He shrugged, but once again his fingers slid along her spine with an intimacy that made her shiver. “Just considering. I only mentioned it because if you are alone, it will make it easier for you to sneak out. Will you join me in the library in a few hours?”
She considered the question a moment. Sneaking out of her chamber in the middle of the night to rendezvous with a scandalous, highly sought after and incredibly attractive man did not seem like the most proper thing to do. But then again, she had been behaving properly her entire life and what had it gotten her?
Impropriety was beginning to look like it had its perks.
She nodded. “I will.”
He smiled at her again as the music ended. “I look forward to it, Miss Liston,” he said with a formal bow.
She executed her own curtsey. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He took her hand and led her from the dancefloor. But before he released her, he bent and pressed a kiss to her gloved hand. The warmth of his breath pierced the thin fabric, swirling around her skin until her thighs clenched together.
He nodded and let her go, trailing off into the crowd as if he had no care in the world. And perhaps he didn’t. After all, this little ruse of his likely meant nothing to him, just as their kiss earlier meant nothing to him.
And she had to make sure she was just as cool about it or else she would put herself in a world of trouble.
Emma came down the long staircase hours later, peering around through the now-shadowy halls for fear of being caught. She had hatched an elaborate explanation while she waited for the proper time to come downstairs. One that involved an inability to sleep, a love of libraries and a need for a boring book.
She could only hope she’d never be asked to recite it, for she wasn’t very good at lying.
She huffed out a breath as she muttered, “Exactly why you’re entering into a ruse of a courtship with a…a…”
She pushed open the library door and caught her breath. James was already there, standing by the fire. He had shed his jacket and his cravat, and his shirt was open two buttons, revealing a smooth line of chest that made her blush. As she stumbled into the room, he looked up at her, heat swirling in his dark eyes as he looked her up and down.
“…scoundrel,” she finished.
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
She shook her head. “Oh—I—nothing. I was just…nothing.”
“Close the door, will you?” he asked.
She looked behind her at the door. Her only remaining bastion against whatever might happen once they were alone. She turned back and found he had taken a step toward her.
“If we’re going to have a private conversation, it would be best,” he said, his tone soothing. Hypnotic, almost. She found herself reaching back and doing as he’d asked.
When the door clicked behind her, she leaned against it. “I-I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, searching for normalcy. For calm. “I had to redress myself and it took longer than I thought it would.”
He moved closer and suddenly she felt his heat. In the dim library, in the quiet, in the private where no one knew they were together, everything felt close and intimate. She swallowed hard as she looked up into his face.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice rough.
She felt off kilter so close to him, so she stepped around him into the room and looked around. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she breathed as she peered up at the high bookshelves lined with books in spines of rainbow colors. They seemed to stretch forever.
“I agree,” he said, his presence right at her back again. “I have always loved this room.”
“Have you read all the books?” she teased as she looked at him over her shoulder.
She expected him to wave off the idea of sitting to read for hours, but he instead looked up at the shelves. “Almost,” he said. “There are still some tomes on minute farming techniques that are slow reading, indeed.”
She spun around to face him. “You must be joking. You really read all these books? You?”
He arched a brow. “Did you believe I couldn’t read? My professors would be very cross.”
She shook her head. “Of course I thought youcouldread. I just never pictured a man like you as wanting to beyond a daily paper and perhaps a pamphlet on horse races.”
“A man like me,” he repeated. “What sort of ideas do you have about me, Emma Liston?”
