Page 51 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“I couldn’t sleep,” she blurted out. “I came down for a book.”

He stood up, and if he felt any dismay at the sight of her, it vanished at once, replaced by polite disinterest. “Miss Deverill,” he said and bowed.

She cleared her throat. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” he said, and stretched out his arm toward the bookshelves lining the walls behind him, inviting her to help herself to any book she might wish.

She hesitated, knowing she had two choices. She could mumble some terribly lame excuse and duck out like a frightened rabbit, or she could begin climbing that glacier. Irene lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and started forward.

Chapter 12

Henry had never been the sort to believe in fate. Destiny, he’d always felt, was in one’s own hands, by choice of will, with perhaps a bit of divine assistance from time to time. Tonight, however, with Irene Deverill standing before him in her loose-fitting gown, her gold hair falling around her shoulders, he began to fear that will was useless and the divine had a damnable sense of what was helpful.

After his walk last evening, he’d slept a good night and woken this morning sure he was back on solid footing. Even at breakfast with her, he’d been well enough, and throughout the morning, he’d been able to keep the image of her stunning face, lit with laughter, out of his mind for almost the entire day. But then, he’d arranged the water party and wondered if she would like sailing. He’d called on Ellesmere, a feat which had forced him to talk about her. Worse, he’d then gone to Merrick’s and chosen her a maid, an act which had led his imagination to images of her dressing and undressing, very shaky ground indeed, and he’d decided it would be best if he did not attend the theater with them this evening. Given his desire for her, steering clear was his only honorable course.

Denied that just now, he forced his face into the polite, disinterested expression required of a civilized gentleman and stood up. “Miss Deverill,” he said and bowed, but as he did, he caught sight of her bare toes peeking out beneath cerise pink silk, and his body at once began a rebellion against civility. He jerked upright.

She gave a slight cough. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Disturbed, he supposed, was one way of describing how he felt. “Not at all,” he lied and forced himself to remember what she’d come for. He turned slightly, again inviting her to peruse the bookshelves.

She walked past him, and as he turned, he prepared to excuse himself and escape before his much-too-vivid imagination led him to more agony, or worse, to actions he would regret.

“I’m glad to have run across you, actually,” she said. “This might be an excellent moment for us to talk.”

“Talk?” That impossible notion spurred him to action. He dredged up his honor, and prepared an excuse—the lateness of the hour and how tired he was. But when he turned around, excuses to leave went straight out of his head.

She was bending down, perusing the lowest shelves, the lamp on the floor nearby. He froze, staring at the unmistakable outline of her hips and buttocks, plainly visible through the thin layer of pink silk, making him fully aware that she had nothing on underneath. No petticoats, no drawers, no . . .

Oh, God, have mercy.

Riveted, he stared, arousal rising and fortitude cracking. “It sounds as if you have something important you wish to discuss.”

“It can wait, if you prefer. It’s just that . . .” She bent down a little farther, stretching to reach a book, and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “This meeting is rather fortuitous.”

“Fated, you might say,” he said as he crossed the room toward her, his gaze on her hips, his thoughts in the gutter.

“Exactly.” She straightened and turned toward him as he paused beside her. “Everyone else is in bed, so we won’t be overheard.”

The baser side of Henry’s nature was already well aware of that point. “And what you want to discuss is a forbidden subject?”

For some reason, that made her laugh. “Forbidden? Oh, no. It’s just that it’s easier to discuss your mother with you if there’s no chance she can overhear.”

“My mother?” He felt as if he’d just been doused with ice water. “You want to talk about my mother?”

Talking, particularly about his mother, seemed ludicrous just now, but it was a much safer topic than the one he’d been contemplating. Not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed by that fact, Henry tamped down lust and resigned himself to conversation. “What about her?”

“It’s really Foscarelli I want to know more about. You’ve met him, I trust?”

Startled, he blinked. “What on earth gave you that idea?”

“Well . . . I assumed it. You did tell me you tried to buy him off.”

“So I did. Through my solicitors.”

“Solicitors?” She stared at him, shaking her head and giving a laugh as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“That amuses you, Miss Deverill?”

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