She was breathing fast, though a bit of her fire toward him seemed to have ebbed. Now she was simply looking at him warily, as if trying to anticipate what he might do next.
Dom stepped away from her and went to retrieve the books he’d tossed onto the carpet. Perhaps that had been badly done of him. He’d taken his dislike of Lady Goddard out on the innocent volumes that were, as Miss Librarian pointed out, the product of a great deal of work by wordsmiths and craftsmen.
He hadn’t gotten far with sorting through the collection, but he’d had enough of ruffling the feathers of a pretty librarian and dreading the appearance of Lady Goddard at any moment.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as quietly as she’d said anything to him thus far.
“I made a mess of your efforts at organizing.” After he’d stacked the dozen or so volumes onto a table in the center of the room and collected his suit coat from where he’d tossed it on a chair, he glanced back at her. “I’m sorry for that.”
Those pink lips of hers fell open a bit.
“See those on the left edge of the top two shelves? Those will fetch her a fine price, and there’s a seven-volume set of Shakespeare from 1733 among them that I could take on consignment at Princes if she likes. I know a bard enthusiast who’d snap them up. Tell her that, will you?” He gestured to the rows of books in Lady Goddard’s library. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”
The urge to reach for her hand or some other form of leave-taking that would give him an excuse to approach her once more nearly overwhelmed him.
But he’d unsettled the young lady enough. He needed to forget about her vivid green eyes and perfect lips.
He had a Viking hoard to find in Norfolk.
Chapter Three
The encounter had been so strange, so unsettlingly provocative, that Tess stood frozen after the man departed, her gaze fixed on the doorframe his broad shoulders had barely squeezed through.
It took far too long to catch her breath and tame the wild beat of her heart. Even then, she felt overheated and utterly frustrated because the room seemed shockingly empty now that he’d gone.
Mercy, the way he’d looked at her, as if she was some fascinating creature. As if he found her all but irresistible.
Her. Tess Hawthorne. The scandalous spinster of Wiggenstow.
For a moment, he’d stared so fixedly at her mouth, she thought he might kiss her. And for one terribly brazen moment, she’d wanted him to.
One word he’d said echoed again in her mind. Princes.
She swung around and went to retrieve her satchel, pulling out the notebook she always carried with her. It had become a compendium of notes about her father’s research and then her own, as well as her other interests and preoccupations. A few pages in, she found what she sought—a clipping cut from a local Norfolk news sheet several months ago.
And there he was—all that magnetism, wavy dark hair, and square jaw. The artist had even captured the cleft in his chin. The article featured sketches of both Dominic Princeand his sister Eveline, along with details about the dig they’d conducted at a mound near Tess’s village back in October.
Her twin brother, Tristan, had drawn a heart above Mr. Prince’s head to tease her, as Tess couldn’t help commenting on his handsome face. But they’d both been most interested in the details. The Princes were doing the sort of work that Tess had often dreamed of undertaking. Though their father had been a historian and had long speculated on what sort of treasures the mounds in their county might hold, he’d never had any desire to organize a dig himself.
Tess had actually attempted to do just that once, planning out the whole undertaking and convincing Tristan and a few young men in the village to help. But the one person she could never convince was Lord Reginald Fenbridge, the greatest landowner in the county. The mounds on his land were tantalizing, yet he’d allowed no one to fully explore them.
Tess couldn’t fathom why the old nobleman did not wish to know if ancient gold and silver lined those hills. His own ancestors might have left a trace of their lives and personal histories under the soil.
She ran her finger over the image of Dominic Prince and remembered the warmth that rippled through her when he told her she was lovely.
What nonsense.
The man’s reputation as a charmer and rogue was now completely understandable. He was silver-tongued and far more appealing than anyone had a right to be.
She tucked the clipping into her notebook and turned back to Lady Goddard’s books. Now it made sense why he’d been here. The Princes were renowned antiquarians, though it still rankled that the dowager countess would employ him to rifle through the collection without telling her.
Why engage two people to work at cross purposes?
Tess inspected each book Mr. Prince had tossed onto the carpet, trying to ignore the scents of pine and clove that wafted up from the volumes he’d touched. None seemed to have suffered any significant damage, but what was she supposed to do with them? Would her ladyship truly wish to discard perfectly good books?
Her organizing efforts had been going so well until Dominic Prince appeared, disturbed her orderly system, and left her breathless.
Good heavens, if Tristan knew he’d never let her live it down.
