Chapter Two

T hree pages," Hattie hissed from where she crouched beside a crate of books, reading a copy of her own. "Blanche Clementine has gone on for three pages about this man's hands. His hands . How special can a pair of hands be when they aren't even touching the heroine yet?" She widened her eyes comically, and Caro clearly heard everything she wasn't saying. What were you thinking, Caroline? Hands? Really? Is this what readers expect from one of your books?

If her cousin had any idea how compelling the inspiration had been for this last book, Hattie would be congratulating her on her restraint. As if summoned by her thoughts, a shadow fell over them, barely preceding a waft of bergamot that somehow wove its way through the scents of the fair.

A customer entered the small square of ice they'd claimed for store space. But not just any customer. The customer. The man who'd unwittingly inspired an entire erotic novel—one they'd already sold several copies of that day. Inking each sale with their hastily made PURCHASED ON THE RIVER THAMES stamp was the closest she'd ever come to signing her books, and it gave her a thrill each time.

In the middle of the booth, the Duke of Holland paused, backlit by the bright winter sunlight that did little to dispel the bitter cold. Caro forced a serene smile of greeting.

Although she couldn't see his face, she knew that silhouette well. In fact, her fingers had traced every line of his body through the medium of ink and pen, replaying the brief moment when he'd wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed her to him. Had she known how their encounter would linger in her mind, she'd have taken notes. As it was, her recollection of their time outside the bookshop was etched into her memory so deeply it played behind her eyes when she heard his voice.

Even if she hadn't been able to identify him by key landmarks like the straight line of his shoulders under his caped greatcoat, she would know it was him by the way every hair on her body seemed to stand at attention in his perfectly polished presence.

Each time she laid eyes on him, the urge to muss his pressed and starched edges grew. To run her fingers through his tamed waves and kiss him until his cravat was hopelessly rumpled. If ever there was a hero who needed a good unraveling, it was him.

Caro wasn't the only one to think so, as the gossip rags speculated with a wild sort of glee over whether London's most eligible widower would marry this next Season. No doubt women all over the country were preparing to dampen their petticoats and pinch their cheeks in hope of being lucky enough to do the honors.

According to the papers, close friends of the dowager duchess claimed he'd turned over the entire bride hunt to his mother. God help the debutantes this year. I wouldn't wish the dowager's critical eye on my worst enemy. She'd served his mother tea several times in the store, and the older woman would intimidate anyone. "Good afternoon, Your Grace. I hope you're enjoying the frost fair." Caro dipped a shallow curtsy as another man joined the duke.

Before he could answer, the man with him stumbled forward. As if watching the moment suspended in time, Caro reached out a hand to no avail and was left staring at her cousin. Behind the men, Constance stood with her mouth agape, gripping a small wood crate to her chest—presumably, the object responsible for shoving a grown man off his feet.

Like dominos, one man fell against the other, then tilted at an alarming angle until gravity won the battle and both tumbled to the ice in a heap of limbs and fine clothes that cost more than a year's income.

"Bloody hell, Connie, what have you done?" The exclamation escaped before Caro could call it back.

"I won the game of ice bowling for nobs, didn't I?" Constance joked weakly before the gravity of the situation hit her and she sobered. "I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen. Is anyone hurt?"

Caro desperately wished she could close her eyes and unsee the events of the last few seconds, or perhaps have the ice give way under her feet and sweep her away into the Thames. Not only had Connie just physically assaulted a duke and—judging by the clothes—another lord, but Caro had sworn in front of them.

He'd never return. They'd lose the patronage of their highest-ranking customer, and the considerable income he brought to the store. And it was all because Connie couldn't watch where she was going, and Caro's mouth had momentarily allowed her inner thoughts an outside voice. Damn it.

The duke met her eyes from where he lay sprawled half under his friend, and Caro clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle another curse. They were probably furious. Any second now, he'd erupt and they'd have an entirely deserved aristocratic tantrum on their hands.

Every time she'd seen him, her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she met those blue eyes, and today was no different.

Blue, serious, sometimes sad. Never laughing, and rarely relaxed.

