Page 8 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

“Who are you,” Frederick asked, his voice low and commanding, “and what are you doing here?”

The woman jumped at the sound of his voice, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. Her wide, startled eyes locked onto his own and for a brief moment neither of them moved. The book she had been holding slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a soft thud, the noise echoing in the quiet room.

“I—I am sorry” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I did not mean to?—”

He did not yet need her to explain herself. He wanted an answer to his question.

He took another step forward, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he studied her more closely.

She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, with chocolate brown hair, delicate features and an air of exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin.

Her simple clothes were torn and stained and there were dark smudges of dirt on her knuckles and the palms of her hands. Her knees were bruised as though she had fallen or been forced to remain on her knees for a duration. She appeared to have recently endured a difficult journey.

“You should not be here,” Frederick said, his voice low and clipped. “This is a private estate, and this is the Duke’s library.”

“I—” she swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the door as if considering an escape. “I did not mean to intrude. I—I just needed?—”

Frederick crossed his arms and glared at the woman in his chair. “I demand an explanation.”

CHAPTER 4

Gemma’s heart pounded as she looked up at the tall man who had entered the library.

His imposing figure, broad shoulders and stern features made her feel small and suffocated. She had been caught—and by someone who clearly didn’t take kindly to trespassers. But she couldn’t let him know she was nothing more than a runaway hiding in his home.

Summoning all the arrogance she could muster, she straightened herself up in the chair and raised her chin.

“How dare you barge in here without knocking!” she snapped. “I am a guest in this house, and I demand that you treat me with respect.”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by her tone, but the flicker of amusement in his eyes made Gemma’s pulse quicken. He stepped closer, his footsteps now heavy against thewooden floor, and she realized just how charged the room had suddenly become with his presence.

“A guest?” His voice was deep and smooth with a hint of mockery. He again crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her with an expression that bordered on entertained disbelief. “And what kind of guest sneaks into the master’s private library without his express invitation?”

Gemma’s stomach clenched. Master’s library? This was not going to be as easy as she thought, but she could not falter now, not when she had already committed herself to the lie.

“Well,” she said, feigning haughtiness, “perhaps if the servants had been more attentive, I wouldn’t have had to find my own way.”

His lips twitched as if they were suppressing a smile. “I see,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “And how exactly did you… find your way onto the estate?”

Gemma hesitated for a fraction of a second, but quickly regained her composure. “I arrived with one of the other guests,” she said airily, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. “I expect your staff failed to inform you of my arrival. I shall have a word with the host about that.”

The man took another step toward her, closing the distance between them. His dark eyes never left hers, and though she tried to maintain her bravado, something about his presence made her feel unsettled.

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense.

“I would love to know who, exactly, invited you,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Because I am certain I would remember if the Duke had extended an invitation to such a… memorable guest.” His hand moved up and down in front of her in silent criticism of her attire and appearance.

Gemma’s breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to keep up the charade. She couldn’t let him see the panic rising inside her. She had to bluff her way through this.

“Lady Margaret Cartwright,” she lied, the name rolling off her tongue with practiced ease. “Daughter of the Viscount of Kentbridge.”

The man raised an eyebrow again, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Lady Margaret Cartwright?” he repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. “How interesting. The Viscount of Kentbridge has a daughter?”

Gemma blinked, her mind scrambling for a response. “He does,” she stammered, trying to recover. “I have recently returned from abroad.”

“Is that so?” The man’s eyes gleamed with mirth as he took a step closer, now towering over her. “And tell me, Miss Cartwright, what brings you to this part of the country? It is rare for thedaughter of a Viscount to travel alone, especially to an estate such as this.”

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