Page 6 of The Duke Meets His Match

Chloe sighed with relief. Lowering her hood, she took in her surroundings. Marble pillars and a marble floor graced a magnificent vestibule. A winding staircase with an elaborate gilded balustrade led up to a second floor. Priceless artwork hung on the walls and a Chinese vase full of colorful blooms sat on a dainty Chippendale table, filling the space with a heady perfume. As a girl who’d spent time in the slums, she still appreciated such wealth. Her nervousness returned in earnest.

Before the butler could take her cloak, footsteps echoed off the marble floor and Cameron himself appeared in the vestibule.

Oh my.

He was even more striking than she’d remembered, and he was having the same effect on her as when she’d first seen him in the museum. The duke’s classical features possessed a primitive appeal. His hair was inky black, and he wore it long enough to brush his collar. She’d never before seen hair that dark, and it brought forth images of pirates, raiders, and other dangerous villains. His eyes held an unmistakable sheen of intelligence, and there was an air of isolation in his tall figure, as if he knew his place in the world, and he carried himself with the utmost confidence. An impressive man, powerfully masculine. The type of male that caused women to act foolishly.

He was without jacket or cravat, in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and hessians. He held a sheaf of papers, and she realized he must have been working.

His piercing gaze raked her form before returning to her face. “Well…well,” he drawled. “Miss Somerton. What a pleasant surprise.” His tone suggested it wasn’t a surprise at all and that he’d been expecting her to arrive late at night on his doorstep.

Impossible.

Chloe’s heart pounded in her chest as she was held captive by his dark gaze. “May we speak in private, Your Grace?”

“You are alone? No chaperone?”

She swallowed. “I thought it best this way.”

His lips quirked. “Yes. I believe we have something important to discuss that requires the utmost privacy.” He motioned toward the hallway leading from the vestibule. “We can talk in my library. Shall we?”

For a brief moment, her nerves almost faltered, and she clutched her reticule before her.

One dark brow shot upward. “Come now, Miss Somerton. You haven’t sneaked out of your home unchaperoned to visit a bachelor’s residence only to lose your nerve now, have you?”

“Of course not,” she snapped.

She stepped forward and followed as he led her down the hall. She stole a sidelong glance at the clear-cut lines of his profile.

He stopped outside a door, held it open for her, and motioned for her to enter. She swept inside the duke’s private library and halted. The room was paneled in rich mahogany, and row after row of bookshelves lined the walls. Supple leather spines of different colors occupied every inch of the shelves. Chloe knew how costly books were, and she suspected one of the leather-bound volumes could have paid their rent at the print shop for a month. A pair of matching leather chairs was situated beside a large fireplace with a coal brazier and a marble mantle. She could picture herself sitting in one of the chairs, her legs curled beneath her, as she read for hours.

As she walked farther into the room, her eye was drawn to a large rack of rolled parchments in the corner. One was unrolled across a six-foot-long desk to reveal an extensive map of Europe with markings. It looked like a battle plan, and she remembered that the Duke of Cameron had been a military man.

She recalled what little she’d learned about him from her sister on the carriage ride home from Bullock’s Museum. Eliza tended to chatter about people and events, and she had been excited that a duke had accompanied them during the museum tour. Chloe had wanted to unearth as much information as she could, but at the same time, she’d been careful not to question Eliza and arouse her suspicions. The duke was a second son. Chloe thought it ironic that he’d returned from war alive and physically uninjured while his father and older brother had died in a carriage accident in the London streets. He’d unexpectedly and tragically inherited the dukedom.

“May I take your cloak?” His fingers brushed her shoulders, sending a shiver of awareness through her at the slight contact as he removed her cloak and placed it on a settee tucked in the corner of the library.

He motioned to the leather chairs before the fireplace. “Please sit.” It was a command more than a request. She suspected he was used to issuing orders and others obeying. She didn’t see any reason to ignore him, so she settled in the chair and smoothed her skirts.

“Would you like a drink? I was about to pour myself one before you arrived.”

Strong spirits could only help her nerves. “Yes, thank you.”

He walked to a cabinet and withdrew a crystal decanter of amber-colored alcohol. He poured a finger’s worth in one crystal glass, offering it to her, then filled the second glass halfway. He sat in the leather chair across from her and stretched out his long legs. Lamplight glinted off his polished hessians, and his trousers hugged his muscular legs. Her gaze was drawn to the V at his throat where the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. A sprinkling of hair and tanned skin drew her eye.

Did he ride without a jacket and cravat? The image sent her pulse racing.

She lifted the drink to her lips. The first gulp burned her throat and every inch of her esophagus on the way down to her stomach, and she coughed. “What is this?” she rasped.

His perfect mouth curved in a smile as he raised his glass. “Fine scotch whisky. The second sip will go down easier.” He leaned forward and rested his hand on his knee. “Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

She took a breath and met his gaze. “I’m here to discuss what happened at the museum this afternoon.”

“Ah, I see.”

He sipped his drink. Not wanting to appear cowardly, she followed suit. He was right. The second taste went a bit easier. The alcohol warmed her blood, eased her nerves, and increased her courage a notch. “I prefer to handle difficulties directly,” she said.

“Of course, you do. You handled things quite directly the first time I saw you. If my memory is accurate, you were filching embroidered handkerchiefs from men’s coats.”