Until now. Creases fanned from the corners of his eyes, and a huff of laughter broke the horrified silence in the booth. "We seem to struggle with gravity in each other's presence. Have you noticed?" he said, meeting her gaze and sending a riot of awareness frolicking through her blood. She couldn't help a smile at his jest. The moment didn't linger, because he elbowed his friend and said, "Oliver, you're heavy as an ox. Move."

For a man who was always so terribly perfectly turned out, the incongruity of his deliciously rough voice was enough to make it linger in her mind each time she saw him. A voice like that was made for whispering in the dark, not making polite conversation in ballrooms. Hearing it laced with humor made the expected flutter in her belly turn warm.

Later, she'd allow herself a moment to remember the feeling, that voice, and the lines framing his eyes when he smiled. There'd be extensive pondering of the rare sighting of a smiling Duke of Holland. But first, she needed to get him upright.

"Please let me help." Caro offered a hand to the duke's companion, since he was on top, but was waved away as he lumbered to his feet.

The duke's first attempt to stand resulted in one boot sliding in the wrong direction and his— rather spectacular, not that she'd spent considerable time staring at it— bum thumping back to the ice.

Despite the air being cold enough to freeze her eyelashes together, when His Grace accepted her outstretched hand, his leather-clad fingertips felt as if they'd leave a permanent imprint on her skin. Inside her gloves, Caro tingled at the contact with the same broad palms and strong, tapered fingers she'd written about.

If he'd spent time at his desk today, his gloves might be covering the one less-than-perfect part of him—the right pointer finger with its dark smudge of ink that sometimes lingered after hours of work doing ducal things.

Whatever those were. Writing bills for Parliament? Sending chatty notes around to Prinny? She had no more idea what a duke did with his time than she had a say in the fashion choices of Queen Charlotte.

Frankly, Hattie should be grateful Caro had limited the descriptions of his hands to only three pages. But then, her cousin hadn't reached the erotic scenes yet.

As he released his grip, their surroundings returned to sharp focus, just as she remembered from that summer day so many months ago. The frost fair surged around them in a cacophony of smells and sounds. Constance was apologizing again to the men, while Hattie took the wood box before anyone else could be hurt and set it on a nearby table.

The one called Oliver dusted off bits of snow and ice clinging to his breeches as he sent Connie a charming smile. "Nothing hurt besides my dignity."

"There wasn't much of that to begin with," His Grace commented wryly.

A jest. A smile and a jest? He was handling the situation with far more good humor than she'd expect. All day they'd watched people slipping and sliding about on the ice, and rarely did the falls result in a well-dressed man laughing. Much less the handsome but stoic Duke of Holland.

"After such an entrance, I hesitate to ask if there's anything we can assist you with." Now that we've thrown you to the ground and possibly ruined your clothing.

His Grace smoothed a hand over his greatcoat, then tugged his cuffs into place, putting himself to rights. The perfect duke once more, albeit with a smile lingering at the edges of his mouth. "There is something. I'd like to speak with someone regarding the sale of my late wife's library. I imagine there are a few titles that might be of interest to private collectors. The rest can be sold as a lot, or perhaps go to your lending library as a donation."

"We are honored to be considered for such a project, Your Grace. I can begin that process for you and review our standard fees. My uncle is expected to return within the hour; if needed, he can help with any questions I can't answer," Caro said.

Hattie and Constance began unpacking the contents of the box. With a deliberately casual air, Hattie said, "Perhaps it would be best if Miss Danvers examined your collection in person, Your Grace. Most of our collectors deal with her directly, so she is the logical person to inspect your library and make arrangements for transportation and private sales."

Constance's laugh was muffled as she began stacking and arranging books as quickly as Hattie set them on the table.

A warm flush bloomed under Caro's breastbone, and she desperately bid the blush to stay there and not travel to her cheeks. Between Hattie's too-innocent tone and Constance's giggle, they'd definitely noticed this inappropriate and entirely inconvenient fondness she harbored for the duke.

Sharply intelligent eyes on the stormy side of blue focused on Caro. "Miss Danvers, I presume?"

She couldn't help a small wince at his words but quickly smoothed her features into a neutral expression. Indeed, the same woman who waits on you each time you walk through our door and has now served tea and biscuits to your mother on three separate occasions while you perused the store. You've held me against your body yet didn't bother to learn my name. Instead, she said, "Miss Caroline Danvers at your service, Your Grace." She offered a small curtsy, trying not to be cheeky about it.

