Page 18 of Sir Andrew and the Authoress

“Do you like imagining all the women of your acquaintance find you charming? That is the only way I can account for that ridiculous idea.”

“Oh?” He stepped closer to her again, watching the movement of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. They were less than an arm’s length apart. “Is that truly the only way? Because here we are. In the dark. All alone. Almost as if you willed it so.”

“I willed you to leave me alone,” she reminded him, her voice dropping to a lower register. “You will recall I wanted nothing to do with you this evening.”

“And yet you remain here,” he reminded her, leaning closer so he could whisper nearly in her ear. “It is quite scandalous, Josie.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and his lungs hitched for a moment, clinging to the air inside as he listened to the heavy silence in the corridor. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, almost distracting him from the pleasant scent of Josephine’s perfume. Vanilla and roses.

Simon would kill him. Absolutely, without a doubt, run Andrew through with a sword for flirting with his sister. He needed to pull back. And yet, he so often found his teasing with Josephine led to flirtation.

Why couldn’t he find someone else to flirt with? Someone who might welcome the attention. He’d never been much of a flirt, though he’d always delighted in debates with intellectual equals. Somehow, with Josephine, those debates were charged differently. Excited him in a way he couldn’t explain.

She trod on his foot, her evening slipper soft enough that her step caused no true pain, but the surprise of her movement made him yelp and lurch backward. Then he heard her quick footsteps pass him and return the way they had come. He followed, an apology on his lips.

He had pushed things too far.

Andrew rushed down the corridor, stopping when he collided with the warmth of Josie's form. Her hands flew to his shoulders and his hands wrapped around her waist in an effort to steady them both. She trembled in his grasp, and her breath tickled across his neck.

“Josephine, I’m terribly—”

“Yes,” she cut off his hastily prepared speech, sounding somewhat breathless. “You are. And I accept your apology. You are such a nuisance, Andrew.” Then she pulled away from him and kept going. He stayed still this time, not wanting to run into her again.

A door opened—hers—letting faint light into the corridor again. She looked over her shoulder at him, and he had one clear view of her profile as she drew herself into the perfect posture of a duke’s daughter. “I will say nothing about this evening. I suggest you follow that example.” Then she shut the door behind her with such care that he did not hear the moment the latch caught.

Andrew went to his door and slipped inside. He leaned against it for a time, listening to be certain Josephine didn’t sneak out again.

All was quiet.

He lost all desire to read. Or to think. Because if he spent too much time thinking, he’d go over the entirety of their conversation again. Because something had happened—or almost happened—in the darkness. He’d felt the stirring in the air between them.

A good night’s sleep would banish that line of thinking. He’d worry about Josephine and her mysterious box in the morning. Or, better yet, do his best to forget all about the scene in the corridor.

That seemed the safest course of action. The wisest.

And the most unlikely.

CHAPTER 7

When Josephine learned that Simon and Andrew had already taken their breakfast, she sat at the table with utter relief. After her failed attempted to sneak her manuscript up to her secret tower, she had no wish to watch Andrew gloat. Though he had thwarted her completely, she would find another time to slip away. She always did.

Castle Clairvoir had several hidden rooms, a few hidden passages, and two secret staircases. They were built into the castle as much for practicality as for the safety of the family. And, Josephine strongly suspected, her mother took a secret delight in hiding things in plain sight.

After she enjoyed her meal alone, Josephine went to the library. Her grandmother would send for her soon, which meant it was best to stay in the main rooms of the house.

She had walked halfway through the library before realizing the door to her father’s study—which connected to the library—stood wide open. She heard an unfamiliar voice speaking from inside, too.

“I thought it prudent to come when I learned your family was in residence again. Mr. Gooch left behind notes regarding your castle’s chapel. Will you wish for its use for Sunday worship? Or any other services?”

Simon’s voice answered with confidence. “I do not think that will be necessary at this time. My father has spoken of using the chapel here, but it doesn’t seem all that practical at present.”

Josephine drifted nearer to the open door. Mr. Gooch had been a deacon, and then vicar, for their parish for as long as she could remember. Who might this newcomer be, to ask after their religious habits? His voice was pleasant. His accent suggested a more northerly heritage, though educated.

Affecting her most polite, lady-like mask of indifference, Josephine went to the open door and called out, “Farleigh? Are you in father’s study?” It was always best to use her brother’s title when they were in mixed company.

She came through the doorway as three men rose to their feet—Simon from behind her father’s ornate oak desk, Andrew from a chair near the fire, and a third gentleman from the chair across the desk from Simon.

The third man wasn’t so tall as her brother—he would only be an inch or so taller than herself. He wore somber, dark-colored clothing with a simple cut and an expression that might have been a match for her own.