Instead, her hand betrayed her, hovering over a slim, leather-bound volume she had deliberately ignored for months.
The Indiscretions of Lady Carrow.
It was a scandalous thing, a novel whispered about behind painted fans and tucked beneath velvet cushions in the most daring drawing rooms of London. It was a map of the territory she wanted to avoid.
She knew she should pull back. Her pulse quickened, a frantic drumming against her ribs that matched the heat still radiating from the hollow of her hip where he had touched her. But after the way Alexander had looked at her tonight, logic felt like a flimsy shield. She needed to know what happened when the waltz ended and the doors were finally closed.
She pulled the book free.
The leather felt unnervingly warm in her palm, almost alive. Diana crossed to the deep armchair near the hearth and sank into it, tucking her bare feet beneath her. The silk of her nightdress whispered against her skin, a soft, intimate friction that reminded her far too much of his hands.
With a shaky breath, she opened the book.
The words were bold, brazen. They spoke of longing glances, of stolen kisses in dark corridors, of a husband who had once been distant and had returned transformed, claiming his wife with urgency that bordered on worship.
Her breath slowed. Then quickened.
Her fingers tightened around the page as she read of the heroine’s heart pounding when her husband leaned close, of the way his hand had bracketed her against a wall, of the heat that spread through her when he murmured her name.
Diana swallowed. She shifted in the chair, pressing her thighs together as though that might quiet the ache.
The heroine in the book surrendered slowly, a cautious retreat into a fire that Diana was beginning to realize could not be escaped. As she read the forbidden words, her pulse throbbed at her wrists, mirroring the rhythmic heat of the prose.
The sharp creak of a floorboard snapped the silence of the library.
“Diana?”
Diana stiffened, her heart leaping into her throat as she instinctively clutched the scandalous volume to her chest. She watched, breathless, as the door swung open further.
Alexander stood in the threshold, his tall frame illuminated by the dying glow of the hallway and the flickering amber firelight from within the room.
He had discarded his coat and cravat, leaving only a crisp white shirt that remained unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp, pulse-beating hollow of his throat. His dark trousers clung to the long, powerful lines of his legs, and his hair was disordered, as if he’d been pacing in the dark.
Diana’s breath caught in her throat. He looked devastating, a raw version of the man who had haunted her dreams for a year. She felt a surge of heat that made her skin tingle, but she shovedthe sensation down, clutching her robe tighter as she fought to find her voice.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
She meant for it to sound authoritative, but it came out as a soft, breathless whisper that only seemed to pull him closer.
Alexander’s gaze slid over her with agonizing slowness. He took in the way the silk of her robe clung to her curves, the messy spill of her loosened hair over her shoulders, and the scandalous book still clutched in her lap.
A faint, knowing smirk touched his mouth. There was a weariness in his eyes, a restless hunger that made the air in the room feel heavy.
“I could ask you the same,” he replied, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel right through the floorboards and into her feet.
She held his gaze, refusing to let him see how her heart was thrashing against her ribs. He exhaled, a long, weary sound, and stepped fully into the room. The door closed behind him with a quiet, finalclickthat made the library feel suddenly very small.
“I had a nightmare,” he said at last, shrugging a shoulder as if a haunting were a mere inconvenience. “Sleep was not inclined to return. I thought perhaps being here might… prompt something.”
“Prompt what?”
“My memory.”
Diana nodded once, her movements stiff. “Of course. Then I shall leave you to it.”
She moved to pass him, her heart thundering, but she only made it two steps. His hand shot out, his fingers encircling her wrist with a firm, heat-seared grip.
The contact was electric. Diana froze, her pulse leaping beneath his thumb. He anchored her in place, his skin burning against hers.
