in her hands to facilitate faster movement, Virtue hastened back up the stairs to Ridgely’s apartments. She hesitated outside the door, with a careful glance in both directions to ensure no other servants were hovering about. It most certainly wouldn’t do to be seen entering the duke’s private room. Not a soul was about, so she knocked.
No answer.
Excellent.
With a deep breath, she slowly opened the door, peering within. The curtains were open, permitting sunlight to stream through a bank of windows and illuminate the space. There, on a writing desk at the far end of the room, sat two stacks of books. Hers? She could not recognize them from so far. The ducal chamber was cavernous and, well,ducal.
Her whirling mind accepted details in hasty bursts—carved rosewood furniture, a tremendous bed swathed in drapery, rich carpets, pale walls. Neat, so very neat. The chamber was decidedly spare of the superfluous, quite unlike hers, where books and writing implements and journals and combs were frequently strewn about. But then, his manservant and a host of others likely tended to him with the diligence of an acolyte to the king.
Never mind all that. The time to inspect his room was decidedly not now. Or ever. Closing the door gently behind her, she ventured inside, half-expecting Ridgely to appear at any moment and chastise her for her impossible audacity. When he did not, her feet hastened over the sumptuous Axminster—new and elegant and thick, decorated with acanthus and scrolls—to the desk.
She snatched a book from the top of the pile, confirming it was indeed one of hers. Success bubbled up, until she realized that she could not simply take the entire collection away. Ridgely would notice. One book would have to do. Surely he had not counted them. A lone, missing tome would be quite unnoticed, she was certain of it. The first volume ofThe Orphan of the Rhinewould do quite nicely.
She moved through the first stack in search of it and was examining the second when an unmistakable, low masculine voice sounded somewhere in the hall.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Not the duke! Mrs. Bell had assured her he was not at home, that he was fencing. But there it was again, that voice. Coming closer now.
Heavens, what to do? She could not linger and face discovery, but neither could she escape. There was but one entrance and exit. Horrified, she cast a wild glance around the chamber, looking for a place where she might hide. In her distress, she accidentally knocked against the books, sending a few of them tumbling to the escritoire’s polished surface.
Footsteps sounded in the hall. She was running perilously low on time to do something,anything, to keep Ridgely from finding her. Her gaze caught on the massive bed, its four posters carved and glorious. It was high, draped in fabric. Leaving the books abandoned for now—she would have to hope Ridgely wouldn’t take note of their state—she raced across the chamber and dove beneath the bed. Using her forearms as leverage, she pulled herself into the darkness, cheek pressed to the wool pile, as the door opened and a familiar pair of boots crossed the threshold in Ridgely’s typical, long-limbed style.
He walked as if he owned not just this impressive Mayfair manse, but all London. It was the confident stride of a man accustomed to his power. And as a man and a duke, oh what power he possessed and wielded over all. Especially her, she thought grimly.
There was a second pair of shoes then, not the expensive, well-shined footwear of a lord but the practical black leather of a servant, traveling at a respectful distance. The duke’s valet, she realized, when she heard him speak.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, for my lack of preparation.”
The boots paused. She held her breath, praying Ridgely was not looking at the disheveled stack of books.
