by Amy Sandas
Anticipation lightened his steps as he crossed the room to peek behind the imposing piece of furniture.
Miss Littlefield was once again dressed in a simple frock, this one a faded blue color, and her brown hair was mostly loose down her back with just a slim braid keeping her hair back from her face. She was kneeling beside a haphazard pile of books as she sifted through them, obviously seeking one in particular.
Leander lifted his hip onto the edge of her desk, bringing one leg off the floor. He was careful to avoid disturbing the many books and papers strewn across the surface. A quick glance identified regional maps and architectural drawings, along with a few roughly drawn sketches of what appeared to be sheep in various pastures.
Amusement warred with curiosity to the point he wasn’t sure which to express first, so he bit his tongue. Looking back to the woman on the floor, he saw that she’d apparently found the book she was after since she had it spread open across her knees. Her ink-stained fingertips trailed softly down the page as she scanned through a passage.
After another couple minutes and a few more pages, he realized she didn’t appear to be in any hurry to rise.
Nor did it seem likely she would soon notice his presence.
Unaccustomed to being ignored in any capacity, Leander gently cleared his throat. “What sort of text could be so vitally important at such an early hour that you cannot even bother to find your seat to read it?”
“It’s a firsthand account of a mining accident that killed seven men in 1734,” she replied without bothering to lift her head. Her concise response was followed by a brief pause, then she stiffened and tipped her head back to look up at him with a furrow of confusion between her brows. “Count Vittori. Have you gotten lost again?”
His smile came easily as he replied, “No. I think I know exactly where I am.”
“Then you must be aware this is part of my private suite,” she noted though she did not move to rise from the floor. “Guests are not welcome here.”
Her forthright manner never ceased to charm him. “But the door was open and the room’s contents are so inviting.”
She rose gracefully before he had the opportunity to offer a hand. Once she was standing in front of him, he gestured to the book in her other hand. “May I?”
Her expression slid from confusion into gentle misgiving, but she handed it to him anyway. Keeping her place with his thumb, he flipped the cover closed to read the title.
He quirked a brow. “You cannot possibly find this sort of thing interesting.”
“Actually, I find it fascinating, though I can understand why a man like you might think it dull.”
“A man like me?” His smile widened despite himself.
She waved her hand in an impatient gesture. “A hedonist. A rake,” she clarified.
He was surprised to detect no censure in her tone nor judgement in her gaze. She simply stated the facts as she knew them.
He tipped his forehead toward her. “What gave you such an idea about me?”
“We do receive the London papers here in Staffordshire,” she noted with a lift to her brow and a barely noticeable quirk at the corner of her mouth.
So she’d read about him in the scandal sheets. “Is that why you don’t like me?”
Her dark gaze never wavered from his. “I do not know you, my lord.”
“Would you like to?” He didn’t intend the lowered tone of intimacy that entered his voice with the question. Nor did he regret it when he saw the slight widening of her eyes.
He would have expected her to shrink back in wariness at his bold overture. Instead, the fascinating creature paused to study him for a moment. She glanced briefly at his hand splayed atop her work, which caused another frown of consternation before her attention flickered over his thigh stretched along the edge of her desk. Then she brought her gaze back to his face, her focus resting a moment on the curve of his lips before reaching his eyes.
Her abbreviated yet thoroughly assessing gaze ignited his blood with an unexpected rush of desire. For a moment, he’d felt himself on the edge of anticipation, awaiting her approval—her acceptance.
Then a slight furrow marred her smooth brow as she asked, “Are you attempting to seduce me?”
Ah! If he could.
Leander boldly met her inquiring gaze. “Is it working?”
Her mouth pursed for a second, inspiring another flare of heat in his blood. Then she narrowed her eyes and glanced back at his mouth. “I’m not sure.”
He couldn’t hold back his amusement. “I can honestly say I’ve never gotten that response before. You wound me, Miss Littlefield.” Unfortunately, the hint of laughter in his voice caused a slight stiffening across her shoulders as she reached to slide her book out of his hand and set it aside on her desk.
“I doubt I do any more than stir the air with my passing,” she noted with a hint of distraction.
“I would say you are very stirring indeed,” Leander agreed, realizing she likely had no idea just how truthful that was in his case.
She paused in the act of shuffling through her papers to look up at him from the corner of her eye. “Now you are making sport of me.”
“I am not,” he replied. “I think you are amazing.”
“Amusing, you mean.”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps a little. But I mean no offense. My regard is genuine, I assure you. Why is that hard to believe?”
She searched his gaze for a moment. He wasn’t sure if she found what she was looking for when she sighed and turned to restack the books that had fallen over earlier. “I realize I seem odd to you...and to the others.”
“There is nothing wrong with being unique.” He pushed off from the desk to crouch at her side and assist her in collecting the stray volumes.
“Of course there isn’t,” she replied readily, causing him to smile again.
“May I ask what it is you are working on so diligently?”
“I am writing a complete history of Bilberry Hall’s residents going back to a time before William the Conqueror.”
