CHAPTER TWO #2
She stepped inside, her fingers already itching to touch the spines. This was her weakness, had always been her weakness, the promise of words waiting to be discovered, stories she had not yet read. Her father's library at home was respectable but modest. This was something else entirely.
She moved along the shelves, reading titles at random. Philosophy. History. Poetry. A surprising number of novels, tucked into a corner as though someone were slightly embarrassed by their presence. She pulled one out The Mysteries of Udolpho and smiled at the well-worn spine.
Someone in this household had read this book many times.
She was still holding it, still smiling, when she heard the footsteps.
They were heavy, decisive, and unmistakable. Evangeline's heart gave a traitorous leap as she turned toward the door.
The Duke of Ashborn stood in the entrance, frozen mid-stride.
He looked... different in the daylight. No less imposing, nothing could make him less imposing, but somehow more human.
His dark hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it.
His cravat was less than perfectly tied.
And there were shadows under his eyes, purple-grey smudges that spoke of a sleepless night.
He didn't sleep, Evangeline thought. After dinner. He didn't sleep either.
The realisation should not have felt so significant.
"Miss Harcourt." His voice was flat, unwelcoming. "I see you have found ways to occupy yourself."
"I have a talent for it." She held up the novel in her hand. "I hope you do not mind. I discovered I had finished my own book, and I thought…"
"You thought you would help yourself to my library without permission."
"I thought I would explore your library," she corrected gently. "And borrow a book, if permitted. I did not realise I required a formal invitation."
His jaw tightened. "You do not require anything from me, Miss Harcourt. That is the point."
It was rude. Deliberately, calculatedly rude, just as he had been the previous night.
But Evangeline found that the sting had lessened somewhat.
Perhaps because she had expected it. Or perhaps because she had seen those shadows under his eyes and understood, suddenly, that his coldness was a wall and not a weapon.
He was not trying to hurt her.
He was trying to keep her away.
The question was: why?
"Your Grace," she said, and took a step toward him, just one, small and unthreatening. "Have I done something to offend you? Beyond existing in your general vicinity, I mean."
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, perhaps, or even confusion.
"You have done nothing," he said. The words seemed pulled from him against his will.
"Then why do you look at me as though I am an invading army?"
The question hung between them. Evangeline watched him struggle with it, watched the muscles in his jaw work as he searched for a response.
"I do not…" He stopped. Started again. "I am not accustomed to company, Miss Harcourt. My manner is not... I am not skilled at pleasantries."
"I had noticed."
His eyes narrowed. "You are remarkably impertinent."
"So I have been told." She smiled gently, without mockery. "But I find that impertinence often saves time. We both know you do not want me here, Your Grace. You have made that abundantly clear. What I do not understand is why my presence disturbs you so greatly."
Disturbs.
Lucian heard the word and felt it land like a blow to the chest.
Disturbed. Yes. That was precisely what she did to him. She disturbed his peace, his solitude, and his carefully constructed walls. She disturbed him with her smile and her steady gaze and her absolute refusal to behave as though he were something monstrous.
She was disturbing him right now, standing there in that soft amber dress, with that book clutched in her hands, looking at him as though she genuinely wanted to understand.
No one wanted to understand him. No one had wanted that in years.
"You do not disturb me," he lied.
Her smile widened, just slightly. "Ah. So it is only my imagination that you have been avoiding my eyes since you entered the room."
He hadn't realised he was doing it. But she was right, he had been staring at a point just past her shoulder, at the books on the shelf behind her, at anything other than her face.
He forced himself to meet her gaze.
It was a mistake.
Her eyes were warm, so impossibly warm, the colour of strong tea or autumn leaves or something else he could not name. They held no fear. No pity. Only a gentle, curious interest that made him feel exposed in a way he had not felt in years.
"Miss Harcourt," he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended. "I suggest you take your book and return to your room."
"Is that a suggestion or a command?"
"It is a warning."
"A warning." She tilted her head, considering him. "Against what, precisely?"
