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“And you’ll be devastated, I’m sure.”
“I’d be delighted, if I weren’t returning to London soon.”
“I was wondering why you were here instead of waltzing around ballrooms with foppish dandies.”
“I already told you that I’m here by choice. Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend?”
“Because no one chooses to spend their summer in the wilds of Cornwall with nothing but books for company.”
“I’d stay here forever if I could.” She caressed the bindings of the books on the shelf next to her. “This library is my happiest of places.”
“I’ve seen your lamp burning at all hours of the evening.”
“I have to work at night because it’s the only time when you’re not banging, hammering, whistling, or telling naughty jokes.”
“I’m not going to apologize for doing my job.”
“Well, you could have done it with more sensitivity to my exigencies. When I see the duke next, I’m going to present him with a long list of your infringements.”
Wonderful. That’s all Ford needed. “I may have inconvenienced you, but the duke won’t be able to deny that I accomplished more in these past months than most men could do in a year.”
“I’m not debating that, Wright. I only wish your visit hadn’t coincided so disharmoniously with mine. I only achieved a paltry number of pages.”
He removed the top paper from a stack on the writing desk. “Is this your novel?”
She startled, moving into a shaft of sunlight. “Don’t read that.”
Which, of course, made him have to read it. He held the sheet to the window. “‘Stamford Wright,’” he read aloud. “‘SeeRogue.’” He grinned. “‘Heavy of hammer and brawny of shoulder,’ eh? So youhavebeen writing about me.”
She rushed forward. “That’s not for your eyes.”
“Clearly. You wouldn’t want me to know that you find me excessively virile.”
“And boundlessly arrogant.” She was close enough to reach out and touch. Her cheeks were pink, and her hazel eyes sparked with indignant light. “Give it here.”
“‘Thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind,’” he read. “True. Because I am.”
“Humph!” She reached for the page and lost her balance, tumbling against his chest.
He folded his arm around her small waist. “Steady there.”
“You are... not... a gentleman,” she accused, her breathing ragged.
“Far from it.” He was the furthest thing from a gentleman that dainty, delicate, sheltered LadyBeatrice Bentley would ever come into close proximity with.
And she was close.
Plastered against him, her soft breasts rising and falling against his chest. Her dress was buttery soft beneath his arm. Her hair smelled like apple blossoms floating in honey.
One of the maids had told him that she’d been born with palsy, which had given her face a distinctive asymmetry. The right side of her lips curved downward and her right eye drooped at the corner.
There were ink stains on her fingers. A smudge of ink on her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away with his thumb, just to touch her soft skin.
Stay away from the duke’s sister. That’s not your place. No trespassing.
“Ruffian rogue. Scurrilous scoundrel.” She glared at him but made no move to distance herself. “Climbing trellises and reading a lady’s private papers.”
“You like scoundrels. We’re far more interesting than other men. We’re highly distracting to scholarly females. Might I suggest a few edits to your novel, though? Excessive virility is a promising beginning, but I would add ‘handsome as sin’ and ‘completely irresistible.’”
