“Ouch!” she hissed when she bumped into a high-backed chair with arms that extended farther than they ought, padded and wide, with those same iron rings fixed at their ends.
“Curious,” she whispered.
Her attention snagged on a wooden cabinet with drawers. If anything in this room could be called ordinary, it wasthat. She moved toward it as if in a dream. Her gloved hand hovered over the brass handle of the top drawer, but she froze.
You have already trespassed.
She shrugged and opened the drawer. Inside was an assortment of ropes, silk, and leather fabrics. As well as small wooden implements whose uses she did not dare guess. She scrunched up her nose as she looked at each object. At the back of the cabinet, Iris found a leather-bound, worn sketchbook, the edges frayed from handling. She set the candle on the top of the cabinet and opened the book.
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 madethe 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.
