Page 31 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

As she reached up for the book she came a few inches short. Amused, he plucked the volume from the shelf. As he handed it to her, his hand moved at the same time hers did and their fingers collided. A sharp spark crackled between them on contact, and it danced over his skin, jolting his nerve endings.

Gemma jerked her hand away and her lips parted in surprise before she quickly snapped her head away and sighed.

Still holding the book out to her, he waited until she grasped it before asking. “Did something scare you earlier and cause you to knock over the teacup?”

“No,” her eyes dipped down, a clear sign of a lie. “But I do know why I was so terrified afterwards. It…it was a due to arecollection of doing the same thing when I was at the nunnery. The nuns hadnotbeen pleased.”

A muscled ticked in his jaw. “How old were you then?”

“Eight,” she replied.

“You do not have to worry about being taken to task here,” Frederick promised her. Looking around, he added, “You may stay here as long as you like, or take the book to your room, if you so desire.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly.

Nodding, he added. “If you need refreshments you may send a footman or a maid to get them for you.”

She hugged the book to her chest and smiled, “Thank you.”

Frederick reached out to touch her but quickly came to his senses and dropped his hand at the last moment. He nodded curtly and exited the library before he could do anything to further embarrass himself.

Frederick strode quickly to his room, closed the door and selected a fresh set of clothes before calling in his valet.

What are you not telling me, Miss Bradford?

CHAPTER 12

“Welcome, Your Grace,” a footman bowed as he took the invitation. “Lord and Lady Treston are eager to meet you upon your arrival. May I bring you to them?”

He had expected as much. Holding back an exasperated sigh he nodded. “I would enjoy meeting the hosts.”

They passed through the grand foyer of the Treston country house, up the polished grand staircase and into an elegant cameo blue drawing room.

The overabundance of grey marble and ash wood lent the room an unwelcome coldness, but Frederick overlooked it and trained his gaze on the people milling about with glasses of champagne in their hands.

A lady, somewhere in her late forties, rose from her chair. She was tall, statuesque and familiar. It was the same woman whohad tried to machinate a dance between him and her daughter. She wore a stylish emerald shot-silk gown that complemented her hair as it cascaded across her shoulders.

“Your Grace,” she curtsied. “Welcome to my home. I am so thankful that you are here.”

“Why would I not be?” he asked.

She paused to take two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed him one. “According to the lateston-dit,well, rumor has it that you are one of the hardest men to get hold of. Some say you are mercurial while others say you are reclusive, but I continued to hope that you would attend this evening.”

Over his shoulder, she gestured for someone to approach them. The lord who joined them was a short fellow with wire-rimmed spectacles and brown hair that was beginning to turn grey at the temples. His waistcoat, patterned in loud stripes, strained at the buttons.

“My husband, Samuel Clarke, Marquess Treston,” she introduced him. “My love, His Grace, the Duke of Blackridge.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Your Grace,” the man said, enthusiastically shaking his hand. “I regret not meeting you at your ball earlier in the month. My dear wife and daughter have told me all about you; only good things, I assure you. Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you, Lord Treston,” Frederick replied, before sipping his drink. “Would you excuse me? I see an acquaintance I have been meaning to meet for months.”

“Oh, oh, please, of course,” the Marquess bobbed his head and shook Frederick’s hand again before he stepped aside.

Moving away from his hosts, Frederick hailed a man who was as slippery and untrustworthy as an eel. Upon hearing his name, the man’s head popped up from the crowd of guests much like a weasel’s would do from a pile of rubble.

“Portsgate. You and I need to have a long discussion.”

The man, who had conned one of Frederick’s tenants out of their worldly wealth, went as pale and yellow as seaman sick. “Your Grace, I must?—”

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