“That sounds like an ambitious endeavor.”
She gave him a quick sideways glance but said nothing.
When the books were carefully stacked once again, Leander rose and offered his hand. She seemed to take it without thinking, slipping her slim, warm fingers across his palm. But once they stood facing each other in the small space behind her desk, she glanced at the clasped hands as though surprised by the contact.
He found it interesting that she did not try to withdraw her hand from his. Instead, she seemed to be considering something carefully.
When she glanced up to meet his gaze, Leander once again experienced that quiet rush of desire. It flickered like a candle flame behind his sternum before expanding warmly through his blood.
Leander knew desire well. He didn’t consider himself a braggart in claiming to be an expert at cultivating it, exploring it, pushing it to its very limits. He had made his life a study of how best to use his own desire and that of others to achieve the greatest reward.
But this—this was strangely different from anything he’d experienced before.
While trying to figure out what made it so unusual, he noticed a change in the woman before him. Her cheeks turned a very light, almost unnoticeable shade of pink, her eyes darkened as the black centers expanded, and her lips grew softer in the moment right before she pressed them together and tugged her hand free from his.
“You are not supposed to be here,” she stated in an even but decidedly stern tone. “It is time you left.”
She was attracted to him as well. And it worried her.
That knowledge caused another flare of the heat inside him. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to stay in that dim, quiet room with her, surrounded by the musty smell of books and her sweet honeysuckle scent. Taking a step back, he flashed her a winning smile. “Certainly, tesoro mio. But before I go, I wonder if I might borrow a book from your collection here. Som
ething to ease me into slumber.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re just now heading to your bed?”
“I sometimes struggle with insomnia,” he replied lightly, not wanting to admit he’d just spent several hours reading alone in the library. It would make his request for a book sound suspicious when he really was interested in reading something of hers. “Just one book, then I’ll leave you to your work.” He smiled smoothly. “I promise.”
Her gaze paused on his and again he got the sense she was feeling something other than the mild annoyance she’d occasionally demonstrated since his appearance in her inner sanctum.
Then she gave a careless wave of her hand and returned her attention to her work. “You may choose one book. But you must return it once you’ve finished with it. I cannot have a single volume go missing. The content is far too precious.”
A perfect excuse for him to return to this intriguing lair of hers.
He concealed his pleasure by starting in a slow stroll around her little study, glancing here and there at different stacks of books as he passed. He saw a significant number of titles dedicated to the topics of history, animal husbandry, agriculture, and politics. There were also more obscure studies of inventive machinery and wartime strategies and more than a few titles devoted to the advancement of ancient medical practices in rural areas.
After several minutes of diligently perusing her collection in an attempt to delay his departure, he glanced over his shoulder to see her seated at her desk, bent over a book as she furiously scribbled on the paper beside it.
She had completely forgotten he was there.
Chapter Seven
Desdemona jotted down the details of a contradictory report she’d just come across and made a mental note to recheck her prior source to see if there was an explanation for the discrepancy. As she reached for a fresh sheet of paper, she slid a quick glance across the room.
He was still there.
It made her nervous. In a thrilling, leave-her-completely-off-balance sort of way.
She should have shooed him from her private apartments as soon as she’d looked up to see his sensually smiling lips and striking gaze. Ridiculous, but it had honestly felt like her heart had skipped a beat at the sight of him.
Count Vittori was wild, rakish, and scandalous in every way a man could be. Even if she hadn’t read about him for years in the gossip pages, she would have known it the moment she’d met him on the moors. His presence was too electric and intimate for a proper gentleman.
He was dangerous. And he was currently wandering about her study as if he belonged there.
Covertly watching him in her personal space—amongst her personal things—was extremely disconcerting. But not nearly as disconcerting as the possibility that he actually might want to seduce her.
She recalled the moment she’d suspected that was his intention with a rush of tingling heat. He’d replied to her inquiry with a teasing response, but she suspected it would take very little effort on his part if seduction was his true intention.
She was probably half-seduced already.
She liked the way he smiled at her and the way he looked at her as if she were a question he was determined to find the answer to. That searching intensity in his eyes stirred something deep inside her, warming her belly and quickening her pulse. His sensuality was simply too potent. It was evident in his heavy-lidded gaze and the flirtatious, irreverent curve of his lips, in the smooth rhythm of his movements and the richness of his voice. She felt it in every breath she took. It seeped through her skin.
And frankly, she wanted more of it.
Though she had very little experience with men in general and absolutely no experience with a man like Vittori, Desdemona was not completely ignorant of such things. Her years of reading the personal diaries of her many ancestors allowed her a unique perspective on how lust and intimate passions could be aroused in a person. Certainly, enough for her to understand that what she was experiencing in reaction to the sophisticated and handsome Count Vittori was desire.
She watched him lean forward to examine a row of books on her corner bookcase. He had his back to her as he perused the slim volumes, allowing her the opportunity to admire the strong width of his shoulders beneath the evening coat he still wore. She noted the length and musculature of his limbs and then found herself studying the way his black hair brushed in haphazard fashion over his ears and stiff white collar.