"Assessing the collection in person is an excellent idea. Whatever your normal fees are, I'm sure they're fair. This will be a significant undertaking, and you should be compensated for the work," he said.

How large was this library? Possibilities tickled her brain as the list of customers looking for specific titles circled. Those sales would be a welcome boost in revenue, even if it was only their usual consignment fee.

Although the store was not failing, as the one handling correspondence and bookkeeping, Caro knew exactly what a boon an influx of money would be. Perhaps they'd be able to replace the weather-beaten back door that had let in rain and snow during the last thaw and frozen shut during this week's temperatures. Or they could set aside funds for Aunt Mary and Uncle Owen to visit their other daughter, Betsy, and her family. With their first grandchild due in a few months, it would mean so much for Aunt Mary to be there.

The duke's companion interrupted her thoughts by picking up one of the books on display. " A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine . Holland, isn't this that author you like?" Without waiting for a response, he flipped through the pages. "Is this picture on the front page the only one? Where are the others?"

The duke turned and glanced at the burgundy clothbound cover. "What are you talking about? It's a novel."

"A dirty novel. What good is a dirty book if there aren't pictures?"

Caro bit her lip against an entirely inappropriate urge to laugh.

Bless him, the duke's sigh spoke volumes and, honestly, made him more appealing. "Oliver, you use your imagination. Blanche Clementine's writing offers plenty of fodder for your mind to make its own pictures. And the stories are erotic, not dirty. They've earned devoted readers because they are also emotional. Making someone care about the lives of imaginary people is the sign of a writer of merit, regardless of content." He plucked the book from his friend's hand, shaking it in his face. "I'm buying this for you. You're going to read it and you're going to like it—even without pictures." Picking up a second copy, he handed them to Caro. "We will take these today. As to the library project, if you are available this Friday at one o'clock, I'll tell my secretary to expect you."

Visiting the ducal residence? Back in the village, she'd gaped at the ostentatious furnishings in the squire's home when she visited with her father. A duke's house would be ten times grander. How was she supposed to act? Were there protocols in place? "I'll need to check with my uncle."

Hattie nudged Caro's shoulder. "If the river is still frozen, Aunt Mary can watch the store with Constance, and I'll work the booth with Uncle Owen. Unless you have other plans, you're free to tend to the duke on any Friday you like."

Pasting on a close-lipped smile, Caro addressed him. "It appears I'm available."

As she marked the copies of her book with the frost fair stamp, then wrapped them in brown paper and twine, her stomach roiled. The previous butterflies had drowned in a rising tide of nerves. It was too easy to imagine herself in his grand library, surrounded by all those bergamot-scented personal items that might offer clues about who the duke was in private. Was he the pressed and perfect society gentleman? Or the apologetic man who'd looked at her with such interest and concern when they met, even though she was bedraggled? Or was the real Duke of Holland actually the laughing man who'd joked with his friend while sprawled on the ice? Sure, he could be all of them, but that only led to more questions.

Despite the rather pathetic uselessness of her attraction to the man, she still wanted to examine the pieces of him like a puzzle to see what made him laugh, or what caused his eyes to turn stormy with emotion, or why he'd chosen to part with something as valuable and personal as his late wife's library.

Rumor had it he'd spent years serving as a diplomat on the Continent and did it so competently the king couldn't spare him long enough to return home to bury his wife. Was that why he wanted to get rid of her books? Guilt?

I have a weakness for tortured heroes. The duke was usually the picture of a somber, tortured, controlled hero—a heroine could unravel a man like that, given enough time and bravery.

The duke tucked one book under his arm and passed the other to his friend. "It's settled, then. I'll let my staff know to expect you next Friday."

A little of her worry drained away as the two men left the stall. In such a grand house, someone could probably spend an entire month under his roof and never lay eyes on the man. Caroline rested a palm over her thundering heartbeat, drew in a deep breath, then turned to her cousins. "There are two more sales toward my cottage… which I'll need when I have to run away in order to escape your painfully obvious scheming."

Hattie gave her a cheeky wink. "You're welcome. Enjoy his massive… library."