Page 29 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

The library would do. It had a number of lamps. Moreover, he could use a few moments of peace before returning to the hearty good humor of peers who, by now, would all be a trifle bosky.

He could find his way there without help, having spent a good deal of time in the new Lynchford library. Although, most recently, more so in his imagination than in reality. He had left his home twice in the past few days, convinced that there was no harm in paying another call on Miss Delancey and Dessie—then forced himself to go elsewhere. Because of course there was harm in it. He could not act as though he were paying court when he was not.

The library door was ajar. He stepped inside and closed it with a soft thud, then heard a startled “Oh!” Miss Delancey stood near the bookshelves, an open book in her hand. He hoped she was hiding for no more serious a reason than that the dull gossiping of the hens had driven her away. But misfortune seemed to follow her. Something must have happened.

“Was it bad?” he asked, coming closer.

She held up her hand as though to ward him off. “Not horrible. Just rather farfetched.” Then she glowered. “What on earth are you doing in here?”

He lifted his jacket to show her. “Trying to rub out a spot. I had a bit of bother.”

Her whole face went soft. “Oh, yes. That was so very kind of you.”

He could not keep from smiling. “One of us,” he said, “is not making sense. And this time, I am fairly certain it is you.”

“I’m making perfect sense. It was kind of you not to draw attention to Dessie’s embarrassment. This dinner party has put her…put us all rather in a tizzy.”

“So you had to withdraw?” he asked gently. Whatever happened must have been mortifying if it had made Miss Delancey retreat.

“What? No, of course not.” She huffed. “I promised Lady Melvin that I would loan her my book. I told Dessie I would just run to fetch it. But I still had five pages to read. You see, I thought I would not be missed in the time it took to finish.” She clapped the book shut. “I thought it would be a simple thing that could not possibly cause a problem. Yet I find myself behind a closed door in a rendezvous with a half-dressed duke.” She turned her face heavenward and muttered, “Why do these ridiculous things keep happening to me?”

“You’re right. It is rather farfetched,” he said, laying his jacket across the back of a chair.

“Scrub your spot,” she said, tucking the book under her arm. “I can guess the ending.”

“Please, give me just a moment.” He caught her by the wrist as she tried to brush past. The book fell to the floor. “I should apologize for the other day.”

“Apologize for? Oh—you mean for your long-winded answer to a simple question?”

“Ah, no.” He grinned, entertained. “And it would have been a short answer if you had not kept interrupting.” He had intended to apologize sincerely, but having botched it… “I meant for this.” He took her hand in both of his and caressed it. Her skin felt satiny-smooth, except for the small, roughened callus on the pad of her index finger. He swirled his fingertip around it. A suggestion of what else he might like to do. She did not pull away this time. Instead, she looked him full in the face. Unblinking. Her lips parted, and he could hear her soft, uneven breathing. This and her darkening eyes drew his vague and unformed thoughts toward the specific and decidedly carnal.

He swayed toward her. Noticeably.

“My God,” he said, steadying himself, embarrassed by his lack of self-possession. He attempted to make light of the dizzying wave of emotion that he recognized as lustful but that was somehow not simply lust. “I’ve never swooned, of course; but once, I was punched, just between my eyes, by a man who knew what he was doing. I was felled like a stone.” He could not pull off light-hearted teasing. He finished solemnly. “That is how I felt just now. Felled.”

Her eyes narrowed. Then she laughed, an abrupt, forced laugh.

“You are full of flummadiddle.” Before he could protest, she said, adopting his accent to a T: “I am known to be a world-class flatterer.” She tossed her head, and, at the same time, removed her hand from his. “I don’t know what passes for flattery in Britain, but I’ve never before been compared to a mini-fisted pugilist.”

“A what?”

“Whatever happened to ‘you have beautiful eyes’?”

“Oh,” he scoffed, finding his footing. “How commonplace. Amateurish.”

“Well, then, ‘your hair is the color of winter wheat.’”

“How is it flattery to inform you of the color of your hair? I might as well tell you that you have very white teeth.”

“No gallant in New York would ever speak of teeth. It is acceptable to say that I have a beautiful smile.”

“Good Lord. If I am to stand here and list each part of you that is beautiful, we will be here all night.”

She apparently had a retort at the ready, but didn’t speak it. Instead, she looked a bit jolted, and murmured, “Bravo. That is closer to the mark.” She lowered her gaze and parried weakly with: “But still hardly world-class.”

“Any New York calf complimenting your smile was not admiring your white teeth. He would be referring to your lips. If there is a word for their color, it escapes me.”

“We will steer clear of my lips.”