“Brandy.” She was in need of something to regain her equilibrium after unveiling herself. She heard the clatter of decanters and glasses being shifted around, had noted the well-appointed marble sideboard with its mahogany hutch when they’d come into the room. Several seating areas adorned the space, for those who might want to watch a game at play. The scent of cigars hovered on the air, and she imagined ladies sitting around, puffing on the horrid things, sipping scotch, lounging back in the plush chairs, legs crossed in a rarified exhibition of rebelliousness, acting as they imagined men did when they retreated to their male-dominated dominion after dinner.

He could have decorated the room in pink, with flounces on the curtains, with delicate flowers rather than the plain green fronds adorning the area. Instead Aiden Trewlove had given the ladies a room where they could feel equal to men. She could not help but imagine he would offer the same courtesy in the bedchamber.

Perhaps that was the real reason she’d removed the mask. Because she wanted to come to him as equally as possible, in a place where neither rank nor title mattered. He knew she was a duchess and yet he wasn’t the least bit intimidated. Cared not one whit that fate had propelled her nearly to the ceiling of the social order while he was not even within shouting distance of it.

Speaking of ceilings, this one was painted with hunting scenes. Amid hounds, foxes, and forests, ladies wearing trousers and red jackets sat astride their mounts. Even in the décor, he gave women their due. He was a man of rare enlightenment.

She hadn’t heard him approach, but suddenly a snifter appeared before her. Cradling it in one hand, she took a sip, relishing the burn as she trailed her finger along the spine of On the Origin of Species. “You seem to favor nonfiction.”

“I like reading what I know to be true and real.”

“Fiction can be both.” She looked askance at him. “Or so my sister would argue. She forever has her nose buried in a book.”

“You have a sister?”

She was rather pleased he’d chosen to question that particular portion of what she’d revealed, to take an interest in her family, even though she knew danger resided in his doing so. Yet none of the swains before her marriage had ever spoken of anything other than themselves or her possible role in their lives. “Three. Alice is the youngest. Sixteen. She became a voracious reader after our parents died eight years ago. I rather think she was searching for an escape, and she found it in stories.”

“How did they die? Your parents?”