Page 62 of The Lady Knows Best

Good with his hands . . .

It was a short jaunt from those mental images to the memory of his touch, the heat of those strong hands on her nape, her waist, her breast.

Good with his hands . . .

She swept a sweat-dampened palm down the front of her nightgown to quell a shudder of longing. Of course he was good with his hands. He was a rake, after all. She should be writing all this down, recording his own damning words about flirtation and the sorts of silly things he believed women liked to hear. Nonsense about being as beautiful and vibrant and sweet as a flower . . .

Where was her writing desk? She hadn’t seen it since their arrival. Probably, in the flurry of unpacking, someone had taken it to Bell’s or Lady Stalbridge’s room by mistake. No matter. She could retrieve it in the morning. But in the meantime . . .

She swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. Through a partly opened door, she’d glimpsed a library on the far side of the drawing room. Surely she would find paper and ink there. Perhaps even something more useful for her essay, letters or a diary or a record of his gambling debts. And barring that, she could at least find a book, anything to quiet this strange restlessness that had suffused her spirit.

On bare feet and by the light of a single candle, she padded along the corridor and down the stairs, stepping with comic quickness over the cold marble tile of the entry hall and more slowly over the drawing room’s plush wool carpet.

The door to the library had been designed to disappear when it was fully closed, as it was now, painted and trimmed so that it blended seamlessly with the wall around it. It took several moments for her to find the latch, and when she did, she wondered whether she mightn’t find it locked.

But it sprang open at her touch. Moonlight joined with her candle to reveal a modest-sized room, warmly furnished in darker, heavier pieces than the rest of the house. Two tall bookcases, filled with leather-bound volumes, stood opposite the door, with a window between them and a stately desk in front of it, facing into the room.

Ignoring everything else, she approached the bookshelves, intending to survey the titles. But when she reached the desk, she could not help but caress the cool, highly polished wood. The only items on its top were a silver tray containing pens and sealing wax, and a blotter that bore no mark of use, not a single scratch or drop of ink. Perhaps everything of any significance was tucked away from prying eyes. Perhaps he did his real work elsewhere, and the desk in the library was merely for show. Or perhaps he avoided the sort of work that required a desk entirely.

She slipped around the corner of the desk, set the candlestick on its top, and eased silently into the chair. If she was careful, she could explore without anyone being the wiser. With one trembling fingertip, she traced the brass fixtures, ornate scrolled faceplates and knobs and tiny keyholes. She might find any number of intriguing items in the desk’s myriad drawers and cubbyholes, things that would reveal much about the master of Lyneham Park. Things that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the thesis of her essay on rakes.

Things she was no longer certain she wanted to find.

What had happened to her over the last few days? She folded her arms on the desktop and dropped her forehead to them, resisting the impulse to thunk it down on the unforgiving wood instead.

Had Miss Busy B. lost her sting?

“Daphne?”

Popping up her head, she discovered Miles watching her from across the room, lounging against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

She jumped to her feet with such rapidity, she had to spin around to catch the chair before it fell and nearly knocked over her candlestick in the process.

“All right, then?” he asked, unfolding his arms and taking a step closer.

“Perfectly. That is, I . . . I couldn’t sleep.”

His eyes grazed over her, seeming to take in every detail of her dishabille, most particularly the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she tried to rein in her racing heart.

“Nor I,” he confessed with a boyish, self-deprecating smile that did nothing to aid her efforts. “I saw your light.”

She sidled around the corner of the desk and came to stand beside it, closer to one of the bookcases. “Were you also looking for something to read?”

“No.” Three steps closer, then he paused. “I fancied a walk.”

He was still dressed, she realized. Or mostly. His shirt was open at the collar, his cravat missing entirely. He was once more clad in the buckskin breeches, soft with wear, now paired with scuffed, slouching boots that would not require his valet’s assistance to doff. His only coat was his drab duster; someone had brushed the mud from the hem and carefully mended the torn sleeve.

“I would invite you to join me, but . . .” His gaze had fallen to her feet.

She crossed the ball of one foot over the toes of the other, though there was no disguising that they were bare. “Anyway, I’m not sure that would be wise.”

He shook his head in agreement, and the candlelight picked out glimmers of gold in his hair. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

Though she hadn’t felt cold, at his words, a shiver chased up her spine, betraying her.

Shrugging out of the duster, he came forward to drape it around her shoulders. “Better?”

Worse. So much worse. His scent rose from the fabric, so wonderfully, provocatively male.