“I wouldn’t have thought you were the sort to enjoy Byron,” he said.
“I don’t,” she replied. “Not really—but he is discussed so often I thought I should at least form an opinion of his latest.” Why had she told him that? She didn’t care for his opinion of her.
And yet his smile of approval warmed her, like the sun emerging from behind the clouds. She felt her cheeks heating at the realization, and hoped that the interior of the shop was dim enough to hide it from his view.
By the ever-widening grin he gave, she guessed that it had not. She closed her eyes, only just holding in a groan of mortification. Something touched her ear—his gloved hand, tucking that stray curl back behind it. She felt the shock of that small touch all the way to her toes, which tingled in her shoes.
“Your Grace,” she protested, skittering back a step. “This is…entirely inappropriate.”
“It’s a public shop,” he said. “You are in no danger from me.”
But she was. If a simple touch could so rattle her, she was most certainly in danger. When he looked at her in that way, as if he could see every single longing she had kept sealed within her heart, all she could think of was how very soft his lips looked, what it would feel like if he kissed her. She was certain she’d gone at least a shade redder.
“My…my maid. She will be waiting for me.” The words sounded just as unsettled as she felt.
“Then you must return to her, of course,” he said. And after a long, tense moment of silence, where she could not quite make her feet move her away from him, he asked, “I suppose you will be in attendance at Lady Lennox’s ball on Friday?”
She nodded, alarmed by the way her heart had leapt in eagerness.
“Will you save a waltz for me?” he asked.
“Yes,” she heard herself answer breathlessly, like a silly young girl. “I mean, no. No, I—I don’t know.” And then, spurred by the amusement sparking in his eyes, she whirled with a dismayed gasp, and fled.

∞∞∞

She’d scurried away like a timid little mouse, abandoning The Corsair on a dusty shelf as she did. He’d smothered his amusement lest she think he had been mocking her, but he was pleased by her reaction—he would have sworn she was far too dignified to blush like a girl fresh from the school room. But blush she had, wildly, as if just the touch of his fingers to the soft skin just behind her ear had provoke all sorts of wicked thoughts.
He wondered absently what a woman like her would even know of wickedness. Surely if there had been even a hint of impropriety about her she would never be accepted in London. But she wasn’t an empty-headed young girl; she was a woman grown, and most of her friends were matrons. Surely they had nattered to her about their marriages, whispered secrets of what sort of pleasures—or lack thereof, given his understanding of men’s attitudes toward their wives—awaited there.
What, precisely, had crossed her mind in that moment where her face had flooded scarlet? He would have given his right arm to find out.
His brow furrowed as he became discomfited by the realization that the desire to know had nothing at all to do with his plans for her. Despite his scheme, he was beginning to suspect that his interest in her was something less than contrived—that, had none of this wretched business with her brother ever come to pass and he had simply seen her in a ballroom or at some other society function, she might very well have captured it all on her own.