Chapter Nine

D o you have family besides those at the shop?" the duke asked.

It had been like this for the last hour. Holland asking questions while stacking books in the piles to which she pointed and guessing but failing to discern her organizational system.

With the fire burning merrily in the grate, the library felt cozy and private, like their own little world. It hadn't taken long for Caro's initial nerves to settle and the conversation to flow more naturally.

"My father is still alive, but as he's disowned me, I no longer claim him as family either."

He froze, with his hand clutching a book over a stack. "Disowned you? What kind of father disowns his own daughter, and how mad must he be to not look at you and burst with pride? You're intelligent, beautiful, well-spoken. What's wrong with him?"

Hearing him describe and defend her in such a way made Caro smile, and she felt a tiny part of her tumble toward something sweeter than lust. "Not that stack. One pile over."

He obeyed without complaint.

"To answer your question, my father has always had very strong ideas of right and wrong, good and bad. There is no middle ground with him. Ever. No compromises, no negotiations. As a vicar, that particular trait has ensured he always sounds confident while speaking."

"I don't think pigheadedness is an admirable trait in anyone, especially a clergyman," he grumbled. "Dare I ask what happened to make him cast you out?"

Despite the warmth of the fire, a chill rolled over Caro, and she turned from him to grab the next book from the shelf. "I'd rather not say. Not right now, anyway. The bare details are that I went to town one day and returned to find him nearly frothing at the mouth with rage and refusing to allow me entry to my home. I lost everything but what I had on my person at that moment."

His face looked thunderous, and wherever her father was, she hoped he felt an inexplicable wave of foreboding threaten him. Holland appeared ready to wreak havoc on her behalf.

"What about your mother?"

Caro offered a tight smile. "Died in labor when I was young. The baby didn't make it either."

He stepped close, studying her face with so much empathy her heart ached at the knowledge that he'd suffered loss too.

"It was a long time ago," she began but stopped when he cupped her cheek in his warm palm.

"Just this morning I was pondering how different life would be if my father were still alive. I wish he were here to guide me. I miss him," he said, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone.

The admission made way for her to share as well. "I miss her. Unfortunately, Father wasn't kinder to his wife than he was to his daughter. Part of me is also glad she's away from him."

Holland nodded in understanding, then dropped a soft kiss on her cheek where his thumb had caressed her. Not the first kiss of the day. Through some kind of mutual but silent agreement, they'd avoided the sort of embrace they'd enjoyed in front of the shop. Instead, today had been a study in kisses. Short kisses, light kisses. Teasing nips and an occasional brief, passionate embrace that brought every ounce of longing to the fore. Every time, Holland pulled back before the situation escalated.

It all seemed deliberately designed to build familiarity and comfort between them. Caro had to admit it was working. She'd caught him flexing and clenching his hands several times, as if consciously reining himself in from pinning her to the nearest bookcase and ravishing her.

She was confident it would be a bookcase. Though he'd been eying the tall, sturdy wood structures as well as the velvet lounge since she'd arrived, the bookcases were closer.

That restraint, combined with steady but undemanding affection, meant her skin was alive with awareness, aching in a way it never had before. Eventually, the duke's iron control would snap, and she could hardly wait. Anticipating that moment acted as an antidote to the melancholy their conversation might have otherwise inspired. Until then, they'd talk.

Holland pulled away and busied himself with tidying the closest pile of books—one of five intended for their lending library, not private sale. "Was that when you came to London? After he threw his fit?"

Caro smirked. "I appreciate that you make him sound like a child throwing a tantrum. Thankfully, I had a small sum of money in my pocket. It was enough to pay for various rides that got me closer to London. I knew if I could just get to Martin House, then I might have a safe place."

Dorian cleared his throat. "What you did was incredibly brave. Hell, surviving childhood with a sanctimonious bully for a father is remarkable too. But a woman traveling alone for such a distance? I think there's a lot you're not telling me about your journey. Perhaps you'll share more about that someday."

She liked the idea that they might have a "someday." A future, although what that looked like, she had no idea.

The book in her hands would be of interest to three collectors in her records, so Caro made a note of it on her growing list. The one to offer the highest price would take it home. Perhaps highly sought-after titles like this one could be included in some sort of mail-in auction. The logistics of how to make that work made her brain hurt, but she'd ask her uncle what he thought of the idea.