Against me, he wanted to say. Against what I might do if you keep looking at me like that.
Instead, he said nothing. He simply stared at her, every muscle in his body taut, every instinct screaming at him to leave before he did something unforgivable.
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Very well, Your Grace. I shall take my book and go." She moved toward him…toward the door, which he was still blocking and paused just a few feet away. “If it be of any account to you…" I do not think you are as fearsome as you want me to believe."
She stepped past him.
He should have let her go. Should have remained still, should have let her walk away, and should have done any number of sensible things that would have preserved the distance between them.
Instead, he turned.
"Miss Harcourt."
She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder. "Your Grace?"
He did not know what he meant to say. The words tangled in his throat, caught somewhere between warning and wanting. She stood there in the doorway, backlit by the pale corridor light, and something in his chest cracked a little further.
"The library," he heard himself say. "You may use it. Whenever you wish."
Surprise flickered across her features revealing genuine surprise, unguarded and sweet. "I... thank you, Your Grace."
He nodded stiffly and turned away before she could see whatever his face was doing.
Her footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Lucian stood alone in his library, surrounded by an abundance of books, and thought that he had never felt so utterly lost.
The corridor was long and dim, lined with portraits of Ashborn ancestors who all seemed to share the same disapproving expression.
Evangeline walked slowly, her borrowed book pressed against her chest, her mind replaying the conversation in the library. The Duke's voice, rough and reluctant: You may use it. Whenever you wish. There was a momentary faltering of his composure, which did not escape her notice.
He was not what she had expected. Not entirely.
Oh, he was rude and cold and determined to be unpleasant. But beneath that... beneath that, there was something else. Something wounded. Something that had looked at her, just for a moment, with an expression that was almost like…
She rounded a corner and nearly collided with him.
"Oh!" She stepped back quickly, her heart lurching into her throat. "Your Grace. I thought you were…I did not expect…"
He stood before her, having apparently taken a different route from the library. The corridor here was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass without touching. Pale light filtered through a window at the far end, illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the twist of his scar.
"Miss Harcourt." His voice was clipped, controlled. Whatever softness she had glimpsed in the library had been locked away again.
"You seem to have a talent for appearing where I least expect you."
"It is a gift," she managed. Her pulse was doing something strange…fluttering in her throat, her wrists, and the hollow of her chest.
"I apologise for the near collision."
"There is no need to apologise."
"And yet you look as though you wish I would."
His jaw tightened. “Whatever you may suppose, Miss Harcourt, I am merely as I have always appeared to be.”
"Yes," she said quietly. "Indeed."
Something shifted in his expression. The ice cracked, just barely, revealing a flash of something raw beneath.
They stood there, frozen, separated by less than two feet of ancient carpet. Evangeline was suddenly, acutely aware of everything, the sound of her own breathing, the faint scent of sandalwood and smoke that clung to him, the way the light caught the silver threading through his dark hair.
Move, she told herself. Say something. Do something.
"Good afternoon, Your Grace," she said softly.
His eyes dropped to her face. Lingered there for a moment that stretched into eternity.
"Good afternoon, Miss Harcourt."
His voice was low. Rough. It scraped against her nerve endings like velvet drawn over bare skin.
She needed to move. They both needed to move. The corridor was too narrow for them to pass without…
She stepped to the side at the same moment he did. The same side. They stopped, almost touching.
"Forgive me," she breathed. "I'll just…"
She stepped the other way. So did he….
A sound escaped her, something that was almost a laugh, nervous and breathless.
"It seems we are destined to be in each other's way."
He did not laugh nor smile. But something in his expression flickered, something that might have been amusement, quickly suppressed.
"Allow me," he said, and pressed himself against the wall to allow her to pass.
Evangeline moved forward. The corridor was so narrow. He was so large. She turned sideways, sliding past him, holding her breath without meaning to…
Their hands touched.
It was nothing. The barest graze of skin against skin, her fingers brushing against his as she slipped past. An accident. A moment so brief it should have been insignificant.
She felt it everywhere.