Chapter Seven

T idy penmanship swam on the page in front of her until Caro sighed and leaned back in her chair to rub at her eyes. Long days were what made up a life, but today the twenty-four hours she'd been allotted felt more like thirty.

She'd planned to spend a few hours in Bloomsbury but hadn't been able to get away. Just as well there wasn't a set-in-stone schedule at the townhouse, because the store had been like literary Bedlam. Instead of people throwing food and bedpans, they were throwing money on the counter and demanding copies of A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine.

Which, while gratifying, was baffling as hell. Blanche Clementine had loyal readers, and each book did well enough to warrant her publisher asking for more. Every new release gained readers as her popularity grew, and that growing audience sought out her previous books. But they'd never sold so many copies in such a short period. Caro glanced through the doorway to the dark sales floor and the empty table that had started the day with a display of her latest book.

London readers had gone mad, in the best way. Perhaps it was the holiday. Valentine's Day put everyone in an amorous mood, or so she assumed. Not that she knew from personal experience, since she'd never received a valentine from a beau.

Uncle Owen had winked at her as he sent an order to the publisher this evening. Higher sales, no matter the book, would help the store, so everyone was grateful, if puzzled by the situation.

Hopefully it would be easier to get away from Martin House tomorrow so she could put in a few more hours on the Holland library. His Grace's donation would mean a windfall of potential income, as well as a near-immediate influx of money from direct sales to collectors. All she had to do was finish sorting, categorizing, and boxing well over a thousand volumes, in addition to completing the paperwork and letters needed to connect individual titles with wealthy buyers. All while maintaining the shop's sales records, lending-library records, customer mailboxes, and the store's regular mail. Plus, with the end of the quarter around the corner, there would be a flurry of notices sent out for lending-library subscriptions.

That she slept or had written anything since beginning the donation project was a miracle. Each day, she rose with the sun to tackle the shop's account books and correspondence. Then, if there was time, she crossed town to the duke's townhome to put in a few hours there, before returning to the store for more office work.

Despite everything packing her schedule, the writing threatened to take over her brain entirely. When she'd responded to her publisher last week, her assurances about the next book had been wishful thinking wrapped in an outright lie. The book hadn't been working at all until she allowed the duke the starring role. Again.

Being in the duke's home, even when she didn't see him, was inspiring, to say the least. The titillating thought—or maybe threat—that he could open the door at any moment and fill the space with his serious, amazingly blue eyes and grim mouth, kept goosebumps primed and ready under her skin all day. However, it wasn't until she found that letter, and showed him, that the story began to pound at her brain.

At the end of the night, regardless of how exhausted she was, that anticipation she'd felt all day transformed into something the likes of which Blanche Clementine had never produced. Words flew from her fingers to the page, faster than she'd ever written before. It was a wonder the paper didn't set itself aflame from the friction of her pen, and the intensely sexual scenes filling the pages.

The heroine, Phoebe, had a mind of her own and was taking over the tale with fantastical scenarios Caro hadn't known existed in the depths of her brain. But then, Caro's physical experiences in the real world were limited to three sadly disappointing encounters involving awkwardness, a few minutes of possibility, then a mess that ended the whole sorry thing.

Fiction was better. Phoebe and her duke, Lysander, had passion and intimacy in spades and never experienced muscles cramping from limbs placed at strange angles, or were left wondering what all the fuss was about sex.

One thing nagged at her conscience. In A Dalliance for Miss Lorraine , Holland had been less of a man and more of a role. He was the inspiration. A rather one-dimensional figure who served the purpose of being broody and attractive enough to massage her creativity.

Last week, as he stood in his study in his shirtsleeves, burrowing fingers into his usually perfect hair, he'd been oblivious to the picture he presented against his window. The sight seared into her brain, changing the inspiration source material irrevocably. The one-dimensional character he'd been as her muse paled in the face of reality.

God, that letter had nearly leveled him. The grief on his face, the way he'd turned his back to hide his vulnerability as mourning surfaced anew. That letter, and everything she'd heard about the duke and duchess, painted the picture of passionate, romantic partners she'd thought only existed in fiction. Yet there he was. A grown man, allowing her to witness a sliver of his heartbreak.

Even if that sliver showed itself in the rise and fall of his shoulders as he took deep breaths and unknowingly provided her with an excellent view of his trim torso under a fine lawn shirt, and a distractingly perfect bum in snug breeches.

The duke had been on the verge of weeping, and she'd been admiring his arse, unable to think of a way to help. Because Caro felt entirely at sea and rather useless in the face of his pain, she'd created Phoebe to be perfectly capable of soothing a man's emotions.

Since then, the scene in the study had rewritten itself into a version of events fitting Phoebe and Lysander and was pounding at her brain to be released onto the page. However, the idea of writing it had her in knots. It felt exploitive of the duke's very real emotions to write what she knew came next in the story.

This version of events would have Phoebe on her knees in front of him, licking his cock, but with the command that she'd only suck on him if he was talking. Opening up, speaking what was on his mind. Phoebe knew how to make a man enjoy vulnerability.

Whereas Caro had run like a frightened rabbit back to her den. Which, in this case, was a dimly lit office area comprised of the stacked folders she called a filing system, a desk piled with bills, letters, and account books, and a looming headache behind her eyes from working so many hours without a break.

Above her head, shuffling told the tale of her uncle and his family going about their nightly rituals as they found their beds. Aunt Mary, bless her, had brought Caro a plate of food several hours ago. Constance and Hattie were probably already asleep, warming the covers for when she'd eventually crawl in beside them.

Or at least that's what she thought until one set of feet veered toward the far wall above the office, then trotted merrily down the stairs.

