She crept into the hallway and was a mere half dozen steps from darting up the stairs to the safety of her bedchamber when a sudden, mad urge made her pause and glance back over her shoulder.
No. It was ridiculous, not to mention improper, and unnecessary. She started back toward the stairs again, but paused once more on the bottom step, furious with herself, but unable to make her feet stir another step.
The chaise, where Montford had spent the night . . .
She wanted to see it.
Goodness, what a fool she was! It was utter folly, but the urge had her tight in its grip now, and really, what was the harm in it? It wasn’t as if she’d have another chance to see where the devil slept.
Heat blossomed in her cheeks as she retraced her steps back to the hallway, through the study door and past the Duke of Basingstoke’s desk to the chaise on the other side of the room, near the fireplace.
It was an ordinary chaise, nothing in the least remarkable about it. Certainly, there was nothing about it to indicate a large duke with impossibly long legs had slept on it the night before, aside from a slightly flattened pillow at one end with a shallow indentation in the center of it where his head must have rested, his tousled curls spread out over the fabric.
She cast a furtive glance around the room, her lip caught between her teeth. No, it was an absurd notion, and she wouldn’t give into it. It was out of the question . . . only there was her hand, already reaching for the pillow, like a guilty child intent on snatching up a handful of forbidden sweets.
But even that humiliating thought wasn’t enough to keep her from grabbing the pillow, her cheeks on fire as she brought it up to her face, pressed it to her nose, and inhaled.
She couldn’t have said what she expected it to smell like—cheroots, perhaps, or brandy and snuff and the heavy, cloying scent of a courtesan’s perfume—but to her surprise a faint scent of spice and citrus clung to it. What was that scent? Not the Bay Rum favored by so many of London’s fashionable gentlemen, but something else entirely—amber, perhaps, with a hint of orange blossom?
No, it couldn’t be. Surely, the wicked Duke of Montford didn’t smell of something so innocent as orange blossoms?
She raised it to her nose and inhaled again, the warm, spicy scent flooding through her. It wasn’t Albany, another popular scent for gentlemen, as there wasn’t a whiff of lavender to it. Did she detect cinnamon, or was that ginger? She raised the pillow for a third sniff, but then froze, appalled at herself.
God above, what was shedoing?
Was she . . .sniffingthe Duke of Montford?
A muted shriek left her lips, and she hurled the pillow away from her, desperate to be rid of it, but instead of landing on the chair she’d been aiming at, the dratted thing hit the edge of the table and skittered under the chaise.
Well, this was what came of sniffing a duke, wasn’t it?
She dropped to her knees, stuck her arm underneath the chaise and patted about, but she couldn’t find the pillow. “Dash it.” She pushed the table out of the way, lay down flat on her stomach, and peered under the chaise.
Ah, there it was, right in the middle, just out of reach of her fingertips. She squirmed closer, stretching until she finally caught one of the corner tassels, pinched it between her fingers and dragged the blasted thing out. “There you are, you devil.”
She tossed it back onto the chaise and was just sliding the table back into place when a glimmer caught her eye. She drew closer, peering down at the pillow.
There was something shiny caught in one of the tassels.
It looked like . . . an earring? But what would the Duke of Montford be doing with an earring? She took up the pillow, worked the object loose, and held it up to the light spilling in through the doorway to get a better look at it.
Itwasan earring, and not just any earring, either, but a large, dangly one, set with . . . goodness, were those rubies? Rubies, of that size? No, it couldn’t be.
Yet it was. There was no mistaking the deep red stone, winking up at her like a mischievous crimson eye. Dear God, it was enormous, easily the size of the end of her thumb. It was shaped like a teardrop and surrounded by at least a dozen diamonds in a heavy gold setting, and there was a tiny, perfect pearl dripping like a tear from the end.
She stared down at it, her heart pounding hard in her ears. She’d never seen such a magnificent piece of jewelry before, much less held one in her hand. Where did one even wear such a piece as this, and how on earth had it ended up tangled in a tassel on a pillow in the duke’s study?
It must belong to Franny. Yes, of course. Such an extravagant piece was entirely fitting for an important personage like the Duchess of Basingstoke. She’d never seen Franny wear these, though, or anything like them, really. Franny’s tastes were simple, and this was a dramatic piece, one that demanded attention.
Had Basingstoke purchased the earrings for Franny, intending them as a gift, and then misplaced them? It didn’t seem likely. The Duke of Basingstoke wasn’t the sort of gentleman who’d be so careless as to misplace a fortune in rubies, and he knew his wife’s tastes too well to choose jewels she wouldn’t favor.
Perhaps they were from the family coffers then, an heirloom.
Either way, Franny would certainly want it back. A ruby that size was worth a fortune, and that was to say nothing of the pearl and diamonds. What must it be like, to live the sort of life where jewels like this were commonplace? She spread the earring out in her palm, admiring the way the faint light played over the ruby, the deep red center burning like it contained its own private fire.
There was no sense in wondering, because it was no sort of life she’d ever live. No sort of life she’d ever longed for, either, though one couldn’t look at such splendid jewels without recognizing what they represented.
Ease, comfort, security. A whole world of experiences that were far out of the reach of a lady like herself.
