Page 21 of Stolen By the Duke of Stone

Andrew still stood in the doorway, listening to her with an odd expression on his face. She swept past him, tugging him out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

“Come, Your Grace,” she said, grinning to herself. “If you’re not careful, we shall be late to dinner.”

The next time Andrew ventured into William’s room, he found the boy sleeping in his crib.

Jessamine must have immediately gone into her bedchamber, and so Andrew stood alone in the middle of the room. He’d heard the strains of her singing from below, and had thought to come and listen, but he’d just missed it.

At first, he hadn’t thought the singing would do much, especially in what sounded like a foreign tongue, but there could be no doubt the boy responded to it.

The herbs were back, too. Bunches of lavender and sage tied together, and something brown and almost bark-like in quality in a small pot. He’d tossed them away, and she had returned them to their place without consulting him, going so far as to tie the bunches of lavender and sage to the bars of the crib.

Andrew raised a brow, but rather than throw them away, he leaned in to examine them a little more closely. William slept soundly, and the soft fragrance of lavender surrounded him. For a moment, he was reminded of his mother. She had kept dried lavender in a pouch on her person, and whenever she had embraced him, he had smelled it.

A strange longing overcame him, and he moved away, banishing the feeling. This was not about his mother. But Jessamine clearly had a reason for putting the herbs there, and he could not believe it nefarious.

He slipped quietly from the room and went downstairs to the library, scouring the shelves until he finally found what he was looking for: a comprehensive collection of the natural herbal remedies of England. A book he suspected his mother had left there.

Sitting before the empty fireplace, ignoring his otherwise strict routine, he began to read.

Jessamine arched her back, exhausted, as she made her way through the house to the library. This was the one time of day, in late afternoon, when her time was wholly hers. Every day for the past three days, she came to the library—safe in the knowledge that Andrew did not spend these hours at home—and read a novel.

Not for long, of course. William required a great deal of care and intervention, and she refused to let others take over the role that ought to be hers. But just for a little while.

When she entered the library, however, she came up short. Andrew had not left the house, after all. No, he was sitting in an armchair, one ankle hooked over his knee, reading a book in his lap.

She hovered in the doorway, suddenly reluctant to relinquish her own routine. If she left now, what was she do to?

As though hearing the force of her thoughts, he glanced up and met her gaze.

Her stomach immediately squirmed. There was something about the sternness of his face when he looked at her that made her instincts kick in. Fight or flight.

When it came to Andrew, she so often chose fight. But there was something else under her skin, something even more terrifying than the anger and resentment.

When he looked at her in that way he had, it made her think of terrible things she ought never to. What it might feel like to have that strong, big body pressed against hers, his big hands on her face, her waist, his mouth on hers.

In her daydreams, though she resented herself for it, she found herself enjoying those moments.

“Jessamine,” he said. “I hadn’t expected to see you here.”

He half rose, closing the book he was reading. She caught a glimpse of a green illustration on the front, and her irritation dissolved into curiosity.

“What are you reading?”

“Oh, this?” He tucked the book out of sight. “Nothing in particular. Just whiling away time.”

“You usually go out during the afternoon.”

“I do,” he said, replacing the book carefully on the shelf. She made a careful note of where it was so she could find it later. “Today, I changed my mind.”

“Altering your routine?” She raised a brow at him. “How odd.”

“Yes, I realize it must be strange for you. But please, don’t let me get in the way of whatever you had intended to do. I would hate to intrude on your time.” He bowed slightly and moved as though he was about to leave.

For a reason she could not fathom, Jessamine placed a hand on his arm. “Shall we declare a truce?”

“A truce?” His brows came together as he looked down into her face.

There was something so forbidding about the severity of his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. He was a man carved as though from ice, with no softness to be seen, save for the occasional softness around his mouth and eyes when he looked at William.