“Care for a tour?” he asked, nodding his head at the nearest door.
I’m not doing this just to get her on her own. No, I am doing it to be a good host.
“Lead on,” she urged, gesturing to the nearest door, though she retracted her arm from his as she did so.
He walked to the door and opened it wide, ushering her inside. She followed, coming closer to him as he held the door open. He inhaled sharply as she passed him. There was the sweet scent of bergamot as she passed, nothing too heavy, as some ladies of the ton liked to wear thick and cloying perfumes. No, Lady Caroline had opted for something far more elegant than that.
“What a room,” she gushed, stepping into the chamber.
“The drawing room,” he explained, following her into the room.
A very old and fine fireplace dominated the room, engraved with scenes of a hunt across the stone mantelpiece. The space was littered with rococo furniture and plush seating, primarily white with a few golden accents. The paintings, in particular, were something that he was proud of in this room. He even had a John Constable on the wall.
Lady Caroline walked behind the rococo settee, drawing her fingers across the back admiringly. Marcus watched this action, his eyes trailing over what she had done with her fingers. He imagined her doing that to him instead of the inanimate object.
She is effortlessly sensual.
She halted before the fireplace, admiring the engraving in the stones before turning back to face him.
“You stare, Your Grace,” she said suddenly. Once more, he got the impression that perhaps this was not her usual accent, for there was a slight inflection in the way she spoke. “We are here to look at your house.”
“Well, perhaps there are finer things to look at in this room,” he flirted with her, charmed to see her blush, even if she mockingly frowned at him.
“I expect you are this charming to every woman you meet.” She looked away, walking around the room again.
“Indeed, I am not,” he assured her.
“What’s through here?” She pointed at the next door.
“Ah, this is my favourite room in the house.” He strode towards the double set of doors and took hold of the handles, waiting as she halted behind him, so close that he glanced back at her, anticipating that proximity. “Eager, My Lady?” he whispered.
“For the room, that is all, Your Grace,” she assured him, though there was mischief in her eyes. She blushed, her demureness shining through though he had heard the wit beneath.
“What a shame. I thought it was my company you were after.”
She shook her head mockingly at him again. He chuckled and opened the doors, striding into his library. This time, he looked at the room, for it was indeed his favourite space in the house.
The bookcases lined each wall in rich walnut, the mottled wood gleaming in the sunlight shining through the lead-lined windows. That golden light fell on the spines of the myriad of books and the step ladders placed at various points around the room, so that he could access any book he wished to on the top shelves.
Around a fireplace were three red armchairs, their scarlet hues often made even warmer in the evening firelight. On one of these armchairs was the latest book he had been reading, the poetry bringing him comfort late into the night.
“It’s a beautiful space,” Lady Caroline remarked, her words making his attention snap back towards her. She walked quickly around the space, making him see that the gown was perhaps an inch or two too short for her, revealing a pair of delicate ankles.
Distracted, Marcus watched her ankles, thinking of the long legs hidden beneath that gown.
“You are a poetry fan, Your Grace?” she asked as she found the book he had left out on the chair.
“I am.” He nodded.
“Shakespeare’s sonnets?” She read the name imprinted on the spine.
“To me, fair friend, you never can be old, for as you were when first your eye I eyed.” Without thinking, Marcus said the opening lines of his favourite sonnet.
“Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold.”
He turned to stare at Lady Caroline in amazement. She hadn’t opened the book to read the next line; she had just said it.
“Your jaw nearly hit the floor, Your Grace,” she mused as she put the book down on the chair again. “Did you expect a woman not to know poetry?”
