Fearless Duke

not belong to her hostess. Everything about it suggested it was his—the dark shelves laden with books, sideboard decorated with nymphs and goddesses, the distinctly masculine nature of the vignettes scattered about, along with the scent.
His scent.
She would have recognized it anywhere. Until the electric current of awareness had sparked through her, and the sensation of a thousand butterflies being released at once fluttered in her belly. And her gaze met the stinging blue stare of the man she had not been able to shake from her thoughts ever since she had walked from this massive edifice earlier in the day.
The Duke of Westmorland was staring at her now as if he wanted to devour her.
“Oh good heavens,” she said faintly.
“That is putting it mildly, my dear,” he said before lifting a glass to his beautiful lips and taking a long sip.
Beautiful lips? More trouble. She must not look at them. Nor at him. Why had she closed the door behind her? Why was the room a swirling sea of color, faintly blurred at the edges? It was as if she had wandered into a painting.
Nothing seemed real.
And yet it did, rendered in masterful strokes. Enough to convince her she could close the distance between herself and the duke. That she might rise on her toes and press her lips to his.
How shocking, how foolish. She must strike all such unbecoming thoughts from her mind. Return to the dinner gathering. This was no good. But she felt dizzied and overwhelmed, quite as if someone else were inhabiting her body. Someone far less in control than Isabella Hilgrove prided herself upon being.
Was the room spinning? Was she?
She swayed. A bubble worked its way up her throat. She hiccupped. Loudly.
Merciful angels. She pressed a hand over her mouth as her cheeks flamed. How mortifying. She needed to explain herself. To disappear. To go home. Where to start?
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” she managed. “I do believe I somehow took a wrong turn. I was certain Lady Calliope told me the fourth door on the left was where I might find her library. There was a book she wished for me to fetch…”
As she gave voice to the explanation for her presence here, in what was clearly his territory, she knew it sounded foolish. Unbelievable, really. And the room was still swirling. Or perhaps she was swaying once more.
Do not, she cautioned herself sternly, fall to an inglorious heap before the Duke of Westmorland. In his library. Whilst you are inebriated.
“What book did my sister wish for you to fetch?” he asked, sounding curious as he swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass and contemplated her with a fathomless gaze.
A gaze she felt all the way to her core. Between her thighs. In a place she did not dare think of, let alone touch. Not directly. Not even in the bath. For it was wicked. Only, the sensations vibrating to life there now hardly felt wicked. No, indeed. They felt shockingly, deliciously right.
“Miss Hilgrove,” he prodded, sauntering nearer.
She thought about fleeing. Took a step in retreat, only to recall she had closed the door at her back as she slammed first her heel and then her rump into it. But of course, she had already known she closed it.
How much wine had she consumed? And what question had the Duke of Westmorland posed? She searched her inundated mind and could not seem to find an answer to either question.
“Your Grace,” she breathed as he came closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Until he stopped. So near, his spicy cologne washed over her. More butterflies took up residence in her traitorous stomach. More heat slid between her thighs.
“Miss Hilgrove,” he said again, his voice low.
Was he staring at her mouth? Were his eyes always a hundred different shades of blue at once? Why did his delicious baritone send need straight to the heart of her?
“What did you ask me?” She swallowed, attempting to ignore his proximity, to pretend he had no effect upon her at all. “Do forgive me, Your Grace, but I have somehow forgotten your original question.”
The wine was the reason for this, she was sure. Blast the servant who had steadily refilled her glass. And blast herself for so steadily draining it.
“And do likewise forgive me, Miss Hilgrove, but I instructed you to call me Westmorland earlier today. Perhaps you might try it now, in this intimate setting, so very different from earlier.”
Intimate? He thought this setting intimate?
Her heart snapped into a faster pace. A glance around her confirmed the truth of his words. This was more intimate. It was evening. She was wearing one of her finest dresses. She had taken care with her hair. She was in her cups. They were alone.
Oh dear.
She did not dare make any concessions. Not when he was standing in such devastating proximity. Not when she could not trust her wits to guide her with prudence and care.
At long last, his question returned to her, filtered through a wine-soaked haze. What book did my sister wish for you to fetch?
“A book of poetry, Your Grace,” she said, irritated at how breathless she sounded. “Lady Calliope sent me to find a volume of poems containing verse which might aid the cause.”
“Odd indeed.” He tapped his chin, his expression turning thoughtful. “You will find no verse in my library, I am afraid. I cannot abide by the lyrical.”
His response surprised her, as he confirmed what she had already known—this dark, masculine haven was his alone. “You do not care for poetry?”
His stare continued to pin her in place, as if he studied her. “Lovesick twaddle. I prefer fact. Histories suit me best.”
“Poetry is not all lovesick twaddle,” she found herself arguing although she knew she ought to go.
Now.
An amused smile curved his lips. “Of course it is.”
How different he looked this evening, somehow less formidable than he had before. Softer. More lighthearted as well.
Or perhaps that was merely the wine she had consumed. Either way, continuing to linger alone with the