As she turned over the volume, two folded papers drifted from the pages. Slowly, she bent and plucked them from where they'd landed against her dirty hem. "These are yours, I believe." Caro held out the letters, watching as he unfolded and read them.

The last time she'd found one of these letters to the late duchess, seeing it had nearly brought him to his knees with grief. Despite her growing closeness with Holland, she felt no more equipped to deal with a similar situation now than she had that day.

Yet, other than a tightening around his mouth and a deepening furrow between those dark eyebrows, Holland didn't seem as affected. She wanted to ask why, to understand the difference between that first letter and these, but her tongue wouldn't loosen to form the question. Asking about his wife and the pain of losing her seemed like a far more personal question than was appropriate for their level of intimacy.

"I apologize if these letters cause you pain, Your Grace."

Holland refolded the papers into tidy rectangles and shoved them in his pocket. He appeared to search for the right words before he answered. "The last one took me by surprise. I know I've already said so, but I'm sorry you had to witness that."

Caro shook her head. "Never apologize to me for having emotions, no matter how strong. Although I understand it can be uncomfortable when others are around to see those moments. Being a vicar's daughter meant everyone was watching me, expecting me to be perfect. The villagers and Father believed he had his position because he'd been chosen by God. By extension, I was held to an impossible standard as well. I imagine a man in your position would know a thing or two about that." She gave him the book where the letters had been hidden, gesturing toward a smaller pile on his left.

Holland offered a crooked smile that was more a quirk of the lips than a real expression of humor. "Everyone feels entitled to an opinion about my actions."

Caro shrugged. "I don't. And these days, I do my best to escape notice of anyone who would think to judge me. In fact, if I have my way, I'll eventually live far from prying eyes and never suffer anyone's scrutiny, no matter what I do. I could lounge about in my garden utterly naked if I wished, and no one would say a thing."

His smile transformed to a grin. "Are you prone to prancing naked in your garden? Feel free to summon me next time you have the urge. I'd like to see that."

She laughed and nudged his arm with her shoulder. "Number one, I have no garden. And number two, I said lounge, not prance. It's the principle of the idea, and you know it."

Holland slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Don't dash my hopes like that, Miss Danvers. I'd much rather cling to my version." His lips were soft when they met hers, but he didn't linger long. "I have a garden," he said against her mouth, then nibbled her bottom lip as she laughed.

"You're incorrigible."

"Am I? Or am I a man walking the fine line between desperately wanting to taste you properly and trying to respect your need to work? Perhaps I'm trying to help instead of becoming a distraction, in hopes of being invited to assist you again." With every word, he placed a soft kiss along her jaw, then down her neck, lingering as he drew closer to the edge of her gown. Ripples of sensation shot straight to the desire that had been simmering below her navel.

Holland paused and shot an annoyed look at the stacks of books. "Even though I can't understand your sorting system."

It felt like the most natural thing in the world to laugh and thread her fingers through his brown waves. Satisfaction roared through her when the hair didn't fall obediently back in place. She'd finally mussed him, and it made her want to ruffle him more.

"Did you know," he said conversationally against the column of her neck, "when you wear fichus like these that don't let me peek at your skin through them, it annoys me?"

Her thighs trembled as his teeth grazed where her neck and shoulder met. "Does it? I didn't know you held such strong opinions regarding my wardrobe."

In answer, he muttered an oath and plucked the offensive—but warm, thank you—fabric from the gown's neckline, and she laughed. The sound turned to a moan when his tongue dipped into the crevice of her cleavage.

"I've instructed the servants to leave you to your work, but I know my mother is home." Regret and frustration colored his tone. "We'll have to content ourselves with kisses. But for your information, I've spent a disgraceful amount of time imagining these breasts. I hope to see them someday."

Another mention of someday. Caro tugged his hair until he met her gaze. "I rather like the idea of you thinking disgraceful thoughts about me, Your Grace." She couldn't contain a giggle. "Pardon the awful pun, but I just couldn't help myself."

His grin turned wolfish when he backed her against the bookcase, as she'd predicted. Kissing her in a way that made her feel as if she were the most desired woman who'd ever lived, Holland explored her curves through the heavy wool of her gown.

And for a moment, Caro let herself believe they were in a world of their own, where no one was watching.