Page 28 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

“You are free to hate me or love me in whatever way you wish.” He walked closer to her, passing her only for a moment that made her heart beat quicker, before he approached the bookshelves. “When you agree to be my partner, I will take whatever I can get from you.”

Her throat went dry. She knew he was only joking. He had made it painfully clear that he did not see her as a person who could incite longing in him. She chewed on the inside of her mouth, watching as he examined her curated collection of books. His fingers drifted over the spines, and a shiver ran down her back.

“I am agreeing,” she spat out before her nerves could fail her. “For your aunt’s sake mainly, and for reasons of my own I do not intend to explain to you today—or ever.”

“I think you enjoy being mysterious,” he said after a pause. “But that seems fair enough.” When he looked at her, his smile was not the lazy, provoking smile she had grown used to from him. “You will not regret it, Miss Winthrop. I cannot promise to be as genteel with you as I should be, but I can promise you that you will not regret me.”

“Funny. I suspect I already do, somewhat...”

He laughed and crossed the small distance between them before she had properly registered him moving. Slowly, he took her hand where it rested at her side. She had forgotten her gloves in the drawing room.

Did he even realize what he was doing? Her whole arm, her body, was set alight by his touch. His skin was softer than she anticipated—his fingers, also bare, were long now that she looked at them.

The Duke of Hartmere pressed his mouth just below the ridge of her knuckles, and a surprised moan caught in Rosalie’s throat. The gesture was more wicked than anything he had ever said to her.

“Now that we are agreed, I shall speak with your father tonight,” he said, still holding her hand.

His eyes were trained on her face. Her mouth? Not my mouth, surely, she thought. Not again. But being this close to him, she could not help dropping her gaze to his lips too, remembering what it had felt like to kiss him and be kissed—the way he had tasted and the way she had melted in his arms.

“I will ask nothing more of you than a few months, long enough to see my aunt through the Season and to settle whatever you wish for yourself. I will take her to France. We will stay there for a time. She is happy when she travels.

Perhaps your parents will come along as a consolation prize to me, the jilted lover. Because once the arrangement has served its full purpose, you may quietly withdraw from the arrangement and marry in earnest. I imagine you will make a very contented and conformable wife, once all this sordid business is behind you and you can shirk your role as a woman who wants me.”

Rosalie started. She had not thought at length about how this would end. She had thought only of her strange new hunger to be looked at. But yes, this arrangement had a purpose beyond itself, and that purpose was to secure her a husband, who was waiting patiently at the far end of it, like a reward she was meant to be racing toward.

She parted her lips to correct him. I do want you. I do not love Mr. Sinclair. I have never claimed to. The whole foundation of what you believe about me is a lie I told to protect someone else. The words rose as far as her throat before guilt closed around them and held them there. If she told him the truth now, with his hand still warm around hers, she did not know if the offer would still stand.

“Your Grace—” she began.

Just as the library door creaked open.

“Ah...” Mr. Sinclair said, waiting in the doorway, barely discernible against the light from the hall. His gaze moved between them. “I... Well, I was told I might find the two of you somewhere nearby, but I did not think...”

The duke released her hand at once. She stepped back so quickly she almost hit the bookshelf. Her body tingled with embarrassment. The duke inclined his head toward Mr. Sinclair with an ease that gave nothing away, smiling that devilish persuasive smile.

“I suppose dinner is about to be called,” he said.

“Were you lost, Your Grace?” Mr. Sinclair asked, stepping into the dark room and staring at Rosalie.

“No, not lost. We were only delayed by a conversation I found I could not cut short. Miss Winthrop and I were discussing a book she particularly enjoys.” He picked up the first book he could find and marched over to Mr. Sinclair, giving it to him. “But perhaps it is better suited to your tastes. I will go ahead of you and find Baron Winthrop before dinner. There is a matter I must raise with him tonight if he can spare me a moment.”

The Duke of Hartmere was gone before Rosalie could say a word. They were alone now and waiting. Mr. Sinclair stood motionless, staring down at the cover of the book he had been handed, visibly wondering what he had just interrupted. She had no idea how she intended to answer him.

“King Lear. My late wife enjoyed Shakespeare greatly.”

“Mr. Sinclair, that was not as it seemed,” Rosalie said. The lies were coming so easily now it scared her. “We truly were only talking.”

“Alone.”

“Yes, alone. But... it was innocent. We lost track of time. The door closed accidentally… I did not know you were coming tonight.”

“Would that knowledge have changed this scene in the slightest?”

His words cut through her like a hot knife. She flinched involuntarily, tears smarting behind her eyes. She willed them to go away and approached him.

To her surprise, he held out his arm to her. She looked down at his gloved hand. She felt compelled to join her arm with his. He set down the book.

“Miss Winthrop, if you would return with me...” He paused before they reached the door. “It is not in my nature to press you on anything you do not care to share. But I hope you know you may speak honestly with me, whatever the matter is. I am not so easily rattled as I may appear.”