by Jenn LeBlanc
Her feet stuttered. She wasn’t sure whether to run straightaway, or thank him profusely first. She finally decided she ought to express her gratitude, lest he regret the decision. “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll see to it immediately.”
“Mrs. Weston,” he said, catching her before she could leave.
“Yes, Your Grace?” She turned back nervously.
“I will not find a nightgown-clad girl in any of the common areas of Eildon Manor. She is not to think that she can traipse around here simply because I allowed this one excursion. She should collect enough books to keep herself occupied. For a while.”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” she said as she scurried for the door.
Francine was still daydreaming when Mrs. Weston entered the private parlor. “Oh, Miss Francine, come. We’ve not much time, come, come!” Francine stood and Mrs. Weston shuffled her out of the room.
Francine panicked and turned away, but Mrs. Weston simply grasped her wrist and pulled her down the stairs, looking around as if to ensure they were alone. “His Grace said I can take you to the library. Come, we’ve only got one hour, miss.”
Francine heard the words and stopped fighting Mrs. Weston, instead running down ahead of her. When she reached the bottom she looked at the circle of doors she was met with, wondering which was the library. Mrs. Weston caught up to her and took her hand.
“This way,” she said.
At the first door Francine halted, pulling Mrs. Weston back. Her gaze drifted toward it as she rested a hand on the seam of the double door. Mrs. Weston went pale.
“Oh, miss, no. That’s his study. His Grace is in there. Come away, please!” she whispered violently.
Francine looked at the door, hearing the panic in Mrs. Weston’s voice. She couldn’t help herself, though, she felt— What did she feel? She felt something, a connection, the feeling of him holding her as she collapsed, the shock of his hard muscles against her, the tremble of his voice against her body. She quietly exhaled, placing both hands against the door, listening.
Mrs. Weston grabbed her forearm and pulled her away and into the library, shutting the doors solidly. She peered through the crack between the double doors before she turned on Francine.
“Look here, miss! I took a great risk to even ask this favor for you, and you need to heed my warnings! Please don’t tempt him. He’s in an awful state, one you cannot imagine.”
Francine turned to Mrs. Weston and placed her fist against her chest, sweeping it in a circle around her heart before looking back to the room. If she couldn’t speak, she would sign, and they would learn.
Tall bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling on two levels. Francine marveled at the collection, though she supposed if she lived in the middle of nowhere she might have such a wonderful library as well. She scanned the bookshelves, trying to determine the organization. She came upon a set of shelves with Byron, Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, and Thackeray.
She had become used to searching titles on the Denver Public Library website, checking them out and downloading them to her ebook reader. She pulled a well-worn book off one shelf and smoothed her hand over the leather cover. She had forgotten what the weight of a book felt like, the smell of the fiber, the turn of the page. She smiled broadly and replaced it.
She pulled several familiar titles from the shelf and handed them off to Mrs. Weston, then reached for more. The Taming of the Shrew, Vanity Fair, The Book of the Duchess, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, The Charge of the Light Brigade, Moby Dick, Candide.
She opened the covers of first editions with personal inscriptions written by the authors. She added to her giant stack and roamed farther into the library. Then she saw it, up high on a shelf: Madame Bovary. She smiled, climbing the bookshelves to reach it.
“Miss Francine! You cannot do that! There’s a ladder!”
Francine clutched the book and fell back to the floor with a quiet thud, then turned apologetically to Mrs. Weston who tugged on her sleeve, begging her to follow. “Come, miss, this must be enough for now. We need get back upstairs.” Francine nodded and followed. They ascended the stairs quickly, Francine staring at the books in her arms, smiling. As they reached the top of the staircase Mrs. Weston pushed Francine into the private parlor.
Francine grinned from ear to ear as she sank into the settee and spilled books all around her. She looked back to the door, expecting to see Mrs. Weston right behind her, but instead she heard him. He was close. She tiptoed to the doorway as quickly as she could, peering through the crack behind the door to see him inspecting the books in Mrs. Weston’s arms.
“I assume the outing was successful?” the duke asked.
“Yes, Your Grace. She seemed quite satisfied.”
He looked at her armload and picked a couple of books off the top. “Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights.” He grunted, then picked up the third book. “The Divine Comedy?”
Francine took the opportunity to appraise him. He wore dark grey trousers that strapped around his shoes, creating a sharp line to his leg; a crisp white shirt; a rumpled neck cloth; and a black waistcoat. The muscles of his thighs strained the fabric of his trousers, and as he leaned forward—reading the titles of the books—a lock of hair fell across his forehead, begging her to smooth it back.
He glanced toward the doorway and she jerked back and held her breath, feeling his gaze sweep the opening before refocusing on Mrs. Weston. He placed the books back on the stack and turned on his heel.
“Thank you again, Your Grace,” Mrs. Weston called after him.
The duke simply waved a hand behind his head at her thanks and ducked swiftly through a doorway. As he walked away Francine marveled at the cocky way he didn’t turn back. The only word that came to mind was dashing. No—stunning. Mrs. Weston, on the other hand, appeared frazzled.
Francine walked back to the settee and started organizing the books on the table, trying to calm her speeding heart rate.
