Page 23 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

Her frown deepened.

He stepped into the room, looking anywhere but at her, because… Well, because he wanted to see if she had discovered anything useful. Many of the shelves held books and the shelves were free of dust. So, yes, much progress had been made. Far more than he had expected. He forced himself to face her. ‘Have you found anything?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

The sight of her standing there with a smudge of dust on her cheek, and the light from the window illuminating her skin as if it was porcelain, made him say the first thing that came into his head.

‘Have you thought any more about Lady March’s suggestion that we wed?’

Florence’s mouth dried. Realising she was staring at him with her mouth open, she added the book she was holding to the pile on the nearby table.

A cloud of dust rose into the air, making her cough.

Dust; that was why her mouth felt so dry, not because he had come upon her unexpectedly. Not because he had asked her that particular question, but because she was covered in dust and cobwebs and dressed like a kitchen maid. While he looked like…well, he looked positively gorgeous.

She groaned inwardly. What was she thinking?

‘No. I haven’t.’ She winced at the harshness of her answer. ‘Was your quest successful?’ she managed to ask, with only a bit of a croak to her voice. She swatted at her apron, sending more dust flying.

‘No. Neither my man of business nor my mother was able to help.’

‘I see.’ She waved a hand at the surrounding room. ‘And I have gone through almost all the books. I don’t understand what happened here.’ She pointed to a pile of books with their binding damaged and pages hanging out. ‘It as if someone swept them off the shelves willy nilly and stomped on them.’

‘More than once,’ Blackdown said grimly. ‘My father had an evil temper, according to my mother’

She looked shocked. ‘What on earth did these books ever do to him?’

He shook his head. ‘Who knows?’

She had a feeling he did know, or at least knew the cause of the ill-temper, but did not want to say. He sounded disheartened. Disheartened because of that other suggestion hanging over them, no doubt.

A suggestion that had continued to plague her as she had ploughed through her task one book at a time, fluttering the leaves in hope of the one piece of paper she was looking for falling into her lap. The longer she had continued, the more she had begun to think the whole idea was hopeless. Yet she had continued—just in case. Because there had to be an alternative to Lady March’s suggestion.

Why did the ownership of a field really matter? It was a field. Who cared who owned it?

‘Why not just give the field to my father?’ The words popped out in a rush.

His expression darkened. ‘Why not? That would be admitting to theft.’ He glowered at her as if she had accused him of stealing it himself.

Men. So sensitive about their honour. ‘It would stop the argument.’ And would mean the suggestion could be forgotten. Not that she could really ever forget how hard her heart had pounded at the thought, or the depths to which it had plunged when she’d remembered it was impossible. And besides, what sort of marriage would it be, if it was thrust upon them in such a way?

‘I refuse to believe my great-grandfather would have done anything so dishonourable.’

‘Even though he was a pirate?’

He bared his teeth in an almost-smile, and for a moment looked about as piratical as any man could. ‘Privateer.’

She sighed. There was no dealing with the man. Her gaze swept around the room, at the now-tidy shelves and at few remaining volumes she hadn’t searched.

‘Well, I will be finished shortly, and I doubt I will find anything.’

‘I don’t know where else to look.’ He ran impatient fingers through his hair.

She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and see if it felt as silky as it looked.

Astonished at such a wayward thought, the sort of thoughts she had expunged from her mind for ever, she clenched her fists and took a deep breath.

‘Then there is no more to be done.’ She reached behind her and tugged at her apron strings. They did not come free. Dash it all, the bow somehow must have turned into a knot. She tried to work it loose, with a laugh of discomfort.