Chapter Four

A s agreed, Caro arrived at the imposing marble facade of the ducal townhome in Bloomsbury on Friday and had been shown inside by a polite but aloof butler who introduced himself as Hastings. Within minutes, she'd been handed off to the duke's personal secretary, Howard.

After a three-second perusal of the collection, Caro reassessed her initial expected timeline. The duke had warned that this wasn't a small undertaking. She'd envisioned a shelf of books, maybe a couple of bookcases—not several shelves twice the length of her bedroom that towered over her.

The turmoil in her chest might have been excitement at the challenge or a mix of dread and anticipation at seeing the duke regularly for the weeks it would take to complete her task. Maybe even months, since she had only a few afternoons per week to devote to the donation.

Yet three days of pulling, sorting, stacking, and listing the duke's collection had come and gone in peace and solitude. Apart from Howard, of course. The secretary moved with the silent steps of a ghost, so she often forgot he was in the room. The expectation of seeing the duke waned, and her nerves diminished with it, but the feeling of being on edge in case he showed up never quite went away. This was a job like anything else, and the location turned out to be surprisingly free of blue-eyed distractions.

During those quiet days in the opulent library, she developed a rhythm of sorts as she lost herself in her own little world of books and the seemingly endless list of items the shop's wealthier collectors were looking for.

But now? Caro sighed. Hell and blast.

Turning the book over in her hands, she admired the way the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows flashed off its gold-edged pages. A collection of Shakespeare's plays—one of many on the shelves. While it was a nice copy, there wasn't anything particularly noteworthy about it.

Except for the folded piece of paper that moments ago had fluttered out of the book to rest on the toe of her leather walking boot. Alas, the paper wasn't anything so helpful as a pound note or instructions for something useful like hair tonic.

No.

My dearest Juliet,

Was there ever anyone so perfectly named? The Bard himself surely envisioned someone like you when he wrote of a woman with whom a man could fall in love at first sight. Like that Montague in the play, I saw you from across the room and knew my life was irrevocably changed. I treasure every word you have graced me with since, and the memory of your lips keeps me company during the lonely nights when my arms ache to hold you.

From there, the letter writer—signed Romeo, naturally—meandered long-windedly through declarations of eternal devotion, more than a few innuendos about masturbation, and one misspelled quote from the referenced play in question. Funny, but the duke didn't strike her as the kind of man to wax poetic, then end with a paltry You're in my heart and mind always . But who was she to cast judgment on his marital correspondence?

Due to the mentions of self-pleasure, this particular letter probably shouldn't be returned to the duke through his secretary.

On a normal day in the shop, Caro easily braced herself for talking to Holland. But these circumstances were beyond what she encountered on a normal day. Grappling with an inconvenient attraction to an aristocrat was bad enough without the additional embarrassment of discussing a letter in which he wrote about touching himself.

Yet if someone found a letter she'd written to her spouse, she would want it returned to her. No matter what she thought of the contents, this was a piece of their history and belonged to the duke.

Last night, Constance had regaled her with gossip about Their Graces, the Hollands. A romance for the ages, entirely out of place amid the family mergers and financial couplings of the ton. She held proof in her hand of their passion for one another, as this letter was dated a year before the duchess's death.

So, time to face him. Caro neatly refolded the paper along well-worn creases that told their own tale of hands opening and closing it countless times. Perhaps she would get lucky and could leave it on his desk, then scurry from the room like a frightened mouse.

"Howard? Might I have a word with His Grace?" She waved the folded paper. "I've come across correspondence of a personal nature I believe the duke would prefer to remain as private as possible."

Howard raised a brow but sent her a nod. "I'll enquire with Hastings as to His Grace's schedule. Wait here."

And that's how she found herself ushered into the personal study of the Duke of Holland, where the man himself sat at his desk, with sunlight making the curly hairs of his exposed forearms appear dusted in gold. No coat, shirt cuffs rolled high, pen in hand, and a composed, closed expression on his perfect face.

