“I did but found nothing unusual. Neither did my steward,” Selina said.
“I should like to have a look at them as well,”James said, leaning forward. “Something that appears innocuous to you may stand out to me.”
Selina nodded. “Very well. I will have them at hand tomorrow.”
A pause stretched between them, filled with the crackle of the fire.
"Tomorrow, then," James broke the spell, his voice a gentle baritone that resonated within the room and within Selina's chest. "I assure you, we will get to the bottom of this."
Selina nodded. "Tomorrow," she agreed, her thoughts a whirlwind of conjecture and anticipation. As she rose from her seat, the scent of sandalwood and spice and something intrinsically James lingered in the air—a tantalizing mixture that sent a wave of unexpected longing through her.
What the devil was wrong with her? He was still her enemy, and yet, with each passing moment, the line that divided them grew ever more blurred.
Shaking her head, she reached for the materials on the table. Her fingers grazed the vellum with practiced care, but in her haste, a wayward gesture brought her hand into contact with James's. The touch was but a whisper, yet it surged through her like lightning, igniting every nerve with an awareness she could not quell.
Their gazes locked, and in that fraction of a second, a silent conversation passed between them, fraught with the unspoken tension that had been mounting since their first contentious encounter. The air itself seemed to crackle with the intensity of that gaze, the world beyond the library walls fading into nonexistence.
With a start, Selina pulled her hand back as if scalded by the very air that hung between them. Her cheeks flourished with a bloom of crimson, betraying the tumultuous emotions that clashed beneath her composed surface. There was embarrassment, certainly, but interwoven with her mortification was an undeniable thread of desire—a longing that, despite her best efforts, refused to be corralled.
"Forgive me," she murmured, her voice laced with a vulnerability that vexed her. She had always prided herself on maintaining control, yet in this instance, it seemed perilously close to slipping from her grasp.
James merely inclined his head, the corners of his mouth hinting at amusement—or was it something more profound? "Think nothing of it, my lady," he said, his tone suggesting a shared secret, one that danced on the line between propriety and scandal.
Selina composed herself. She was the Countessof Hollyfield, after all, and no fleeting contact—no matter how charged—would shake her.
With renewed determination, she addressed the task at hand, letting the list of names anchor her back to the reality of their investigation. “Leave this with me,” she said, adding the list of names to her pile of evidence.”
"As you wish," James murmured, the sound of his voice slicing through the thick air. “Perhaps you will recall something useful upon further introspection.”
“Perhaps.” She gave a slight smile.
Lord Blackwood pushed his chair out. “I shall leave you to it then.”
She nodded, grateful for the respite, yet strangely reluctant to part ways. "Indeed, Lord Blackwood," she said, her voice smooth as silk.
Her gaze followed the assured grace of his departure. The door closed with a soft click, and solitude enfolded her once more. In the quiet aftermath, Selina released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her chest tight with unspoken emotions.
Her mind began to spin, weaving through the labyrinth of facts and suppositions laid out before her. Yet, beneath the cool surface of logic, therestirred a warmth that infused her cheeks with color and her limbs with an unfamiliar restlessness.
James Barton, Lord Blackwood—infamous rogue and sworn enemy—had managed to breach her carefully erected defenses.
His presence was akin to a flame flickering dangerously close to the fine muslin of her self-restraint. She had witnessed his vices, his unabashed indulgence in life’s darker delights, and yet she could not deny the intelligence and sincerity that seemed to mark his pursuit of truth.
Her heart, weathering the storm of bereavement, suddenly contended with an insurgent tide of attraction. How perilous, to feel such stirrings amidst the ashes of her past life. Selina chided herself. She was a widow, a countess—a woman of substance, not some doe-eyed debutante to be seduced by a charming scoundrel.
With a determined shake of her head, she redirected her focus to the list of names James had provided. Each one was a potential clue. She focused her attention on plotting and planning their next move with meticulous precision.
Yet even as she pondered strategies, the echo of that accidental touch—the electric current that had sparked between them—refused to be silenced. Itwas a scandalous sensation, one that whispered of forbidden pleasures and the tantalizing possibility of surrendering to desires long suppressed.
With a sigh, she set the list aside. Tomorrow, they would delve deeper into the intrigue that claimed her husband's life. But tonight, she must navigate the treacherous waters of her own heart, steering clear of the siren call that was James Barton, Lord Blackwood.
Four
The dying embers of the fire reflected a flickering glow across the study, casting shadows that danced upon the walls as the first rays of sunlight breached the widows. James paced restlessly, contemplating the news he’d received from his contact the prior evening. There was not a trace of evidence to be found among London’s underbelly. It could only mean one thing—whoever wanted Hollyfield dead was a peer, and he, or she, did the job themself.
A sharp knock at the study door drew his attention. “Enter,” he said, expecting a footman.
Selina entered the study. Her wavy blonde hair framed a face that mirrored her resolve, while her gaze fixed on James. Her fingers curled tightlyaround a letter, the knuckles turning white from the pressure.
