The ladder shifted again.
“Ridgely!” Her eyes went wide.
He extended a hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingers. “The book.”
She pressed it to her heart, as if protecting the tome from him. “No.”
The chit’s tenacity was most vexing.
He could easily pluckThe Tale of Lovefrom her. However, a quick motion and a resulting struggle would likely end with the both of them on the floor. And not in the fashion he’d caught himself contemplating on numerous occasions since she had made her first appearance in his life, either. It was too early in the morning for broken bones.
It was time to exercise the cunning that had rendered him such an efficient spy.
Nonchalantly, Trevor flicked his gaze past her to the wall of books beyond and heaved a feigned sigh. “Well, if you must, I reckon there’s no stopping you from reading it. At least you didn’t find the volume ofLove Letters from a Courtesan.”
As he predicted, her curiosity got the better of her. When she followed his gaze to where the bawdy book he’d just invented was presumably housed, he struck with the agility of a snake, snatchingThe Tale of Lovefrom her loosened grasp with ease. He slid it safely inside his coat and made great haste with his descent, triumphant.
“You wretch,” she accused from above. “You distracted me so that you could steal the book.”
“A man cannot steal his own property, my dear.” Feeling uncharacteristically gentlemanly, he held the ladder for her as she stormed down.
“The book is yours, then? I ought to have known.”
He made the mistake of glancing up in time to catch a glimpse of beauteous thighs above pink garters. Lord above, her underpinnings matched her slippers and the ribbon embellishment on her gown. A perfect pale rose, like her lips.
He jerked his gaze away.
This particular copy ofThe Tale of Lovewasn’t his. He had his own copy. Which meant that it had either belonged to his inglorious predecessor or one of Father’s many mistresses. Certainly, it hadn’t belonged to his late brothers, Bartholomew and Matthew, who had both been as meek and mild as a pair of mice. Regardless, Trevor didn’t care to contemplate the volume’s origin.
“Everything in this house is mine,” he told her instead of answering her question directly.
Or his responsibility. Being a duke came with a great deal of that, much to his everlasting dismay. And a ward atop it all. Bartholomew, or even Matthew, would have been far more suited to the role of duke and guardian. Christ knew his brothers would never have dreamed of daring a glimpse up anyone’s gown, let alone a ward’s.
But then, Bartholomew and Matthew had both been good chaps. He missed his brothers. Couldn’t always shake the feeling he was an usurper. Trevor had been the scoundrel to counterweight so much decency. It had always been Father’s favorite sons versus the reviled third son, who had never proven himself to possess any talent worthy of the duke’s note.A vile disappointment, so the duke had told him, and often. Until Trevor had simply ceased speaking with the old blackguard. He’d never wanted the title, it was true, nor the dreaded weight of responsibilities accompanying it. Life had been so much less complex when he had been the third son, no expectations made of him.
“How thrilling it must be to be in possession of one’s own home,” Lady Virtue said as she alighted on the Axminster, taking a step closer to Trevor, finger pointing in the air as if to punctuate her point. “And one’s own library of books.” Another step. “And one’s own funds.” Another, until her finger landed on his chest, giving him a sturdy poke. “And one’s ownfuture.”
Her tone was quite scathing as she reached the last portion of her diatribe. She stood so close, slippers toe to toe with him. He suddenly became aware of all the tiny flecks of color in her rich, brown gaze and a hint of freckles dappling the bridge of her nose.
He couldn’t blame her for resenting her precarious position as a young lady alone in the world, with an as-yet unsettled dowry to recommend her and no true means of making her own decisions until she reached her majority or married.
And after she found herself wedded, she’d still have no decision-making power of her own. But Trevor wasn’t going to allow that notion to haunt him or foster even a modicum of regret. Because he needed to be rid of the troublesome baggage.
Yesterday.
He hadn’t asked for a ward.Jesus, hadn’t Pemberton realized the old devil-you-know proverb was nothing more than a lot of rot?
It would seem not, for the marquess’s lovely daughter was standing within Trevor’s reach in his library. An innocent entrusted to his dubious care. And he was living proof that the devil you know is still just a devil, in the end.
Trevor took a much-needed step in retreat, putting a safer distance between them.
“The world isn’t fair, infant,” he told her, gentling his tone to take the sting from his words. The endearment was one he used with her often, a verbal reminder to himself that she was his ward.Forbidden.Ten years younger than he was. Far more innocent. “The sooner you realize that, the better off you shall be.”
“I don’t need a man to tell me that,” she snapped. “Especially not a duke who hasn’t a care in the world and who insists upon forcing me into a marriage I do not want.”
Her barbs had found their mark, but he ignored them. He didn’t want the encumbrance of this pink-bedecked virgin with the tempting mouth and body of a seductress. His fingers were itching to touch her again, and his vexing cock refused to stand down. Hecouldn’ttouch her. She was Pemberton’s daughter. His ward.
“I’ve been tasked with seeing you happy as your father wished,” he reminded her, clasping his hands behind his back to keep them occupied. “To that end, have you breakfasted? Lady Deering is taking you shopping today, I believe.”
