The Duke glanced down at her. “You’re right. We should go somewhere more private.” A glint came into his eyes. “But not to talk.”
“What do you?—”
He pulled her away from the dance floor, and she was forced to follow him, laughing as she almost tripped over her skirts in her attempt to keep up with him.
As he led her away, she was sure she heard whispers all around them as those in attendance watched the Duke and Duchess of Carramere leave a dance halfway through and sneak off together. At least, that’s what it seemed to her: she felt very much that the Duke was trying to make off with her. It excited her more than she cared to admit; he was a strong, intimidating man, who did what he wanted, his reputation be damned. And now, that included dragging her away so that they could… talk… in private.
They reached the French doors that opened up to the balcony, and the Duke pushed them open and led her out onto the patio. At once, she breathed in the cool, refreshing air. She hadn’trealized how hot and sweaty she was inside among the crush of people.
The Duke turned to look at her, and his eyes smoldered as they found hers.
“I don’t want to talk about my father anymore,” he said. He took a step toward her, and she instinctively took a step back, only to find herself pushed up against the ivy that clung to the outside of the house.
“O-okay,” she stammered. She suddenly felt very nervous. Even though their relationship had been growing deeper and more intimate, when she was alone with him now, she now felt like a shy girl alone with the man she secretly admired. She hadn’t felt that way before with the Duke; before, she had felt anger at him for forcing her into this marriage.
And even as her feelings grew more tender, she had never before felt like this: her tongue was thick in her mouth, she couldn’t think of what to say, and all she wanted was for him to kiss her again like he had after he’d rescued her from the caved-in floor.
“I want to talk about you,” he said, his eyes boring into hers.
“M-me?” She felt stupid, repeating everything he said.
“Yes, you. And how you are going to take advantage of my reputation as the Beast of Carramere to accomplish more than you ever thought possible.”
“I d-don’t know what you mean…”
And she really didn’t. Nor could she think straight when he was looking at her like that: like she was the cleverest and most interesting person he had ever met in his life.
“Yes, you,” he murmured. He reached out a hand and brought it to her chin, cupping it and turning it up toward him.
Her heart was hammering. It was in her throat.He is going to kiss me again!She felt as if she could lift off the ground, as if she could float away with happiness.
He leaned toward her, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the moment his lips would press against hers.
Except—he spoke instead. “I want you to write a book.”
“What?” Rosalie wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared up at him, her mouth hanging open. She had thought he was about to kiss her, but somehow, the idea that she should write a book seemed even more shocking and scandalous.
He laughed. “I want you to write a book. Is that really so shocking?”
“Er, well, I just didn’t realize you thought… that is to say I don’t… as you know I have never even tried my hand at…” Rosalie wasblubbering. She knew that. But she didn’t know how to wrap her mind about the ludicrous thing her husband had just said.
“You can’t be serious!” she finally choked out. “Write a book? Me?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Why not? You read so many. You love literature. And you are a romantic! You could write a romantic novel that was better than any of the ones you’ve read so far. I know it.”
“But I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel,” she said, nonplussed. “I wouldn’t know where to start!”
“Of course, you would,” he insisted. “You read so many!”
“Reading books is very different from writing them.”
“How do you know if you haven’t tried?”
She pursed her lips, stumped. He was looking at her mischievously, and she wanted to wipe the smug look from his face. It was a preposterous idea! Her? Write a novel?
“Why do you think I would be good at it?” she asked instead, genuinely curious to know his answer.
He shrugged. “Don’t you think you’d be good at it? No one knows better than you how to come up with romantic situations.”