And the project had been going so well too.

Orange-blossom water. When Caroline Danvers entered a room, she brought spring with her.

Howard, Hastings, and Oliver all had access to this study. Howard tended to use a gentle rap to announce his presence. Hastings preferred a more direct knock. Oliver just walked in.

Moments ago, Hastings had knocked, then said Howard needed a meeting. Dorian nodded and returned to his work.

But Howard didn't smell like orange blossoms. When the door opened, Hastings's voice carried from the hall saying, "His Grace will see you now."

The scent she wore hit one's senses with a freshness that made a man want to picnic on a lawn under the sun in those early bright days after the gray of winter had slipped away.

Despite her alluring smell, the clothes she wore were serviceable, sturdy, and more than a little drab. The dark-brown gown looked thick enough to block any breeze that dared tease at her skirts, and she'd covered her décolletage with an equally thick fichu. In the bookshop, he was often distracted by the subtle tint of her skin peeking through the semitransparent fabric of her typical fichu. No chance of that today. With enough starch, the whole ensemble might stand on its own and retain the shape of her.

As much as he wished to linger on that shape, Dorian averted his eyes to the neat lines of numbers on the page in front of him. Rather than consider how often her curves appeared in his dreams, or sauntered through his more heated thoughts, he forced himself to focus on the sharp black ink strokes that created notations and amounts in tidy columns. Those numbers served one function—to tally properly and balance in his favor. This particular ledger was for the estate in Dorset.

The Dorset house had an orangery, an entirely unhelpful part of his brain supplied, where the orange blossoms were fragrant and sweet, promising luscious fruit if tended to properly. Fruit that would explode in your mouth with bright notes of happiness and drip down your chin.

What he wouldn't give for the chance to take her sweetness in his mouth. Images assailed his brain, causing a predictable response in his lap.

Damn it all to hell and back—he couldn't possibly rise to his feet now without embarrassing the both of them.

Dorian cleared his throat and inhaled a shallow breath intended to limit his senses to ink, paper, and the bergamot aftershave he'd used that morning. "May I help you, Miss Danvers?"

He risked a glance in time to see her hesitate for a brief moment before crossing the room. When she paused by the chair on the other side of his desk, he waved his hand, silently inviting her to sit.

Even at rest, she appeared poised for action. Perching on the edge of the seat, back ramrod straight, and fingers clenched in her lap around a piece of folded paper. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your work, Your Grace. I won't take up too much of your time."

She laid the paper on the desk in front of her. "This was tucked in the pages of a book. Due to its personal nature, I wanted to return it to you myself and not involve the staff."

He realized he was scowling when the space between his eyebrows pinched, making him wince as he unfolded the paper.

That wince traveled down his body in a sharp path as he read the words. A gaping pit of dread opened in his chest, seeming to swallow his whole body in an emotional ebony tar that threatened to drown him completely.

He'd known, hadn't he? The letter Juliet left for him as a sort of last confessional when she realized she was truly ill had mentioned a lover. She'd said the betrayal and shame had been too great a burden for her to bear, that she couldn't die with the lie on her soul. The dire tone of the letter had made his heart ache. She'd been in so much pain, and he hadn't been there. In the end, the fever ensured she wouldn't have to live with her guilt. But he did. Damn her eyes, he had to live with all of it, as well as a million questions he'd never have answered.

Without thought, Dorian shoved his chair back from the desk and rose, gasping for air like a man surfacing from a hard swim across an icy lake. Distantly, as if observing the consequences of someone else's actions, part of him noted Caroline jump at his abrupt movement, before he turned his back on her to face the window. Shaking fingers tunneled into his hair and stayed there as if he could contain the whirling thoughts through sheer pressure on his skull.

