I do my best to follow the stern self-issued rebuke as we leave the dining room, arm in arm. As we walk, the duke points out distinctions of the house.
“The colored stone of the fireplace is quite rare,” he says.
I follow the direction of his finger and murmur politely, though to me, it is no more than a pile of rocks.
“Are the Turkish carpets not exquisite, my lady?”
His presence renders me hopeless at making polite conversation at present. It is the same when he directs myattention to the antique furniture, said to have been installed with the first Duke of Fairwynd nearly two hundred years ago. I nod and murmur politely, but it all is a blur to my eyes, and quickly swept away from my mind. I am too focused on trying to keep myself upright while my knees wish to give way.
The duke appears to be unaware of my internal distress, and for that, I am grateful. He stops in front of a large portrait that dominates the wall it rests on. “The late Duke of Fairwynd.”
It is the somber tone in His Grace’s voice rather than the portrait that demands my attention. I take in his profile as he gazes at the portrait, his handsome face conveying him to be in deep thought. For the first time I can recall, I wish to know what he is thinking.
“Does the painting mean something to you, Your Grace? Did you know him well?”
The duke does not look at me, but my question causes a slight furrowing of his brow. “Alas, I cannot claim to have known him, but from everything I have since learned of him, he was an honorable man.”
Again, the way he speaks beckons me to look closer. His brows are drawn, his frown has deepened, and his lips press together tightly.
I lift my hand, my fingers aching to offer him comfort. I catch myself while my hand hovers, unsure of what to do next.
He turns to see my hand in mid-air and lifts an eyebrow.
I make a show of brushing my hand over my hair and then dropping it to my side, my fingers still tingling in want of feeling him.
“Do you…” I clear my throat. “Do you wish the same? To be an honorable man?”
That wolfish grin flashes across his face, chasing away the melancholy until I fear I was imagining it. He clutches his heart. “You wound me, Madam! Do you mean to say you do not find mehonorable?” He wags his eyebrows at me, his eyes dancing with mirth.
I drop my eyes. I am unused to being the source of someone’s amusement, and I find I do not like it. Before I can find any way to challenge him, or gain the upper hand, he leads me away. We go only a short way down the diamond-tiled hallway before he pauses once more in front of a set of large doors. Each door boasts a shiny brass handle with intricate floral scrollwork.
“Are they new doors, Your Grace?” I inquire, my tone bored.
“Indeed, they are,” he returns with his usual unflappable spirit. He offers me a smile of sheer boyish enthusiasm then reaches for a handle and turns it. But he opens the door only a crack before turning back to me. “I shall cover your eyes.”
“No!” I protest, giggling despite myself. “You cannot be in earnest!”
“I do not say anything unless I am in earnest.”
I gaze back at him, my lips twisting, but I do not give voice to my skepticism. “I do believe I feel myself growing weary. I am in need of rest, I fear.”
His Grace’s lips quirk, and his gaze grows warmer. “I must insist your slumber wait. After I have shown you my surprise, if it is your wish to take respite, I shall yield.”
My entire being is alive and pulsing to the point it seems to lend warmth to the air around us. I am enjoying this game immensely. “Very well. As you wish.”
“What?” he frowns, pretending vexation. “You mean to drop the honorifics altogether?”
“Pray excuse me,Your Grace.” I intend for the title to come out stuffed with fury as it has every other time I have uttered it thus. Instead, the words nearly drip with honey and I feel the prickling shame that is becoming a constant companion upon my cheeks.
I obey and close my eyes, though when his gloved hand descends to cover them, I find myself no less embarrassed. The heat that warms my skin becomes a searing need that flows through me with speed that is so startling, it threatens to upend me. Thankfully—or, perhaps not, as it is surely the cause of the thrumming ball of want seated firmly in the pit of my stomach—His Grace has a hand on my arm and guides me so that I do not fall and make acompletefool of myself.
We take no more than ten steps before I feel the warmth of his hand being lifted. “You may open whenever it pleases you.”
Uncertain if I will be able to maintain my composure, to conceal my desire, I keep my eyes closed for several long moments and inhale deeply, attempting to master my emotions. But when I finally open my eyes, I immediately discover it was all for naught.
It is impossible for me to pretend indifference in this moment. I fear it would be too difficult even if I were an accomplished actor, which I am certainly not. A gasp escapes my parted lips as I turn from side-to-side, drinking in the glorious sight.
He has brought me to a library, filled with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, each gleaming in the sunlight that comes in through the large bay windows. The floor boasts the same rich mahogany and is laid with a fine Persian rug that looks so soft and inviting. I feel a strong urge to remove my slippers and run my bare toes over it. I resist the unladylike temptation, but only just.
