Fearless Duke

Duke of Westmorland was a mistake.
“I should return. The others are likely wondering where I have gone.” But though she gave voice to her concern, she was not moving.
Rather, she remained where she was.
His smile faded, his lips taking on a derisive twist. “I would wager my sister knows where you have gone.”
As would she, though she could not fathom why Callie wanted their paths to cross. Unless perhaps she hoped to irk her brother?
“Still,” she persisted, wishing she could break herself free from his penetrating gaze, “it is remiss of me to interrupt your solitude. And quite improper as well.”
His grin returned. “My dear Miss Hilgrove, you were alone with me for the majority of the day. What can possibly be improper about remaining here for a few moments?”
She did not know what to do with a Duke of Westmorland who was grinning at her. His neck cloth was loosened, she belatedly took note, and his coat was gone. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
Dangerous.
“We were working earlier,” she managed past lips that had gone suddenly dry. “It was not late in the evening, within a private chamber.”
“The main library is also a private chamber,” he pointed out, sounding amused.
Of course it was, but it had not seemed so, as large and cavernous as it was. Moreover, the doors had been open. Servants had come and gone, seemingly at will, but she supposed it would have all been arranged by the duke. She was woefully unaccustomed to a grand home such as Westmorland House. And to dukes.
She could not shake the impression he was toying with her. Enjoying himself at her expense.
Isabella frowned at him. “You know the difference.”
“Do I?” He raised his glass to his lips and took a long, slow pull of the spirits.
Damn her for a fool, but she watched every motion. Watched his mouth, the droplet of liquid which clung to the fullness of his bottom lip. Watched his tongue lick it away. Watched the masculine protrusion of his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, just above his loosened neck cloth.
“You do,” she insisted.
Her heart pounded. Why was it so very hot in this chamber?
“Are you afraid I will take liberties, Miss Hilgrove?” This time, his grin was wicked.
Afraid? No. Did a reckless, altogether wrong part of her want him to? Yes.
She hiccupped again. “Of course not.” Hiccup. “I trust you, Your Grace.”
That was a lie. She did not trust this handsome man before her. Nor did she trust herself, alone with him. Particularly when she was in her cups.
“For such a stern woman, your hiccup is remarkably demure,” he observed.
Heat flared to her cheeks. “Forgive—” hiccup—“me.”
Good heavens, would her humiliation know no end?
Go now, Isabella. Run! Flee! Gather up the tattered remnants of your pride and flee.
But she ignored her good sense. And she lingered. Because the Duke of Westmorland’s icy gaze was setting her aflame.
He held out his glass to her. “Here, Miss Hilgrove. Have a sip. It may aid your effort to squelch them.”
She stared at the glass as if it contained poison. “I could not presume, Your Grace.”
Sharing a beverage with him was more intimate than standing alone in his private library with him. She did not dare. Until another hiccup worked its way up her throat, and she began to question the wisdom of her stoicism.
“It is brandy.” He pressed the glass into her hand. “An old family remedy for fits of the hiccups, I swear.”
She did not believe him. But she was holding his glass now. Peering down into the amber contents. She had never tasted brandy before. Another hiccup shook through her. What would be the harm in one little sip?
Did she dare place her lips where his had been? Why was he being so attentive to her, almost kind? Where was the buttoned, perfectly turned out, arrogant duke from earlier this afternoon?
“Go on, my dear,” he prompted.
She raised the glass. Set her mouth on the rim. At the last moment—she would forever blame her lack of grace upon the wine she had consumed with dinner—she overcompensated and tilted too far. To save herself from having rivulets of spirits running down her face and gown, she gulped down a massive swallow.
Another mistake, as it happened.
Fire burned down her throat. She choked but managed to keep it down. Long, elegant fingers plucked the glass from her grasp, keeping her from spilling the remainder of the spirits all over herself or the carpets. He settled it on a nearby table as she struggled to regain her breath around a cough.
“Good God, Miss Hilgrove,” he said with undeniable concern, hastening back to her side. “Can you breathe?”
She nodded, then wheezed and tried to catch her breath once more. Please do not let me cast up my accounts on the Duke of Westmorland.
The strangest thing happened then, as she struggled to control her coughing. A large, warm hand flattened on her spine, directly between her shoulder blades, then moved up and down in tender, soothing strokes.
He was touching her, she realized. Rubbing her back. The duke’s ungloved hand was upon her. And worse, despite the choke of the brandy she had foolishly tossed down her gullet, she liked the way his touch felt. Strong and powerful, yet gentle. Almost like a caress.
“There now, say something if you please.” He stroked her back some more.
Some nefarious part of her—clearly also inspired by the wine—wondered if he would continue his ministrations should she fail to answer him. But the rest of Isabella, the rational, shopkeeper’s daughter part of her, knew she did not dare tempt fate any more than she already had.
“That was horrid,” she forced herself to say, her voice scarcely more than a choked rasp.
“It is the best brandy to be had.” His voice was wry.
He had not ceased the movement of his hand. Up and down her spine it traveled. Slower now. Almost as if he relished the contact. But she did not dare believe such a flight of fancy. She