Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“Finding everything you need?”
The leather-bound volume slipped from Sybil’s fingers the moment she heard the deep, familiar voice behind her.
Oh, blast.
She spun around so quickly that several books tumbled from the mahogany shelf, landing with soft thuds on the Persian carpet. The Duke stood in the doorway of his vast library, one shoulder leaning against the frame with casual elegance that made her pulse skip traitorously.
“Your Grace!” The words came out higher than intended. “I didn’t expect… That is, Rosalie said I might—”
“Breathe, Lady Sybil.” His amber eyes held a glint of amusement that made her want to throw something at his perfectly sculpted face. “You’re not trespassing. This is my library, and you’re my guest.”
My guest. Not our guest. The possessive pronoun sent an unwelcome flutter through her stomach.
“Of course.” She bent to retrieve the fallen books, grateful for the excuse to look away from those penetrating eyes. “I was simply looking for medical journals. Rosalie mentioned you had an extensive collection, and I thought—”
“The Mysteries of Udolpho?”
Sybil froze, her hand halfway to a particularly heavy tome on anatomy. “I beg your pardon?”
The Duke had moved closer—dangerously closer—and was now examining the book she’d dropped. The gothic novel lay open to a rather dramatic illustration of a swooning heroine in the arms of a dark, brooding hero.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
“Fascinating medical text,” he observed, his voice rich with barely contained laughter. “I had no idea Mrs. Radcliffe had studied anatomy so extensively.”
Heat flooded Sybil’s cheeks. “I was merely… that is, it was simply…”
“Research?”
“Curiosity,” she snapped, abandoning all pretense of composure. “Is a woman not allowed to read fiction in your household, Your Grace?”
“On the contrary.” He straightened, the movement bringing him close enough that she could smell his shaving soap—something clean and masculine that made her thoughts scatter like leaves in a windstorm. “I find it rather refreshing. Most ladies of my acquaintance claim to read only improving works.”
“Well, I’m not most ladies.”
“No.” His gaze traveled slowly from her flushed face to the books clutched against her chest. “You certainly are not.”
Stop looking at me like that.
The way his eyes lingered on her mouth made her acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every traitorous response her body seemed determined to have in his presence.
“The medical journals are on the third shelf from the top,” he said, gesturing toward a section lined with serious-looking volumes. “Though I suspect you’ll find Mrs. Radcliffe considerably more entertaining.”
“I prefer factual information to romantic nonsense,” she said stiffly.
“Do you?” he stepped closer, and she caught a glimpse of something predatory in his expression. “How disappointing.”
“Disappointing?”
“I rather hoped you might have a romantic streak buried beneath all that admirable practicality.”
Dangerous territory. Retreat immediately.
But her feet seemed rooted to the carpet as he reached past her, ostensibly to retrieve a medical journal from the high shelf. The movement brought his chest within inches of hers, and she found herself staring at the strong column of his throat above his precisely tied cravat.
Don’t think about what it would feel like to press your lips there.
“This should prove more educational,” he said, placing a thick volume on diseases of the respiratory system in her hands. “Though considerably less thrilling than tales of mysterious castles and brooding heroes.”
“I don’t need fiction to complicate my life further.”
“Ah, but complications can be quite… invigorating.” His voice had dropped to that intimate register that made her pulse race. “Particularly when they involve two people who understand each other.”
She stared at him, caught off guard by the shift from teasing to something far more serious.
“You don’t understand me at all,” she said quietly.
“Don’t I?” Before she could step away, he reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentle brush of his fingers against her temple sent shockwaves through her entire body. “I understand that you’re terrified of wanting something you think you can’t have.”
I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?
Sybil jerked backward as though she’d been burned, nearly dropping the medical journal in the process. “Stop.”
“Stop what, exactly? Noticing that your breath catches when I’m close? Seeing how your eyes darken when I touch you? ”
Heat flooded her face. “Your Grace—”
“Hugo.” His amber eyes burned with intensity. “If we’re to be married, you should at least use my given name.”
Married. The word hung between them like a loaded pistol.
“That’s rather presumptuous,” she managed. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Haven’t you?” He braced one hand against the shelf beside her head, effectively caging her against the leather-bound volumes.
“Then why are you here, looking for ways to fill your time in my house? Why do you watch my daughters with such fierce protectiveness? Why do you care whether they’re happy? ”
Each question was accurate and devastating in its clarity.
“Because they’re children in need,” she said desperately.
“So are dozens of others. Yet they are my children who make you smile and my household that you’re reluctant to leave.” His free hand came up to trace the curve of her jaw with maddening gentleness. “My proximity that makes you tremble.”
“I don’t—” But the protest died on her lips as his thumb brushed across her lower lip.
“Liar,” he whispered, and the single word was both accusation and caress.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. He’s seducing me just like—
“If I were to accept your proposal,” she said quickly before she could lose her nerve entirely, “it would be purely for the children. A marriage in name only.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or challenge.
“Would it?” His voice was silky, dangerous. “Because your eyes say otherwise.”
“My eyes are irrelevant.”
“Are they?” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Then why do you look so nervous?”
Because you’re too close, and you smell too good.
“Physical responses mean nothing,” she said though her voice came out breathless and unconvincing.
“They mean everything.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, sending fire racing down her spine. “They are honest when words can lie so easily.”
She pressed her palms against his chest, intending to push him away, but she found herself simply standing there, absorbing the solid warmth of him through his waistcoat.
“The orphanage,” she said desperately, grasping for safe ground. “If I agreed—which I haven’t—I would need guarantees. Proper facilities, medical supplies, educational materials.”
“Done.” He pulled back just enough to look at her face, his amber eyes serious now. “Whatever you need.”
“A garden for growing food and herbs.”
“Of course.”
“Access to your library. All of it, including books society deem inappropriate for ladies.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I wouldn’t dream of censoring your reading habits.”
“And no interference in how I run things. Complete autonomy over the orphans’ care and education.”
“Agreed.” His hands framed her face now, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone with devastating tenderness. “What else?”
None of this. No touches that make me forget my own name. No looking at me like you want to devour me whole.
But she couldn’t say any of that. Not when his nearness was scrambling her thoughts.
“There must be boundaries,” she said instead, her voice barely above a whisper.
“What kind of boundaries?”
“Between us. Personal boundaries. We can’t… that is, you can’t—”
“Can’t what, Sybil?” The use of her given name without her title was shockingly intimate. “Can’t notice that you’re the most fascinating woman I’ve met in years? Can’t appreciate that you challenge me at every turn?”
Stop making it sound romantic. Stop making me believe this could be real.
“You’re trying to manipulate me,” she accused though her voice lacked conviction.
“Am I?” And with that, he turned on his heel and strode from the library, leaving her alone among the books with her heart hammering against her ribs. What do I really want?
But even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer terrified her.
Because what she wanted was him—his strength, his passion, his fierce protectiveness and maddening arrogance. She wanted to believe his pretty words and trust his heated looks and let herself fall into whatever this was between them.
And that way lies disaster.
Because wanting him meant trusting him. And trusting him meant risking everything—her heart, her future, the carefully constructed walls that had kept her safe for eight long years.
But what if he’s different? What if this time, the risk is worth taking?
As Sybil stood in the silent library, surrounded by centuries of human knowledge and wisdom, she couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps some lessons were worth the heartbreak of learning.
Even if they destroyed her in the process.