Chapter 7
The candlelight flickered across Adrian's face, casting shadows that made his expression even more unreadable than usual. He moved closer still, setting the candlestick on the table with deliberate precision, the light now illuminating the scattered forbidden books in detail.
"Your Grace," she managed, her voice coming out as barely more than a squeak. "I can explain..."
"Can you?" He stepped closer, and she caught the scent of brandy on him, not enough to suggest drunkenness but enough to imply he'd been drinking.
His gaze moved from her face to the books spread around her, lingering on the open French manual with an expression that made her stomach flip. "This should be fascinating."
"I was merely attempting to complete my cataloguing duties," she began, lifting her chin despite the heat burning in her cheeks. "You hired me to organize your entire library, not just the portions deemed appropriate by Mr. Graves and his antiquated notions of propriety."
"My antiquated notions, you mean." His voice was dangerously soft as he reached past her to pick up the French manual, his sleeve brushing her arm in a way that sent unexpected shivers through her.
"These are my private volumes, locked away on my orders, which you've now violated by breaking into my property like a common thief. "
"A thief implies I intended to steal something, when all I sought was knowledge that's being arbitrarily kept from me because of my sex."
"Arbitrarily?" He held up the manual, angling it so the candlelight fully illuminated the explicit illustration of a couple engaged in activities that definitely weren't taught at finishing schools. "Tell me, Miss Whitcombe, do you enjoy looking at this? Does it satisfy your scholarly curiosity?"
The mockery in his tone ignited her temper. "What I enjoy is not being treated like a child who cannot be trusted with certain books. What possible harm could come from my reading Ovid in the original Latin, or understanding human anatomy, or..."
"What harm?" He set the manual down with controlled force that made the table shake slightly. "You break into my home in the middle of the night, violate my explicit instructions, rifle through my private collection, and you ask what harm?"
"I have a key, so technically I didn't break in..."
"Technicalities?" He moved closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact, close enough that the warmth from his body seemed to raise the temperature in the room several degrees. "You're defending yourself with technicalities?"
"I'm defending myself with logic, something you seem to have abandoned in favor of intimidation.
" She refused to step back, even though every nerve in her body was acutely aware of his proximity.
"Why couldn't you have just trusted me with these books?
What did you think would happen? That I'd swoon at the sight of anatomical drawings?
That my delicate feminine mind would shatter upon reading Ovid's suggestions about the art of love? "
"Why couldn't you have just listened?" His voice dropped lower, rougher, and something in his eyes shifted from anger to something more dangerous.
"For once in your life, why couldn't you have simply obeyed without questioning, without challenging, without this constant need to prove that you're beyond any boundaries set for you? "
"Because boundaries set for arbitrary reasons deserve to be challenged! Because men like you think you have the right to decide what women like me can handle, can read, can know..."
"Men like me?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You know nothing about men like me, Miss Whitcombe. You see a title, a library, some locked books, and you think you understand everything."
"Then enlighten me, Your Grace. Explain why these particular volumes required locking away from my apparently corrupting influence."
"Because," he said, his hands gripping the edge of the table on either side of her, effectively caging her in, "I was attempting to protect your reputation, your innocence, your position in society. Concepts that apparently mean nothing to you."
"My innocence?" She gestured at the scattered books with a trembling hand.
"You think I'm some sheltered child who's never wondered about these things?
Who's never been curious about what happens between men and women beyond the vague warnings about duty and forbearance that mothers tell their daughters? "
His gaze sharpened, something predatory entering his expression. "And what exactly have you been curious about, Miss Whitcombe? What questions have been keeping you awake at night that you thought these books might answer?"
The question hung between them, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with scholarly inquiry.
Eveline's breath caught as she realized how close he was standing, how his eyes had darkened from grey to something closer to charcoal, how his gaze kept dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes.
"That's... that's not relevant to this discussion," she managed, though her voice came out breathier than intended.
"Isn't it?" He picked up the Italian poetry, reading aloud in perfectly accented Italian, his voice turning the already sensual words into something that made her skin feel too tight.
"'She trembled beneath his touch like a violin string waiting to make music, her body an instrument only he knew how to play. ..'"
"Stop," she whispered, though she wasn't entirely sure she meant it.
"Why? Isn't this what you wanted to read?" He set the poetry aside and picked up the private journal she'd been reading. "Or perhaps you prefer the more direct approach of my ancestors? Should I read you my grandfather's detailed account of his opera singer's... particular talents?"
"You're trying to embarrass me into submission, but it won't work."
"Won't it?" He leaned closer still, close enough that she could see the gold flecks in his grey eyes, close enough that his breath ghosted across her cheek when he spoke.
"You're trembling, Miss Whitcombe. Your pupils are dilated, your breath is coming faster, and that delightful flush has spread from your cheeks down to your. .. collar."
