She found the drawing room from last night. The footman had said the library was the last door on the right. With a quick breath, she tapped lightly and slipped inside.
Excitement fluttered in her stomach, for this was no ordinary room. Narrow yet impressive, it rose from floor to cornice with shelves of leather-bound books, a sanctuary of secrets waiting to be uncovered. A fresco ceiling of cherubs in gold and blue arched overhead, and a tall sash window cast pale light over the solitary chair.
“This is marvellous.” She trailed a finger along the spines. “Pope’sEssay on Man,” she whispered. “Goldsmith’sThe Deserted Village. Byron’sChilde Harold.”
The last name lingered on her tongue, conjuring the image of a dark, restless wanderer. Yet Lord Rothley reminded her more of Byron’sCorsair. Formidable, untamed, and bound by his own relentless code.
“It’s an impossible choice,” she murmured, her hand trailing over the carved panel as her eyes wandered the spines. A haven of words where she could lose herself for hours.
That’s when she noticed the bookcase set askew, behind it the faint, steady trickle of water. Could it be a secret door?
Curiosity tugged her closer. She pressed, and the panel yielded, releasing a draught laced with the marquess’ scent, warm spice threaded with musk, worldly yet unmistakably his. The very air declared this was a gentleman’s domain. One man’s in particular.
Through the half-open door, she glimpsed him at the washstand. Bare-chested. A towel fastened around his lean hips. Water slid over the ridges of his torso as he reached for a cloth.
Her breath caught. She ought to turn away, yet her gaze lingered. No wonder they said he kept a harem of women. A man of his size and strength must have a hunger that never waned.
Broad shoulders caught the morning light, every line of muscle a testament to his power and command. His back, straight as a blade, belonged to a man who bent to neither fortune nor fear. Even the ease of his movements revealed control and an unyielding resolve.
She had come upon a private moment, yet it wasimpossible not to look, impossible not to feel his allure. She could smell his cologne on her clothes, as consuming as his presence now.
“Miss Woolf?” His low voice broke the hush, as if he had known she was there all along. “Admiring the view?”
Merciful Lord.
She fought the urge to bolt. “Forgive me. I thought you were out walking. I heard water and feared a leak. It would be a tragedy if the books were damaged.”
He turned to her, amusement flickering in his obsidian eyes, though her gaze kept straying to his chest. “A leak? On the ground floor?”
“Someone with your wealth might have modern plumbing.”
“No pipes, Miss Woolf. Only water, steam, and a man with nothing to hide.”
Why wasn’t he reaching for a robe?
Why wasn’t she leaving?
Because their battle of wills left her as breathless as any embrace.
“That’s not entirely true, my lord. A towel still guards your modesty.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Modesty is a fragile thing. One careless tug, and the towel is gone.” He raised a challenging brow. “Tell me, Miss Woolf. Are you afraid? Would you hide your eyes or hold your ground?”
She stepped into his room, squaring her shoulders, determined to prove a point. He was a master of intimidation, but she would not yield. “I was almost strangled in a graveyard. I believe I can endure your scandalous behaviour.”
“Scandalous? Says the woman bold enough to appear in a dress without a corset.”
“You forgot to pack one.”
“How careless of me.”
“I confess I was surprised, for a man so astute.”
“Call it an oversight. I’ve not undressed a woman in years. I’ll endeavour to be more attentive in future. Shall I send a maid to town? I would hate to think you lacked … support.”
“On the contrary. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt free.”
His gaze dipped to her breasts. A flicker of triumph warmed her chest, followed by a heat that burned deeper, coiling low. For all his intelligence and distinguished drawl, he was dangerous.
