Page 83 of Never Dare a Duke
“Not really,” he said, coming toward her. “I don’t believe in those stories.”
“But there are such similarities in every encounter!” She was backing away from him now, feeling excited and eager and almost afraid. There was no anger in him tonight—what would it be like to experience him? And how much more difficult would it be to give it—him—up?
She came up hard against a wardrobe, felt its smooth carving with her trembling fingers. “Now this is an old piece,” she said breathlessly.
“It is.” He put his hands on either side of her head, trapping her. “Sixteenth century, according to my father. It is the oldest item in the room.”
She tried not to look at his mouth. “And you still use it?”
“Folded shirts cannot be harmed by old wood.”
She ducked beneath his arm and whirled to examine the wardrobe even more carefully. “Perhaps it is as old as the ghost! May I look inside?”
Without waiting for a response, she gently opened both doors wide. On the left, some garments were hung on hangers, but on the right were layers of shelving. Guided by some instinct she couldn’t name, she moved a stack of shirts, then one of trousers, handing Christopher a third stack, all so that she could reach inside and feel every wall.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked in an amused voice, as several shirts fell off the pile in his hands.
“Looking for a clue. Perhaps the ghost comes here because of this.”
“Because of a piece of furniture,” he said doubtfully.
“Or something that is in it. They say the ghost seems upset. Perhaps he is missing something—or wants something found.”
When he rolled his eyes, she turned away from him and bent over, reaching in the lowest shelf as far as she could.
In a tight voice, he said, “Your hips are far too tempting, Abigail.”
“They’re too big,” she said distractedly, wincing when a sliver of wood pierced her thumb.
“Too big? Surely a woman said that, because a man never would. You’re just the right size to—”
She put another stack of clothes in his arms, and they fell against his face. He grudgingly remained silent as she searched the entire inside of the wardrobe but found nothing.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked, as she took the last stack of clothing from him and returned it.
“No.” She got down on her hands and knees and peered beneath, at the scrolled legs that held up the wardrobe. She ran her hands over each of them, then began to feel the bottom of the wardrobe itself. “Chris, this is strange. Part of this is lower than the rest.”
“Surely it was only repaired that way.”
“I didn’t feel anything that needed to be repaired on the inside.” She lay down on her back on the carpeted floor and used her heels to slide her upper body beneath.
“You’re going to get filthy.”
“Perhaps a lady would care,” she answered primly. “But—”
“You’re not a lady. I know.”
“I need a candle to see. Would you hand it to me?”
He knelt and placed the candleholder beneath the wardrobe at her side, where it illuminated the bottom. The wood was unpainted, though still fitted together skillfully. There was even a mark burned into the wood, perhaps the emblem of the carpenter.
She felt his hands on her ankles. “No, don’t drag me out!”
“I wouldn’t think of it.”
So while Christopher slowly lifted her skirt, even tickled beneath her garters, she did her best to examine the underside of the wardrobe.
She’d been right—one spot was lower than the rest, and made of a different wood. She put her fingertips into a crack and tried to pull but could not budge it. And she didn’t want to break the priceless antique.