“Miss, I have to see that supper is started. Will you be all right?” Mrs. Weston asked as she made her way over and put the books down.
Francine nodded and sat back, examining her treasure. She giggled and felt her throat catch slightly, then lifted a hand to massage it. She carefully rearranged the order with the addition of the new books, deciding to start with Vanity Fair since she had meant to reread that book ever since the movie came out.
She set Madame Bovary aside; she would read that one later. She suddenly realized she had been quite lucky to have had that particular novel in her stack instead of Mrs. Weston. If the duke had seen Madame Bovary she would have died of embarrassment. She sighed and looked out over the gardens before settling back to start reading.
She was disappearing into Vanity Fair when she heard it: the steady, powerful hoof-beats of the beautiful black horse and the infuriating—and striking—rider he carried. She stood and walked to the French doors, placing her hands lightly on the handles.
She wouldn’t go outside—there was no way she would test the duke’s patience again—but she did open the door a smidge to let the air in. He soon disappeared into the trees and she threw the door wide to feel the spring breeze before going back to her book. She needed someone else’s conflict to occupy her mind for a while.
Roxleigh rode for the clearing. He wasn’t getting any work done with her around. Today was the first time he’d ever used the passages for a nefarious purpose. He’d watched her in his library. She knew the titles, clapping her hands and pulling the books off the shelves to add to her stack.
He watched her read the pages, inspecting the personal inscriptions that were written to his father, grandsire, mother, grandmother, and others, delicately running her fingers over the pages as if each one was a precious treasure. He’d wondered what it felt like to be those pages, handled so delicately and with such care, then realized with his recent behavior that she might actually be wondering which circle of hell she
found herself to be dwelling in here, at his manor.
He exhaled sharply as he entered the clearing. He truly needed to find some measure of calm. He was scaring the wits out of Mrs. Weston; he could see it in her eyes. He was ashamed by his behavior as of late, but he didn’t know how to be around this woman. He climbed up on his rock and sat down, high and away from the water’s edge.
All he could think about was the day she’d arrived. He’d cut her dress and corset loose and managed to revive her somewhat. Then he’d carried her from the edge of the clearing up to the manor and to the guest suite. He’d stayed with her, removing the remaining tatters of her bright satin dress while Mrs. Weston sent for the doctor and gathered supplies.
He’d watched her closely, trying to bring her around with gentle hands. He’d loosed her hair and tried to smooth the brambles from it. He’d massaged her back in slow gaining circles to calm her speeding heartbeat. Finally when her eyelashes fluttered, he’d soothed her with hushed words, caressing her face and her hair. When the doctor arrived and she began to come around in earnest, he’d reluctantly stepped out.
He didn’t go far, pacing the hallway outside the room nervously until Mrs. Weston came out bearing news. He’d felt an extreme flood of concern for her, unlike he had for anyone before that day, but when he came back into the room and she was railing about being kidnapped and mistreated and him, he’d lost his wits.
Roxleigh shook his head, laying on the rock with his knees bent, his boots flat, well above the gently breaking water of the pond. He listened to Samson’s quiet huffing and snickering as he grazed nearby, the sun warm and welcoming. He was tempted to slumber, but knew he needed to return to the manor. It was getting late, and he was exhausted from his sleepless nights, thick with dreams.
Dr. Walcott had departed the duke’s manor only to be caught by a messenger with a dispatch from Kelso. A town smaller than Roxleighshire by half, Kelso was a little more than an hour south by carriage.
He examined the girl as soon as he arrived. She looked like she had been flung about the woods like a rag doll. The visible damage was so extensive he had no idea where to begin, or where the injuries might end.
He finally decided the proper course was to clean the wounds as best as he was able, putting salve on and wrapping them up to protect them from air. If they were allowed to dry they would crack when she moved, causing her such a fright of pain she wouldn’t survive. Sighing, he realized she might not make it regardless.
The girl’s face was practically unrecognizable, but everyone here knew who she was and her parents were waiting just outside. Her mother was in such a state that Dr. Walcott gave her some laudanum to ease her so he could deal with Lilly. He motioned for the two girls at the door and quietly sent them for fresh linens, shears, and kettles of hot water. He rolled up his sleeves and settled in for a long night.
Roxleigh returned to the manor and vaulted up the stairs, energized from his ride. He paused on the landing to examine the chandelier, its lowest point at a height just above his head. He liked to watch as the sun set, sending shafts of light toward the crystals, painting the entry in rainbows of shattered light. The back of the manor faced west, the high windows above the private parlor allowing the setting sun to reach the chandelier.
At this time of year the light show went much unnoticed, as it happened just when everyone was preparing for supper. During the summer months the show would greet the guests arriving for suppers and balls, and in the winter months it warmed the occupants who were shut in from the cold.
Roxleigh turned and walked into his suite. A slipper tub steamed in front of the fire. His evening wear was laid out carefully, his robe on the settee next to the bath.
Ferry entered the room as Roxleigh started to remove his shirt, jerking it from his riding breeches and stretching as he pulled it over his head.
“I will take supper here, Ferry,” Roxleigh said quietly. “Have a tray sent up.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Do you require further assistance?”
