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 thetable 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..."
