"Or perhaps it was my father's entry about the widowed countess who taught him things that weren't in any Oxford curriculum?" His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper, but in the silence of the library, every word was crystal clear. "Tell me, Miss Whitcombe, what did you learn from your illicit reading tonight?"
"I learned that the Everleigh men have always been insufferably arrogant and convinced of their own irresistibility," she snapped, finding her courage in irritation.
He laughed then, genuinely laughed, and the sound transformed his face entirely. "Heavens, you're impossible," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Any other woman would be in tears by now, begging forgiveness, promising never to transgress again."
"I'm not any other woman."
"No," he agreed, his gaze intense enough to burn. "You're certainly not."
They stood frozen for a moment, the air between them charged with something that had nothing to do with anger over violated privacy and everything to do with the illustrations in those French manuals. Eveline could hear her own heartbeat, could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could see the way his chest rose and fell with breaths that weren't entirely steady.
"You should go," he said finally, though he made no move to step back, to give her room to escape.
"Yes," she agreed, though she didn't move either.
"This can't... this is entirely inappropriate."
"Entirely," she whispered.
His hand moved then, slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away, to slap him, to do what any proper lady would do. Instead, she stood perfectly still as his fingers brushed a loose curl back from her face, the touch so light it might have been imaginary except for the trail of fire it left across her skin.
"You drive me to absolute distraction," he said, and it sounded like an accusation. "You argue with everything I say, you disobey direct orders, you break into my private cabinet in the middle of the night..."
"You lock away books like a tyrant, you treat me like a child, you assume you know better than me about everything..."
"I do know better," he growled, his hand sliding from her hair to cup her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "I know that if anyone saw us right now, you'd be ruined beyond redemption. I know that if I were any kind of gentleman, I'd step away immediately and pretend this never happened."
"And if you weren't a gentleman?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, breathy and wanting and completely inappropriate.
His eyes flashed with something that made her knees weak. "If I weren't a gentleman, I'd show you exactly why those books were locked away. I'd demonstrate every illustration in that French manual until you understood precisely why innocent young ladies aren't supposed to have access to such material."
The world seemed to narrow to just this moment, just the space between them that was barely a breath, just the weight of his hand against her face and the promise in his eyes that was both thrilling and terrifying.
"But you are a gentleman," she said, though it came out as a question rather than a statement.
"Am I?" His thumb traced her lower lip, and she couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped. "A gentleman wouldn't be standing here, wouldn't be thinking the thoughts I'm thinking, wouldn't be fighting every instinct that's telling me to..."
A door slammed somewhere in the house, the sound echoing through the walls like a gunshot. They sprang apart as if burned, Eveline stumbling back against the table while Adrian put several feet of distance between them, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration.
"Go," he said, his voice rough and commanding in a way that brooked no argument. "Go now, before I do something we'll both regret."
This time, she obeyed, gathering her cloak with shaking hands and practically running for the door. But at the threshold, she couldn't resist turning back.
He stood where she'd left him, surrounded by the forbidden books, looking like a man at war with himself. The candlelight painted him in gold and shadow,and for a moment, she saw not the Duke of Everleigh but just Adrian—a man who'd been betrayed, who'd built walls of ice around himself, who looked at her like she was both his salvation and his damnation.
"Your Grace," she said quietly, and he looked up, something desperate in his expression.
"What?"
"The books... may I..."
"Take them," he said roughly. "Take whatever you want. Heaven knows I can deny you nothing, despite my best efforts."
She grabbed several volumes at random, clutching them to her chest like armor, and fled before either of them could say anything else that couldn't be taken back.
The walk home was a blur of confused thoughts and heated memories. Her lips still tingled where his thumb had traced them, her skin still burned where he'd touched her, and deep in her abdomen, something ached with a want she'd only read about in those forbidden books.
It was impossible, inadvisable, and absolutely insane.
