She gasped and whirled around, her hand reaching instinctively for the neck of her cloak, her fingers tightening around it. That deep, dark voice curled around her again, a touch raspy from sleep this time, but certainlyhim. There was no mistaking that slow drawl, always with a hint of amusement in it, as if he had the most delicious secret and couldn’t wait to whisper it into her ear.
Montford, of course. No other gentleman in England spoke as he did.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Thorne.” A lean, dark shape detached itself from the chaise on the other side of the room. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The fire had died down some time ago, but she’d left the study door open behind her when she entered, and as he came forward, a dim shaft of light from the hallway fell over his face.
Another gasp tried to tear itself loose from her chest, but this one caught in her throat, lodging there as he sauntered toward her.
The coat, cravat, and waistcoat he’d been wearing last night were nowhere to be seen. He was in his shirtsleeves, the wide-open neck of his white linen shirt exposing the hollow of his throat, a smattering of crisp dark hair peeking out from the layers of loose linen. His head was a mess of tousled dark waves, and the hint of a beard shadowed his jaw and neck.
“Why . . . what are you doing here?” That throaty, breathless murmur wasn’thervoice, was it? She sounded as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel.
“I fell asleep. I can’t say I recommend Basingstoke’s study as a bedchamber, if you were wondering. His chaise isn’t a bed so much as a medieval torture device.”
“Iwasn’twondering.” Not only that, but she’d very much prefer not to discuss bedchambers with him when he looked like . . .that. Like a . . . a . . . dear God, he looked like a pirate, with those wild curls and that dark beard, and he was still coming toward her, far too close to her, so close she fancied she could distinguish each infinitesimal hair shading his jaw from the others, could imagine the rasp of them against her fingertips.
Not that she intended totouchthem. Or him. Certainly nothim, no matter if her fingers had grown strangely restless, plucking at the folds of her cloak, the thin night rail she wore underneath caressing her heated skin. Even her toes were warming up, the ice melting . . .
She didn’t recall backing away, but she must have done, because her backside came up against the desk, her hands curling over the edge of it, the smooth wood pressing into her palms.
“What brings you downstairs so early in the morning, Miss Thorne?” He came to a stop at last, but the wicked smile that curved his lips, the gleam of his teeth in the darkness, was almost as disorienting as those prickles of hair were. “Were you worried about me?”
“I don’t know how I could be worried about you, Your Grace, when I couldn’t have known you’d fallen asleep down here.” Except, of course, that shehadknown it, or at least suspected it. She even had an intimate knowledge of the particular timber of the Duke of Montford’s snores.
But if she had realized he wasstillhere, nothing in the world could have induced her to venture downstairs. For pity’s sake, what sort of gentleman spent the night in another gentleman’s study? “I came down to tidy my mess and fetch my—” She broke off with an outraged gasp. There could only be one explanation why her letters were no longer scattered on the floor where she’d left them, but instead spread out in a neat pile on the desk. “You read my letters, didn’t you?”
“Could we truthfully call those letters, Miss Thorne? No, I think not. A few illegible scribbles, nothing more. I do compliment you on the creativity of your inkblots, however. I’ve never seen more handsome inkblots in my life.” He gave her a winning smile.
For one dreadful moment her treacherous lips twitched, but she pressed them together into a tight line before they could do anything foolish, like return his smile. “How dare you? Those wereprivateletters, Your Grace. You had no business reading them.”
“Private?” He snorted. “Ah, yes. Titillating, indeed. I almost felt as though I were listening in on your confessional. I think I enjoyed the “Dear Father” part the most. Heady stuff, that. Your description of the countryside in her green and gold robes brought a blush to my cheek.”
A blush, indeed. The man likely hadn’t blushed since he left off wearing short pants. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you quite finished?”
“Not quite, no. May I just hint, Miss Thorne, that you really should be thanking me. You left rather a mess in poor Basingstoke’s study, and I was kind enough to pick it up for you.”
“Thank you? Very well, Your Grace, I’ll thank you to stay out of my affairs in the future.” She turned to snatch up the letters, and her gaze fell on the empty tumbler. “Have you beendrinking? At”—she glanced at the mantel clock—“five o’clock in the morning?”
“Certainly not, Miss Thorne. What a scandalous accusation.”
“I beg your—”
“I drank that at four o’clock in the morning.”
Dear God, had there ever been a more incorrigible man? “You—”
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Thorne, but as much as you seem to wish to keep me here chatting with you, I believe I heard one of the servants stirring. It’s past time I took my leave. I don’t like to worry my valet, you know. He’s rather protective of me.”
He returned to the chaise, snatched up a rumpled pile of clothing and strode to the study door. “It is, as always, a great pleasure to seeyou, Miss Thorne.” He offered her an extravagant bow, then turned and vanished through the door, the long length of his cravat trailing behind him.
CHAPTER3
Keep him here, indeed. The man was either daft, in his cups, or both at once. It was nothing to her, of course. The Duke of Montford might get up to whatever nocturnal mischief he pleased without her experiencing a single twinge of curiosity about it.
Prue stuffed her letters in the pocket of her cloak and tiptoed to the door, but paused to peek around it first, in case Montford was lingering in the entryway.
He was gone, thank goodness, and she’d do well to follow in his footsteps before Basingstoke’s butler, Trevor, appeared, and she was obliged to explain what she was doing in the duke’s study at five o’clock in the morning in her bare feet, with her night rail peeking out from under the hem of her traveling cloak.