She was going to die. She was going to spontaneously combust from mortification and whatever this other feeling was; this heat that seemed to originate from wherever his gaze touched and spread outward like wildfire.
"That's... that's anger," she protested weakly.
"Is it?" His hand moved to the journal she'd dropped earlier, fingers tracing over the worn leather binding.
"Tell me, which passage were you reading when I interrupted?
Was it the duchess and her footman? The detailed account of how she would summon him to her chambers under the pretence of needing furniture moved? "
"Your Grace..."
"Or perhaps it was my father's entry about the widowed countess who taught him things that weren't in any Oxford curriculum?
" His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the library, every word was crystal clear.
"Tell me, Miss Whitcombe, what did you learn from your illicit reading tonight? "
"I learned that the Everleigh men have always been insufferably arrogant and convinced of their own irresistibility," she snapped, finding her courage in irritation.
He laughed then, genuinely laughed, and the sound transformed his face entirely. "Heavens, you're impossible," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Any other woman would be in tears by now, begging forgiveness, promising never to transgress again."
"I'm not any other woman."
"No," he agreed, his gaze intense enough to burn. "You're certainly not."
They stood frozen for a moment, the air between them charged with something that had nothing to do with anger over violated privacy and everything to do with the illustrations in those French manuals.
Eveline could hear her own heartbeat, could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could see the way his chest rose and fell with breaths that weren't entirely steady.
"You should go," he said finally, though he made no move to step back, to give her room to escape.
"Yes," she agreed, though she didn't move either.
"This can't... this is entirely inappropriate."
"Entirely," she whispered.
His hand moved then, slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, to slap him, to do what any proper lady would do.
Instead, she stood perfectly still as his fingers brushed a loose curl back from her face, the touch so light it might have been imaginary except for the trail of fire it left across her skin.
"You drive me to absolute distraction," he said, and it sounded like an accusation. "You argue with everything I say, you disobey direct orders, you break into my private cabinet in the middle of the night..."
"You lock away books like a tyrant, you treat me like a child, you assume you know better than me about everything..."
"I do know better," he growled, his hand sliding from her hair to cup her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "I know that if anyone saw us right now, you'd be ruined beyond redemption. I know that if I were any kind of gentleman, I'd step away immediately and pretend this never happened."
"And if you weren't a gentleman?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, breathy and wanting and completely inappropriate.
His eyes flashed with something that made her knees weak.
"If I weren't a gentleman, I'd show you exactly why those books were locked away.
I'd demonstrate every illustration in that French manual until you understood precisely why innocent young ladies aren't supposed to have access to such material. "
The world seemed to narrow to just this moment, just the space between them that was barely a breath, just the weight of his hand against her face and the promise in his eyes that was both thrilling and terrifying.
"But you are a gentleman," she said, though it came out as a question rather than a statement.
"Am I?" His thumb traced her lower lip, and she couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped. "A gentleman wouldn't be standing here, wouldn't be thinking the thoughts I'm thinking, wouldn't be fighting every instinct that's telling me to..."
A door slammed somewhere in the house, the sound echoing through the walls like a gunshot. They sprang apart as if burned, Eveline stumbling back against the table while Adrian put several feet of distance between them, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration.
"Go," he said, his voice rough and commanding in a way that brooked no argument. "Go now, before I do something we'll both regret."
This time, she obeyed, gathering her cloak with shaking hands and practically running for the door. But at the threshold, she couldn't resist turning back.
He stood where she'd left him, surrounded by the forbidden books, looking like a man at war with himself.
The candlelight painted him in gold and shadow, and for a moment, she saw not the Duke of Everleigh but just Adrian—a man who'd been betrayed, who'd built walls of ice around himself, who looked at her like she was both his salvation and his damnation.
"Your Grace," she said quietly, and he looked up, something desperate in his expression.
"What?"
"The books... may I..."
"Take them," he said roughly. "Take whatever you want. Heaven knows I can deny you nothing, despite my best efforts."
She grabbed several volumes at random, clutching them to her chest like armor, and fled before either of them could say anything else that couldn't be taken back.
The walk home was a blur of confused thoughts and heated memories. Her lips still tingled where his thumb had traced them, her skin still burned where he'd touched her, and deep in her abdomen, something ached with a want she'd only read about in those forbidden books.
It was impossible, inadvisable, and absolutely insane.
And yet, as she slipped back into her house and up to her room, the books still clutched against her chest, all she could think about was when she'd see him again.
Tomorrow was Friday. One more day before the weekend would force them apart, give them time to remember all the reasons why whatever had almost happened in that library could never happen again.
One more day.
She wasn't sure if that was too much time or not nearly enough.