Fearless Duke

was his social inferior. Handsome dukes did not seduce proprietresses of typing schools. They wooed the most celebrated beauties of their day. Opera singers, actresses, demimondaines. Women who were lovely and sensual and who did not wander about with hiccups before nearly vomiting on the Axminster.
“The brandy tastes like wine, only worse,” she told him, forcing all unwanted, fanciful notions from her mind.
“You seemed to enjoy the wine at dinner this evening,” he pointed out.
And nor was he wrong, the cad.
“I enjoy wine. Merely not brandy.” She made the mistake of turning toward him then, for he had bent at the waist, bringing his face shockingly near to her despite the disparity between their heights.
Prussian-blue eyes settled on her lips. “And yet, the remedy held true. You no longer have the hiccups, just as I promised.”
“If I believed the promises of men, I would be a woman possessed of far less intellect than I have.” Some of her frost returned as her composure restored itself to her also.
“Spoken in the fashion of a woman who has been scorned.” His voice lowered. He made no move to put distance between them, and neither did he cease rubbing her back, although her coughing fits had subsided. “Who has scorned you, Miss Hilgrove?”
He sounded curious. About her.
Ridiculous, of course. This debonair man had no need to take an interest in her.
And yet, there was something mesmerizing—nay, intoxicating—about this moment, alone in his private library, surrounded by all the books and objects most important to him, his hand upon her…
Still, she could not unburden herself. Not to him. He was her enemy, she reminded herself. This evening would change nothing for them.
“No one has scorned me. I am merely a woman of sense and reason.” A new glow had begun burning through her, likely from the brandy.
“Sense and reason,” he echoed, a small, mocking smile curving his sensual lips.
She hated herself for taking note of how delightfully well-formed they were. In her rebellious youth, she had kissed more than her fair share of suitors. In the years since, she had believed herself too mature for the vestiges of desire that had once consumed her.
She was proving herself wrong. This vexing man did strange things to her. Strange and irksome and altogether delicious things. Things she would have indulged in, once upon a time…
That time was over.
“Sense and reason, just as I said,” she told him. “Your remedy only worked because I was ill-prepared for the brandy. It took me by surprise and nearly choked me. But I am cured of the hiccups for now, at least.”
“Cured.” His hand stilled on her back, just at the small of it, the natural curve just above her bottom. “You are welcome, my dear.”
She had not been grateful, had she? But how could she be when he was touching her so? And looking at her thus? Making her want to feel his mouth pressed to hers…
It is only the wine.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
His head dipped toward hers, his breath hot and brandy-scented, teasing over her lips, a prelude to a kiss. “Perhaps I should—”
A light knocking at the door interrupted his words, leaving Isabella wondering what he would have said.
“Miss Hilgrove, are you within? Benny, are you in there?”
Only one person would dare refer to the Duke of Westmorland as Benny, which meant the tentative female voice on the other side of the portal belonged to none other than his sister, Callie.
The duke stiffened and stepped away from Isabella with such haste, she felt momentarily bereft, even as she told herself it was for the best. She steadied herself, hands instinctively smoothing down her skirts. Oh, how she wished she did not mourn the loss of his hand on her back. Such a small gesture, an almost inconsequential touch, and yet to her it had been so much more. The lowering of his head, the nearness of his lips… No sense in fretting over any of that now.
“Go,” she whispered to him frantically, wanting him to hide himself. To keep his presence a secret from his sister. To keep this, whatever it had been, limited to the two of them. Never to be spoken of again, and never to be repeated.
It is the wine. Only the wine.
She shooed him with an incredibly rude gesture she also blamed upon the perpetually filled goblet at dinner, and then made the decision for herself. Without bothering to ascertain if he was heeding her wishes, she turned toward the door and opened it.
Her hostess stood on the threshold, her expression hesitant.
“There you are, my lady,” Isabella said, summoning a smile she hardly felt. “I do believe you sent me on a fool’s errand! There are no poetry volumes to be found within this library.”
“Oh dear.” Callie’s eyes searched the chamber behind Isabella. “I do recall a particular poetry volume within that appealed to me. Forgive me for sending you away from the company on such a lark. Will you rejoin us?”
Isabella prayed her hostess did not catch sight of Westmorland skulking about in the shadows of the private library or guess at what they had been about.
Which was what, precisely? She hardly knew. He had touched her back. Shared his brandy to ease her hiccups. That was all, was it not?
“Of course I will.” She feigned a smile. Fought down the dizziness that threatened. “I beg your pardon for tarrying so long.”
“My brother is not within, is he?” Callie rose on her toes, peering into the depths of the chamber over Isabella’s shoulder. “Young said he has returned, and I did not expect him so early…”
“He is not within,” she lied, leaving the library and closing the door firmly at her back.
“Of course not, my dear.” Callie gave her arm a pat. “If I had suspected he was, I never would have sent you to his library. Come, let us rejoin the others.”
“Yes,” Isabella agreed, wondering what her hostess was after. “Let us.”
One thing was certain—whatever it was, it did not