Taking her lamp, she made her way through the various familiar corridors, not at all bothered by the hush of the house. She rather liked it. Except she could sense the emptiness of the residence. He wasn’t yet home. It was odd how different the place seemed with him in it—more alive, more vibrant, more substantial. Even when she wasn’t in the same room as he was, she was aware of his presence. It had been like that the moment she began working for him and had only strengthened over the years.
Therefore, she knew she wouldn’t be disturbing him or running into him in the library. Not that he objected to her taking books from his domain. Shortly after she’d begun working for him, he’d given her permission to read his entire collection of tomes. She’d never seen the like, all those books in a residence, in a family home. Her father would have been in heaven. As it was, he was likely in hell. Although she didn’t want to think about that. But then, she never did.
She walked into the library, set the lamp down on a table near the shelves that housed novels, and wandered along, trailing her fingers over the spines. So many books. She’d never have a chance to read them all and wondered how many might be overlooked by future generations. How many might be added to the collection? At the duke’s ancestral estate in Cornwall, the library was three floors high, with a wrought-iron spiral staircase that she’d climbed numerous times. She loved that chamber. This one she merely treasured. Her dream was to have a cottage where every room had a wall of books. The small fortune she was accumulating ensured she’d have it when she was no longer employed by the duke, when they parted ways, when she could no longer pretend her indifference to him.
She spotted the book she sought on a higher shelf. Not that high. Surely, she wouldn’t need the ladder stored behind a hidden door, if she just rose up on her toes and reached, reached—
A large hand shot past her, a hand the palm of which she remembered from their encounter earlier in the evening was a little rough, like fine sandpaper. “Which one? Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility?”
The low, seductive voice sounded so near her ear that it could have been the whisper of a lover. God help her, but she wished it was.
Devil take him, but she smelled of the fragrance for which he’d been searching. Jasmine, a little musty warmed by flesh.
She went as still as he did, her hand near his elbow. He wasn’t touching her, but the distance between them didn’t prevent him from luxuriating in the heat emanating from her.
“Pride and Prejudice.”
His gut tightened and shot need straight to his groin because the words were uttered in the rasp of a woman aroused. Or perhaps it was his own arousal influencing what he heard and how it sounded to his ear. So sensual, so inviting. It took everything within him not to do something untoward, not to nibble on her lobe or nip at the soft skin beneath her jaw. Her hair hung in a long plait down the length of her spine, and he was tempted to unravel it, to comb his fingers through it, gather it in his hands. Fighting to give the impression he was completely unaffected by her nearness, he plucked the book off the shelf, took a step back, and held it out to her.
“Thank you,” she said in a meek way not at all like her as she took it. And he wondered if she’d been struck by desire as strong as his, desire so potent he wanted her up against that bookcase, the whole of his body pressed against hers. Never before had he felt such a strong urge where she was concerned, and yet it seemed as natural as breathing.
“I don’t know why you don’t acknowledge how tiny you are, Pettypeace, and retrieve the ladder.” He was rather pleased with his neutral tone, his ability to not reveal how her closeness drove him to near madness with want.
Her chin shot up and her eyes blazed. “I could have reached it myself without a ladder.”
Ah, the Pettypeace he knew so well had returned in full force, which unfortunately made him want her all the more. “Shall I put the book back then?”
“No, that would be pointless.” She clutched the tome to her chest as though it was a shield. “I wasn’t expecting you back so early.”
His return a few minutes shy of ten was a surprise to him as well, but he and Margaret had quickly run out of topics of conversation. “I finished with my business sooner than anticipated.”
He’d never seen her in her nightclothes before. The white lace that ran down the front of her floral wrap surprised him, seemed too frilly and frivolous for her. Perhaps she was a different Pettypeace when alone in her bedchamber. He wondered what else about her might astonish him, might call to whatever he’d been searching for when he’d gone to visit Margaret.
She lifted the book. “I shall say good night then.” She started to edge past him.
“Join me in having a bit of scotch before bed.”
Her expression brought to mind the image of a hare that had just realized it had been spotted by a cobra. As he was trying to decide if an apology was in order or if he should just laugh off his inappropriate request—a duke did not imbibe with staff or mention doing any activity before retiring—the corners of her mouth eased up slightly. “I prefer brandy, actually.”
The relief that washed through him because he’d have a few more minutes in her company and had just uncovered another little tidbit of knowledge about her was disconcerting. “Brandy it is. Settle yourself somewhere comfortable while I see to our glasses.”
On his way to the sideboard where the decanters were lined up like little obedient soldiers, he decided he’d forgo the scotch and join her in brandy. He’d stood in the doorway watching as she’d trailed her fingers over the spines and found himself wishing she’d trail them over him—over his stubbled jaw, his chest . . . lower. Even without her in his arms, he’d experienced a powerful yearning that he’d not with Margaret. A hunger no woman had stirred within him in a good long while, if ever. The potency of it nearly dropped him to his knees, and he was a man who never went to his knees, not for anyone.
After putting a splash of brandy in each snifter, he turned, unsurprised to discover she’d drawn aside the draperies and settled in a thickly padded dark brown wingback chair near the window, giving her a view of the garden limned by moonlight. On more than one occasion, as he’d worked into the late hours, he’d looked up from his desk to see her strolling about outside. She never appeared to be a lonely figure, but rather someone who found solace in the path she walked. So much of what he knew about her was based solely on observations, leaving most of her a mystery to be discovered, and he was suddenly of a mood to go exploring.
He strode over to the sitting area and offered her a snifter. She smiled up at him. It was unsettling how much it pleased him to be the recipient of her gladness. As he lowered himself into a chair opposite her, she cradled the snifter, rubbing the glass between her hands. “I like to warm it a bit.”
He was a cad to suddenly envision her warming aspects of his person in the same manner. In response he took a rather large swallow of his brandy and realized he hadn’t poured himself nearly enough for the length of time he wished to remain in her company. “How did you enjoy Dodger’s?”
“Disappointed I didn’t get to see the more interesting parts.”
“I understand there is a club for ladies. The Elysium.” It was owned by Aiden Trewlove, a man with a rather ignominious beginning who had risen above it to become successful enough to marry a widowed duchess. They would no doubt be sent an invitation to the ball where he’d announce his intended.