Page 97 of The Scottish Duke
Perhaps he should have brought her something sparkly. Evidently this humble artist’s box didn’t impress her.
“You said you lost yours in your travels. I thought I’d replace it. You don’t have to accept it, of course. I’ll have it returned to the shop.”
He reached out to take the box from her.
“No,” she said. “No.”
He waited, but she didn’t say anything further, merely stroked her fingers over the fittings, opened and closed the drawers, took out the charcoal pencils and studied each one with great care.
“You heard,” she said. Her gaze lifted to his. “You heard me tell you about my box.”
“Of course I did.”
“A great many people don’t listen when you talk to them. You did.”
He didn’t know what she wanted him to say. Why wouldn’t he listen to her?
“There’s even a princely purple,” she said, looking at the paints again. “Your color.”
“My color?”
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve seen people as colors. Your mother, for example, is a delicate pink, almost like the Russell rose. Nan is a bright yellow. Reverend McGill was orange, almost the color of flames. Mrs.McDermott is a warm, fluffy gray. Matthews—” She abruptly stopped.
“What is Matthews?” he asked, curious.
“A yellowish green,” she said after a moment. “Almost a sickly color.”
“And I’m purple?”
She glanced at him and smiled. “A dark purple that’s almost blue. As I said, a very princely purple.”
He didn’t know what to say, but she wasn’t finished.
“You couldn’t have given me a better gift, Alex. Thank you.”
The quaver in her voice made him think of tears, but her lips curved into a charming smile, one that made him stand, bend down, and kiss her.
His mouth touched hers gently, lingering for a moment, simply experiencing. Her lips were soft, warm, and welcoming, encouraging the desire that surged through him.
The sensation that followed was disturbing. Not the lust that he anticipated, or the wish that he could take her to his bed, which he was thinking whenever he was in her presence. No, this need was new, different, and more than a little startling.
He found himself wanting to confide in her, to ask her opinion, to tell her his secrets. He’d never before felt compelled to do that with anyone.
He finally sat again, his attention on his pen, straightening his blotter, and rearranging the inkwell in the exact center of his desk.
“Thank you,” she said again, reaching out and placing her hand on his wrist.
He felt her touch through the cloth. Glancing over at her, he wanted to tell her how she made him feel. Young, perhaps. Certainly untried. He wasn’t Alexander Brian Russell, ninth Duke of Kinross, around her. He was only Alex.
“I remember when you took my fingerprints here,” she said, glancing around his office. “It was a Tuesday and you were wearing a blue shirt with one of your black suits. This one had silver buttons. You’d cut yourself shaving and you had a small plaster on the side of your chin.” She smiled at him. “Do you shave yourself or does Matthews do it for you?”
Had she always had that mischievous twinkle in her eyes? Her face had thinned, the angle of her jaw somehow arresting. She was, if anything, more beautiful for having given birth. Her hair had acquired a luster that made him want to study it in the sunlight, see how many strands were gold, how many brown.
He stared at her for so long that he almost forgot the question.
“Matthews,” he finally said.
She nodded. “I thought as much. That’s what he said, although I’ve learned to take only about a third of what he says as gospel.”
