Chapter 1 #3
The first page held a study of hands. The shading in each sketch was exquisite; she could almost feel the tendons beneath the skin. Iris turned the page, eager for more, but instead she gasped and almost dropped the book.
A woman’s bare back was sketched, arched in a curve that spoke of both tension and surrender. The line of her spine was so delicately rendered that Iris’s own back tingled in sympathy. The woman’s head was turned away, hair spilling over her shoulders like dark ink.
“Oh, my,” Iris gasped as she continued to turn the pages.
There was a sketch of a woman seated on that backless couch she had just seen, legs parted shamelessly, and body bared to the viewer from waist to knee. Heat surged up Iris’s neck, flooding her cheeks. Her fingers trembled on the paper.
I should close the book. I should run.
Instead, she continued through the images, each one more intimate than the last—shame and something dangerously akin to longing warred inside her.
“You are very quiet.”
That voice.
Iris’s body went cold and hot in the same instant. The sketchbook slipped from her grasp; she caught it clumsily and nearly crushed the edges.
She placed the sketchbook down gently and turned slowly.
“Pardon me, Your Grace.” Her voice wavered as she peered up at him.
He stood just inside the door, having entered so silently she had not heard a single footstep.
Up close, the scar was even more arresting.
The Duke of Knoxford had a strong nose and an insolent mouth.
She could see his eyes clearly now. They were as dark as the sea just before a storm.
His gaze flicked from her face to the sketchbook behind her.
One dark brow lifted as he smirked. “I see you have found my… hobbies.”
Iris’s tongue felt thick. Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs that she was faintly astonished it did not burst through her bodice.
“I... I lost my way,” she managed. It was a half-truth. “I was... It is dark in these corridors, and I thought this might be the library.”
The corner of his mouth curved. “Ah.”
His gaze traveled the length of her body.
“May I?” he asked.
Iris held her breath as the duke closed the distance between them and reached over.
His arm brushed against hers, and he smelled of cinnamon and danger.
His sudden nearness made the air hum between them.
Iris tried to peer at his scar, but the playful smile plastered to his face distracted her.
Her gaze unwillingly fell to his lips and stayed there until he took the sketchbook from behind her.
The scarred duke’s eyes stayed on hers, steadily and too perceptive.
“You have been very thorough,” he said softly. “Most people stop at the door.”
Her throat tightened. “I should not have—”
“No,” he cut in mildly. “You should not have.”
She swallowed and felt ashamed. This moment would plague her mind and probably leave her restless until she found some way to punish herself.
But I will not show my weakness to this strange man.
Iris straightened her spine in instinctive defense, the way she always did when faced with a creditor or a condescending matron.
“If you mean to cast me out of your house, Your Grace,” she said, trying for composure, “pray, do so quietly, as my sister is enjoying your ball.”
He studied her for a heartbeat that stretched longer than was comfortable.
“Cast you out?” he repeated. “Whatever for? That would make me a bad host.”
Her brow creased. “I have invaded your privacy.”
“Have you?” His gaze dropped briefly to the open drawer, then slid back to her face. Interest flickered in his cold eyes. “You look more curious than invasive. Perhaps you would like a personal tour of my… library?”
Iris felt heat rushing to her cheeks again. “I am most certainly not curious about this… this…” She looked around at the ropes, furniture, and mirrors. “Torture room.”
His Grace let out a deep laugh that both surprised and unsettled her.
“Oh, but I think you are curious.” His tone was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. “Besides, if you did truly believe that this was a torture room, you would be screaming, or fainting, or at the very least running for your life.”
“Well, I considered all three,” she snapped, then bit down on her tongue.
His Grace let out another startling, rich laughter.
“Excellent,” he said. “I was beginning to fear London women had lost their capacity to surprise me.”
He opened the sketchbook as he stepped a little closer. He was taller than she had thought in the ballroom.
When did he get so close?
Iris tilted her head back to meet his gaze. The scar bisected one dark brow; it was impossible not to look at it, and impossible not to imagine the force that had laid it there.
His eyes dipped to the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she fought to steady her breathing. Her knees felt treacherously loose.
“Tell me,” he said so low it seemed to settle along her bones. “Was there a particular drawing you liked best?”
“I did not like—” Her protest tangled itself and died.
He leaned in a fraction, enough that the scent of him enclosed her.
“Would you like me to draw you as well?” he asked.