He held up the book. “I was hoping for an autograph.”
She glared, but the heat in her cheeks betrayed more than irritation. He had a knack for seeing through her defenses, making her words feel dangerously close to the truth.
“I shall have to decline,” she said, “as I have not yet mastered your flair for forgery.”
He set the book aside, his boots defiantly propped up. “A pity. I had hoped we might stage a reading together. The conclusion promises such catharsis.”
She snorted. “You seem to believe that life, like literature, revolves around your amusement.”
“And you, Lady Louisa,” he countered, “seem to believe the world is a stage designed exclusively for the display of your moral superiority. Why not let it be both?”
She was, infuriatingly, at a loss for a reply. The room hummed with energy, that was, against her better judgment, exhilarating.
He regarded her over steepled fingers. “You are not what I expected.”
She arched a brow. “No? What did you expect, Lord Foxmere? A shrieking wallflower, mortified into submission?”
He shook his head, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I expected someone who would pretend not to care. You, Lady Louisa, have the audacity to care quite a lot.”
The observation struck closer than she wished. For a moment, silence enveloped them, and it was not entirely uncomfortable.
She broke the tension by nodding at the book. “May I have it, please? Or will you require a blood oath to ensure my silence?”
He picked up the novel, turned it in his hands, and closed it with a final click. “Only if you promise to lend me the sequel. I hear the duke becomes even more depraved.”
She reached for it, but he didn’t release the book until their eyes met. “You know, Primrose,” he said, his tone suddenly softer, “it would not be so terrible if people knew how passionately you read. Or lived.”
She wrested the book free, barely resisting the urge to strike him with it. “Heathen,” she muttered.
He gave a genuine smile, quick and bright, then gone. “You wound me, Lady Louisa. I only flirt with worthy opponents.”
With that, he withdrew his boots, stood, and executed a bow so flamboyant it bordered on indecent. As he swept past her, the scent of sandalwood and brandy lingered, and she realized she was grinning.
She was certain he’d noticed.
Louisa stepped beyond the library door and muttered a soft expletive, careful to keep her voice low lest the footman in the corridor report her to her mother. She clutched the book like a shield, unable to wipe the grin from her face. The true danger of Foxmere lay not in his disregard for rules or his rakish smile, but in how alive he made her feel, as if the world had burst into color after a long, gray season.
Only when she reached her chamber did she notice the book's peculiar feel. She opened it to the marked page. He had dog-eared it—and gasped. The last chapter was gone. No, not gone. Excised. Torn out with unnerving precision. The story’s infamous conclusion, her favorite part, the only part she constantly read, was missing, as cleanly as if it had never existed.
For a moment, she could only stare at the mutilated binding. Then a soft thump from beyond her window caught her attention. Foxmere, leaning against the balcony rail, casually twirling a sheaf of paper between his fingers.
How the devil had he gotten on her balcony? She scowled even has her heart thrummed a peculiar beat.
“Lost something, Primrose?” he called, his voice low enough for her alone.
She marched to the door and threw it open. “Are you mad?”
He cocked his head. “Frequently. But I find it improves my mood.” He tucked the missing pages into his breast pocket. “I’ll keep this for now. Collateral, you understand.”
She gritted her teeth. “Return it, or I shall?—”
“Inform Lady Pembroke that her guest is a thief?” His eyes sparkled. “You know as well as I do that you cannot. There would be awkward questions.”
She made a sound that was half growl, half laugh. “You are despicable.”
“And you,” he said, stepping closer, “are remarkable.”
His unexpected and direct words unsettled her more than the theft. Louisa had been called many things—clever, difficult, even pretty—but never that. She didn’t trust it, but she wanted to.