Fuck. There was the proof. A love letter to his wife, written by a man fancying himself to be her Romeo. Intimate and sexual. Romantic and graphic. Handwriting he'd never seen before, wooing with words of devotion and lust. And Juliet, damn her, had saved it. Carefully hidden it away in her books.

"I apologize for the invasion of your privacy, Your Grace. It was entirely accidental and won't be repeated."

As much as he hated that uncertain tone in her voice, he was too deep in the clawing panic and shock to turn around and reassure her. Hell, he'd been in here trying to convince himself for the third day in a row to visit her in the library. If for no other reason than to be a good host. Instead, he'd sat in the study like a coward because he didn't know what to say; in a stellar example of irony, the one woman who lingered in his mind and held his attention for longer than five seconds was entirely unsuitable. Night after night he was out with the dowager assessing potential brides, and the only woman he wanted anything to do with was in his bloody library while he hid behind his desk.

She'd found her way into his personal sanctum for reasons he'd never imagined.

He couldn't breathe. Fabric rustled as she either shifted in the chair or stood, but he couldn't turn to see when it felt like his ribs were crushing his lungs. Low and as if reaching him from a tunnel, the sound of her voice rose above his shallow, frantic gasps. A slight echoing in his ears gave everything a tinny quality as her words jumbled together with the lines of that fucking letter repeating through his brain.

"… People speak of the Duke and Duchess of Holland's romance, and after reading that, I see it's all true. I am so terribly sorry for your loss. I realize one would never choose such circumstances, but perhaps there's a small comfort in knowing the legacy your marriage left in others' minds is one of true love. The kind we read about in fairy tales."

Was he going to faint? No. Not if he managed to breathe again. This was a familiar hell. Panic had stolen his breath when his father died. He'd fought for air when he discovered his wife died loving someone else. These iron bands squeezing his lungs could be managed if he found the corner of his mind where the calmest version of himself lived. Because that part of him recognized this experience for what it was—an emotional reaction to the worst surprises life could throw at a man.

Through clenched teeth, Dorian hissed in vital air as he told himself the truths that could conquer the emotions turning his body and mind into a battleground.

Surprises happened, but life would go on. There was plenty of air in the room. He was safe. He could breathe. He could think. The shackles around his ribs opened ever so slowly.

A touch on his arm sent a shock through him, cutting past the anxiously racing thoughts, slicing through the emotions. It was only a hand, but he clung to it like a drowning man thrown a line and let it pull him out of the muck. Another breath, easier this time. Heavier with the scent of orange blossoms. He curled his hand around hers and let the solid realness of her presence act as an anchor.

As much as he hated his personal battle playing out in front of her, especially since she clearly found it concerning, he was grateful for the incentive to return to the moment.

"I am sorry if this reopens the grief for you. That is certainly not my intention. If I find more letters, I will deliver them to you directly. You have my word." She sounded hesitant, like she didn't know what to say but was still compelled to try.

"Thank you." The words were hoarse, pared down from everything he wanted to say but shouldn't. Thank you for providing proof. Even though it destroyed lingering hopes he hadn't realized he held—hopes that he'd somehow misinterpreted Juliet's last letter.

Her hand pulled out from under his, and he turned, drinking in the sight of her like the air he'd struggled to find seconds ago. "Wait. Miss Danvers… I'm sorry. I've handled this poorly. Caught me off guard, to be honest."

Caroline offered a crooked smile. "It's gratifying to know you're capable of being taken off guard, Your Grace. Please don't apologize to anyone for mourning a woman you loved. Grief is a tricky business."

If only it were that simple. He tried to return her smile, but his mouth wouldn't make the shape. "Marriage is a tricky business as well. Complicated."

The urge to sit down and tell her everything nearly overwhelmed his good sense. However, their relationship—if one could call it that—was not one where spilling his secrets was appropriate.

"I'll be on my way, Your Grace. Again, I'm sorry for any pain this caused."

Before he could reply, she was gone, leaving him alone. Just him, a love letter he didn't write, and the lingering scent of spring beside him.