Roxleigh stilled. He knew he was acting peculiar as of late and Ferry was not one to comment, but Roxleigh could see concern in his eyes and heard it in the way he spoke.
He shook his head and finished undressing. “No, Ferry, that will be all.”
The valet bowed and disappeared.
Roxleigh’s suite of rooms was much like the main guest suite, mirrored on the opposite side of the great entrance, but his suite was nearly twice the size of the other. He dropped his clothes where he stood and walked to the tub, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. He sank in, the steaming water washing over his aching muscles as he groaned and leaned back, resting his head on the edge. For the first time in several days, he started to relax as his mind drifted.
The only thing in attendance in his mind was her.
Gideon took himself in hand—and not at all gently. His tension mounted every time he thought on the girl in his manor. Francine. He had done his best to avoid her, and the fact that she was unable to wander from her rooms and the private parlor certainly helped in that endeavor.
Nonetheless, he found himself searching her out in the depths of the first floor balconies whenever he left his study, or walked the stairs, or went to the dining room. She had touched a nerve in him he never knew existed, and he was having a most difficult time in quelling his rampant need.
There was more. Certainly his cock twitched whenever he thought of her, but there was a knot in his chest where she was concerned as well. His position in the peerage, and her status as an unknown, drove him like nothing had in all his years as the Duke of Roxleigh.
He shifted in the bath. Water hit his chest like a waking slap and he released himself. What was he doing?
Bloody hell and damn. He finished the bath and toweled himself off, then wrapped it around his waist. Standing by the fire, he felt the heat singe the hair on his shins, the crackle dissipating his reverie and backing him up against the chaise. He fell into it, the towel falling open as he stretched out long, his ankles hanging from the end. He threw one arm over his eyes.
“Supper, Your Grace,” Ferry said as he entered with a tray. Roxleigh couldn’t even be troubled to grunt a response. Instead he left Ferry to his duty, listening to his footsteps slide across the floor, then become muffled by the rug. The delicate clink of china followed as he arranged the tray in front of the fire before leaving the way he came.
Roxleigh glanced at the tray and saw a missive set by the terrine of soup. He closed his eyes and returned to his thoughts.
Better not to think of her by name. Instead she would be this girl. This unwanted bit of distraction. That was what she was, that was how he had to think of her. No more, no less. She would be gone from his life soon enough, with all of her spit and fire with her.
He thought of the shock of her pulled up against him, neck to knee. Her indecision as her hands drifted between them, unsure whether to touch his chest or curl her fingers in retreat. He remembered the fight in her eyes, stolen by shock when she turned and glimpsed herself in the looking glass. He would have it destroyed. She had been moments from deciding to set him down good and proper, he was sure of it, and nothing in his life had stoked his passion as the anticipation of that set-down.
He felt his grin against his arm. This girl, this girl. God help him with this girl. How was he to survive in his own household? Part of him wanted to catch her somewhere she should not be, only for the chance to reprimand her, to see if he could get her to fight him again.
He growled. Picking fights with a girl? What was he, still in short pants? But she wasn’t a girl; she was a woman, and he a man. One leg slipped off the chaise and he anchored himself, planting his foot on the floor next to him.
The fire warmed and dried his skin from the bath, and he felt it soak in through his inner thighs and up though his groin. He really should move. He really should eat his supper. He really should read the letter. At the very least he should cover himself like a proper gentleman i
nstead of laying here in his glory for all his furnishings to see.
He grunted.
His jaw clenched.
He took himself in hand. This time, a bit gentler. His thumb notched the base of his manhood and he palmed himself in one long stroke. He smoothed his hand down, then back up again, and he spread his legs wider, pushing into the floor as his thighs tensed.
Her hair was the color of toasted butter and cinnamon, her eyes the varied colors of the sky, and her demeanor was just as changing. He’d felt her watching him ride across the valley to the wood, each of his nerves striking the hairs on the back of his neck as it took all of his concentration to stay his course and not turn toward her. The launch into the thick forest was a release as much as it was a disappointment to no longer feel her awareness prickling his skin.
When he returned to the manor to find her on the balcony, her breasts straining the fabric of her nightgown, the garment pulled tight as she leaned into the wind above him, he nearly lost himself on his mount.
He pulled at the favorite memory, his stomach dampening with the early proof of his desire as he shifted and strengthened his grip.
His other hand found the towel half beneath him and tangled in it, pulling and grabbing the soft fabric until the muscles of his arm strained.
“Francine.”
He gasped at the rough gritty edge to his own voice and pushed his head against the cushions, his back bowing out from the seat.
Sweet Francine. Her eyes were like windows to the world, lips as softly tinted as the blush on a rose. Her sweet, terrified face interchanged with that fierce vixen who prodded his chest, demanding to know who he was and how he was going to help set her to rights.
This was not normal. This should not be happening to him. This was something he should easily be able to avoid. His life was beyond controlled, ordered, set, decided, simple.
He felt the knot in his abdomen tighten, a frisson of electricity coursed down his spine, and every muscle stiffened, then release washed over him as his hand stroked feverishly, working to his end.