He was a seamless blend of elegance and brazen disregard, suggesting he knew all the rules the world employed, but simply chose not to follow them.
Dangerous.
As he reached forward to withdraw a book from the shelf, Desdemona returned her attention to the notes in front of her. But she couldn’t read a single thing she’d written as she listened to him quietly turning pages. When he made a low humming sound in the back of his throat, her nape tingled. Glancing up, she saw him sitting on the arm of her reading chair, one strong leg braced firmly on the floor, a slim volume open in his large hand as he read a passage.
She recognized the book immediately—the journal of Lady Anne Hathebury, sister to Desdemona’s great-great-great-grandmother. It didn’t surprise her in the slightest that he would manage to locate the most salacious journal of her collection.
Pausing in his reading, he slid her a sideways glance filled with the suggestion of sinful thoughts. “Tesoro mio,” he said, the Italian words sounding exceptionally rich and velvety in his low voice, “tell me you have not read this.”
Desdemona tilted her head. If he thought to embarrass her, it wasn’t going to work. “I’ve read all of these books. Some of them several times.”
Something flickered in his light eyes, making her thigh muscles tense. He lifted the book in his hand in a small gesture as he asked, “This one? Have you read this lady’s wicked accounts more than once?”
She understood his incredulity. It was not exactly the type of reading a young woman was typically allowed to absorb. But it had been a very long time since anyone had been around to tell Desdemona what she could or couldn’t do. She lifted her brows in a subtle challenge. “Lady Anne’s life was scandalous at times, but the woman also endured great tragedies and triumphs. Her story is about far more than her sensual experiences.”
His eyebrows lowered over his gaze as he stared intently across the room at her. There was something in his expression she hadn’t detected in him before. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it caused her belly to flutter and stalled her breath.
Clearing her throat, she added. “However, considering the often...stimulating content of her writing, it may not be the best material for someone to read when they are trying to get to sleep.”
His chuckle was warm and rich and the effect of it was a visceral thing that rolled through her senses and settled with a warm pulse between her thighs. The near-predatory flash of his teeth sent a zing of sensation to that same low spot. “I suspect I’ll be able to handle it,” he answered smoothly.
“I suspect you will,” she replied, nearly blushing at the tremor in her voice.
He rose to his feet. Keeping his intent gaze locked with hers, he offered an elegant bow. “Thank you for the loan, Miss Littlefield. I will see you tonight at dinner?”
Desdemona nodded. “I assume so.”
With another quick smile, he strode from the room.
After he left, she made an honest effort at returning to her work, but her thoughts were too scattered and disorganized. She kept thinking about what Vittori was reading while he sat alone in his bedroom.
There was a great deal more to Lady Anne than her bedroom activities, but the rather tragic turns in her life only made the pleasure she sought so much more poignant in contrast. Her story was stirring in more ways than one, but the only parts Desdemona seemed capable of recalling in detail that morning were the explicit passages detailing the lady’s experiences with her many lovers.
Finally realizing she wasn’t likely to get much done in her
current state of mind, Desdemona slipped on her walking boots and enfolded herself in her father’s old coat before collecting Jack and Simon to head out on their walk despite the rain that continued to fall in a steady pattern.
Chapter Eight
“You may as well tell me,” Leander suggested in a careless drawl.
Isabelle turned toward him with a bright and entirely false smile. They stood in front of the fireplace in the red drawing room, where everyone had gathered after dinner. “Whatever are you talking about?”
Leander ignored her attempt at prevarication as he drank his wine.
Over the last few days it had become obvious that this trip to Staffordshire had not been organized on a whim. That the party’s numbers evened out perfectly with the inclusion of Miss Littlefield proved that Isabelle had planned the party with the young woman’s attendance in mind, which would not have been unusual in most scenarios, but Isabelle had never before even mentioned her sister-in-law’s existence. And though Leander found himself charmed by Miss Littlefield’s lack of social polish, such unworldliness would typically inspire Isabelle’s scorn, yet his stepsister had been fawning over the younger woman since her arrival.
Keeping his tone light and casual, he arched an eyebrow. “I’m curious. What do want with her?”
Isabelle’s eyes widened and her lips pursed as though withholding a smile. “Nothing. I just think it is long past time the poor dear experienced a little excitement. I cannot imagine how dull her life must be, stuck out here all alone.”
Leander almost argued that the young woman was likely to be far more content in her life than anyone else in this room. He glanced over to where she was seated in the center of a narrow settee.
To her left was one of the most skilled speakers in the House of Lords who was also the largest benefactor of an exclusive and specialized pleasure house. To her right sat Baron Tyrell and perched over his shoulder was his wife, who was leaning forward to whisper something in the baron’s ear. And never far away was Lord Rutledge, who stood over the group and smiled craftily at the young lady in the center with a gaze that was disturbingly possessive.
