Page 52 of How to Tempt a Duke

Lottie’s butler showed her inside and she all but ran into the drawing room where she had spent so many evenings. It was at that moment, when she was anticipating sharing her news with Lottie and Charles, that she realized that for the first time in her life she had friends. True friends whom she trusted.

“I have the most thrilling news to share!”

The words exploded from her before Charles could straighten from his welcoming bow. She clutched the bag of journals to her chest in her excitement.

He stiffened and rose slowly, his jaw locked in a tight grimace. Lottie cast him an odd glance and gave her a confused look.

Goodness, but Charles did look as though he’d put a vinaigrette under his nose. His lips were drawn together and the skin around his eyes was tight.

Perhaps he feared she might mention to Lottie their exchange at Vauxhall. But surely he would know she would keep such things to herself.

“I have the answer,” Eleanor said breathlessly.

“Do you?” he asked, in a voice that could only be described as dispassionate. Holding much of the same cold detachment she had once been rumored to possess.

Now she understood how unwelcoming that demeanor could be, and why she’d had seven unsuccessful Seasons.

“Yes.” She spoke more softly now. “The information we need is only in one journal.”

Charles frowned at her from across the room. “What are you referring to?”

Lottie looked between Charles and Eleanor, frowning.

“The journals.” Eleanor held up the bag. She’d procured the remaining five from her father’s study, but knew there to be more at their castle in Scotland.

In truth, Charles had been correct—the contents in the journal were not for a lady’s eyes. Amid lengthy stories of cracking ancient walls and dusty artifacts were lurid tales of what native women around the world offered by way of pleasure and sex.

One tale had gone into such detail on debauchery she had spent the better part of an evening woolgathering and wondering if such things could even be physically possible. So much so, she’d missed most of the Earl of Devonington’s conversation about his new hunting dog while at the soiree.

Not that she’d minded terribly. At least not until she’d gone to bed that evening and the story in the journal had replayed itself in her imagination, and curiosity had caused a warm and hungry hum between her thighs...

The pinched expression on Charles’s face relaxed. “The journals. Yes.”

It was not only his face which relaxed, but the tension hanging thick between them.

Eleanor went on. “There was a final entry in a hand I did not recognize as your father’s or mine. It alluded to another journal—one written only by this author—detailing his research on the whereabouts of the gem in light of growing unrest among them all.”

“Yes, my father indicated there being only one we’d need the key for.” Charles strode toward her. “Did you bring all the journals with you?”

“I did.” Eleanor held out the black bag she’d brought with her. “Well, with the exception of the journals in Scotland, at our castle there.”

Lottie peered at the journals, the twist of her lips indicative of her fading excitement. “While these are incredibly interesting...” She widened her eyes and looked askance with the exaggeration of a person intentionally lying. “I’ll leave you to look them over. But this is the last lesson I give you permission to miss.”

She wagged a finger in chastisement at Eleanor, but the threat behind her words were offset by the kindness of her sapphire-blue eyes.

Eleanor nodded obligingly and Lottie excused herself from the room rather than stay and be subjected to something she considered hopelessly dull.

Eleanor dug out the book she’d referenced, and flipped to the last page, where the author had written about the stone.

The door closed behind Lottie, and Charles came nearer. The heady spice of his scent teased at Eleanor and swept her into a stream of memories. His hands on her, his mouth on her, the tug of her evening gown, the touch roaming over her body and coming to rest on her breasts... How she’d fantasized about what she’d read of in the journal transpiring between her and Charles, imagining it in every lurid, sweaty detail until she was dizzy.

She tapped the choppy handwriting with her fingertip, already having taken it upon herself to remove her gloves this time. She was nearly breathless with the hope that Charles would touch her again, kiss her again. “At least now we have the handwriting with which to identify the pages that will be needed to be compared against the key.”

“Brilliant.” He regarded her with a curious expression. “Is there any other news you intended to share?”

“Did you expect some?”

“Of course not.” He chuckled.