But this woman hid nothing. And that artless seduction in her every look and move woke something…dark in him. Stirred his interest and his cock in equal measure.
“Mr. Huntington,” she said, her rough, breathless voice breaking the silence that had stretched between them since he saw her in the doorway.
“Miss Oliver,” he managed to choke out. His throat was suddenly very dry. “I have your brother’s permission to explore the library.”
Her brow wrinkled and then her smile widened. “Why wouldn’t you? You’re a guest, after all.”
He frowned. He’d been so taken aback by her appearance he’d almost forgotten his role of invited guest and friend, rather than outsider. Strange that she could so easily sweep his duties out of the way. Dangerous.
“Of course. I suppose I’m just not accustomed to roaming freely through a duke’s home,” he said. “Friend of his brother or not.”
Her stare wavered at that and she stepped into the room. Now that they were closer, he could scent the faint hint of vanilla from her hair. He suddenly wanted to pull that ribbon from her locks and let the cascade of her sleek, dark hair fall around her like a waterfall.
What the hell was wrong with him? This was a distraction he could not afford. And if she knew his thoughts, she surely wouldn’t welcome them, knowing smile or not.
“Are you a great reader, Mr. Huntington?” she asked, gliding past him close enough that the air between them stirred with warmth.
He cleared his throat and resisted the urge to loosen his suddenly tight cravat. “I don’t know if I would say a great reader, but a passionate one.”
She pivoted at that word. “A passionate reader. Is reading the passion in itself, or do you specifically seek out passionate subjects?”
He shifted. “Perhaps both, depending on the mood.”
A smile twitched at the corners of her lips again. “Hmmm, yes, a great deal depends on the mood.”
She held his gaze a moment and then pivoted away again. She lifted up on her tiptoes to see a shelf just above her sightline and her dress shifted against her backside. A very shapely backside at that.
He glanced at the fire. Why was it so blasted hot in here? That could not be good for the books. It certainly wasn’t good for his constitution.
“And what about you?” he asked, hearing how low and rough his voice was in the quiet of the room.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Reading is a favorite pastime for me, as well. Perhaps that means we’ll encounter each other here often during the party. We can…compare books.”
He drew in a long breath and tried to find a modicum of decorum and calm in the face of the hurricane that was this woman. He was an investigator, sent here to do just that. He couldn’t forget it just because a wildly attractive woman batted her exquisitely long eyelashes at him and gave him a come-hither look.
So what could he deduce about Selina Oliver? Beyond her beauty, beyond her intoxicating charm. She was bold, that was one thing. Brash, he supposed some would say, and they wouldn’t be wrong. It was a playful boldness, at least on its surface. But as he gazed deeper into those lovely eyes, he also saw something…else. Something more purposeful.
As if this dance she was dancing had meaning beyond flirtation. And suddenly his interest became not just about her scent or the warmth of her or the directness of her attraction, but about what it was exactly she was trying to achieve by approaching him.
He thought of the disappearing blue gown earlier in the parlor. Hers, he was more and more certain. And that made him wonder about those motives all the more.
He cleared his throat and straightened up. “Any time you’d like to compare books, Miss Oliver, I am at your service.”
She arched a brow. “Then I look forward to it.”
Oh yes, this conversation and its deeper meanings were far too risky. He needed to draw her toward some other topic. Perhaps one that would let him see more of the real woman beneath this flirtatious façade he didn’t fully understand.
“I was sorry your brother couldn’t join our party,” he said, and it wasn’t a lie.
Just as he suspected, her expression shifted. The playful minx faded away and a second side to her emerged. A little anxious, much softer, just as intriguing.
“Nicholas?” she said, and nodded. “Yes, I wish he had come, as well. But his injuries…”
Derrick frowned as he recalled Gillingham’s heavy limp when they’d seen each other in London. The expression of pain on his face. “Yes, they were grave. We thought we’d lose him that day.”
She flinched. “We’ve thought that a few times since his return, to be honest. Though he does seem to be healing, at last. He is much better than he was even six months ago.”
Derrick saw her concern. The one he shared. And he stepped closer without thinking. “He is as strong a man as I’ve ever known. I believe he will continue to recover.”
