Eamon held up a hand to spare her having to refuse. “My apologies, dear lady. I will not foist my friends upon you. It is no matter. I will say nothing of this to them.”
Caro flushed, her eyes betraying distress. “Oh, dear, now I’ve offended you.”
Eamon stared in astonishment. “You, offend me? My dear Duchess, you are incapable of offending me, even if you threw me to the ground and trampled on me.”
With difficulty he staved off the delightful vision of himself on the floor with her pretty feet on his chest. He could cup her lovely ankles while her skirts swayed to let him enjoy his fill of the view.
When Eamon could breathe again, he saw that Caro had dropped her gaze, but he realized her downcast look wasn’t from shyness.
She was studying him as she had yesterday, with interest. At the moment, her focus was on Eamon’s throat, his skin revealed by his carelessly tied cravat. From there, she moved up his chin to his lips.
Don’t kiss her, Eamon admonished himself. He clenched his jaw to maintain control. So easy it would be to lean to her, caress her cheek, draw her to him for a touch of lips …
He’d destroy everything. This trust she had to stand here alone with Eamon in a dark gallery would be gone in an instant. She’d summon the loyal Singleton to throw him out, or perhaps do it herself. She was robust enough to manage it.
Caro raised her gaze to meet his. They regarded each other in silence, the only sound the sputtering of the candle Caro held.
Wax splashed to Caro’s fingers, and she drew a quick breath.
Eamon quickly snatched the candle from her, and it extinguished itself, the tip of the wick glowing red. He dropped the candle to the nearest table and grasped Caro’s hand.
“Are you all right? Did it burn you?”
She let him examine the skin between thumb and forefinger, now pale with a thin coat of beeswax. Only the best candles for a duchess, even a penniless one.
Caro tried to shrug. “It’s only wax.”
“Very hot wax.” Eamon gently rubbed the offending patch, which obligingly flaked away.
Eamon brushed his thumb over the area once more, then lifted Caro’s hand to his lips and pressed a quick kiss where the wax had fallen.
He felt her start beneath his lips. He expected her to become outraged, snatch her hand away, and order him to go. Knave. Peon. Remember your place.
Instead, Caro smiled shyly. “My mother used to do that when I was hurt.”
Now she was comparing Eamon to her mother. Ah, well, better that than having him flogged for his impertinence.
“I’d like to tell you mine too, but I don’t remember her,” Eamon said.
Instantly Caro radiated sympathy, as though he’d told her the most distressing thing she could imagine. “Oh, I am sorry.”
Eamon did not relish pity from anyone, but it was different when coming from a beautiful woman whose hand he held.
“You are kind,” he said. “Thank you.”
He should release her now. Under Caro’s compassionate gaze, Eamon never wanted to let go of her again.
He did want to sneeze, because these books probably held a century’s worth of dust, not to mention mites and other things that ate paper. Eamon held it in, because he’d have to step away from Caro and make an exploding, inelegant noise.
The next few seconds would decide things. He’d either sneeze or pull the woman of his dreams close and kiss her. Then the woman of his dreams would either allow the kiss or show him the door.
A dry cough sounded behind them.
The moment shattered and scattered its pieces at Eamon’s feet.
“His Grace, the Duke of Aylesmore,” Singleton intoned.
Chapter 6
