Page 84 of Never Dare a Duke
He succeeded in attracting her notice again when he separated her legs.
“Chris! Stop it! I found something. Lie down beside me.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
But instead of teasing her, he lay back and slid beneath until their heads touched.
“There’s a hidden space here,” she said, “but I am afraid to damage it. Pulling on it does no good. Do you have an idea?”
He explored it with the same competent hands that had explored her just last night, and she almost forgot her purpose here.
And then, instead of pulling, he pushed the wood sideways, and it began to move.
“Careful!” she urged.
Dust fell on their faces, and she didn’t turn away in time. Several sneezes later, she opened her eyes to see Christopher lowering a piece of wood roughly two of her hands in length.
“There’s something heavy resting on it,” he said, finally sounding just as intrigued as she was.
He set it on his chest, where they saw that it was some sort of wrapped package. Without speaking, they both slid out and sat up. He put the item between them.
She brought the candle closer. “Open it!” she whispered with reverence and excitement.
“It’s your discovery.”
“It’s your ghost!”
Without lifting it, he widened the drawstring on the leather-bound package. He hesitated, and their eyes met for a moment’s anticipation.
He looked inside, wearing a frown, then reached in and slid the item out. It was a bound sheaf of papers, yellowed with age.
She squealed with delight when she saw the writing on it. “Oh, you had an ancestor who was a writer, just like you!”
And then she saw his excitement fade and his wary mistrust return. She realized her error too late.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded.
Chapter 21
Christopher watched the blood drain from Abigail’s face. She winced without trying to hide it. The yellowed papers were like a chasm between them.
“Abigail, answer me. What do you mean, a writer just like me?”
He saw moisture gather in her eyes.
“I…came to see you this afternoon, meaning to wait when you weren’t here. I could not stop thinking about last night, and I wanted you to show me…but that doesn’t matter.”
Her voice trembled, and he almost couldn’t hear her.
“You’d left your manuscript on your desk. I…saw your penmanship…and then I couldn’t help myself.”
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but he was unmoved.
“You read my private papers,” he said coldly. He couldn’t stand just sitting on the floor next to her, so he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Are you so determined to make sure I never trust you? How are you going to usethisin your article?”
She briefly closed her eyes as she moaned. “I told you that I will not write an article about you! You can keep me here as long as you wish until I can prove myself to you. And this”—she pointed at the papers—“is hardly a scandal. So, you’re a writer!”
“And how do you think it would look to everyone who respects my accomplishments if they discover that I write common plays? At some theaters,prostituteswork the saloons! There are many respectable people who won’t even attendShakespearebecause of that. I have to be above this sort of thing, a serious man doing serious work.” He remembered the stories of the difficulties his own father had, proving himself and his reputation after marrying improperly.