"I knew I would find you here." Constance threw herself into the only other chair in the room with her usual dramatic verve, then placed her darning bag on her lap, pulled out a pair of stockings, and set to work.

"Is there something in particular on your mind, or did you just want company?"

Constance all but forgot the stocking and needle as she leaned forward with a wide grin. "I found the man I am going to marry."

"I thought Mr. Hudson was disqualified because of the cat."

"Not Mr. Hudson. He was last week. Right after Mr. Hudson, I met Walter." Constance rolled her eyes and huffed, "What is that look for?"

"What look? I didn't do anything."

Waving her finger in the air in a vague sort of circle, Constance said, "Then your face just had an entire conversation without your knowledge."

Caro laughed, shaking her head. Constance wasn't exactly known for her, well, constancy. Since the marriage of her twin sister, Betsy, Constance seemed determined to find a husband as well. The sisters were mirrors of one another on the outside but couldn't have been more different in temperament. Betsy was calm, orderly, and focused. Constance was… well, cheerful chaos incarnate, most of the time.

"After declaring him your future husband, I have questions. Admit it, Connie. We've had meals fill our bellies for longer than some of your relationships. What makes Walter any different?"

"Clearly I was waiting for the right one. You can't find him if you are not willing to look. I was looking." Constance sat up straighter and donned a prim expression as she returned to sewing the hole in the toe of her wool stocking.

Fair point. Granted, her cousin may have looked longer and harder than most people. However, you could not claim Constance had not done exactly what she claimed. If one thought of her relationships as interviews for the position of husband, she had been interviewing rather intensely for quite some time. It sounded like the position was finally filled.

Caro relaxed in her seat and forced aside her reservations. "Tell me about him. How do you know he's the one? How did you meet?"

The darning forgotten in her lap once more, Constance beamed. "His name is Walter Hornsby, and he is a cloth merchant. I met him at the milliner's when Hattie was looking to retrim that old straw bonnet she refuses to get rid of. She was extremely particular about the shade of blue she wants. And"—Connie spread her hands wide—"there he was. He'd visited the shop to deliver an order and was ever so polite and polished when he spoke to us. He treated me like a lady, and I swear his eyes are the exact shade of blue Hattie was looking for. I even said so, which started our conversation."

Only a week ago, she'd been out with poor sneezing Mr. Hudson. Caro bit her lip and dug for appropriate questions besides What are you thinking? or How can you consider a lifelong commitment based on the shade of blue God gave a man when handing out eye colors? "I struggle to see how that's a basis for a decision of this magnitude, darling."

Connie's expression shifted from excited to stubborn in a blink. "Just because you're as sentimental as a mud puddle doesn't mean those of us who use instinct to guide our decisions are wrong."

"You say instinct, I say emotions. And emotions are wildly unpredictable and unreliable."

Connie shook a finger at her. "See? That's exactly what I'm referring to. You are practical to a fault, Caroline Danvers."

Caro closed her eyes and silently counted to three before opening them. "Then I'll focus on practical questions. Have you spent much time with Mr. Hornsby? Does he return your high regard?"

Constance relaxed in her chair, accepting the questions as the olive branch they were. "When he visited the bookshop the following day, he called me enchanting, and we've seen each other since. In fact, he dropped by this afternoon to give me a valentine he made with a short poem. I think he wrote it himself. You've been so busy with the duke; I doubt you noticed."

Only literally biting her tongue kept Caro's response inside her head. Of course he said you're enchanting, Connie. It's a well-established feature like your hair and dimples. A long line of broken hearts litters the ground in your wake, because you're so enchanting. Instead, she said, "I'm glad your valentine made you happy. Has he met your parents yet?"

"He's shaken hands with Father in the store, obviously. Tomorrow night he's taking me dancing at the pub, with Mother and Father accompanying us."

Caro couldn't remember the last time Constance had been this excited about a man taking her out. Perhaps Walter Hornsby was special, and those instincts she relied on were guiding her in the right direction after all. "I hope everything works out the way you want it to." She reached over and squeezed her cousin's hand.

"I'm sure it will," Constance said, all cheerful confidence. "Now it's your turn. Tell me about your duke."

A disbelieving laugh escaped before Caro could stop it. " My duke?"

"Holland visits this store more often than the average patron. He can't read that much, Caro. It's obvious he's here to see you. And I notice the way you look at him. Given the chance, you'd lap him up like a bowl of cream."

Caro's shoulders slumped. "Oh God, am I that obvious?"

"If it helps, your covert glances are very covert."

Caro mustered a smile. "That's a relief. You know, if I could rid myself of this attraction, I would. All these fluttery feelings are about as useful as teats on a bull."

Constance's grin turned sly. "But those flutters lead to such enjoyable activities. What would Blanche Clementine do in your shoes?"

Caroline gaped through a surprised laugh. "Constance Martin, are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting? I'll have you know—" A knocking sound interrupted the faux appalled rant she was preparing. "Is someone at our door?"

Constance rose and tucked the still-holey stocking back into her darning bag. "I'll check."

After a moment, she returned with a wide grin. "You have a visitor waiting outside. I'll take my darning upstairs if you want some privacy."

"What? Who on earth is calling at this time of night?" Caro plucked her knitted wool shawl from the chair where she'd discarded it earlier. Perhaps Leo and Gerard from down the street? They sometimes stopped by in the evening. They'd settled on a date for the theater. Perhaps they needed to cancel. She made her way through the dark sales floor.

Constance stuck her head around the doorframe from the office and said in a stage whisper, "Just ask yourself what Blanche Clementine would do."

This was madness. Dorian knew that. And yet, he stood under the gas streetlamp outside Martin House Books, the better to be easily identified after knocking on the door after hours.

While it would be easy to create a believable explanation for his presence on the street well after dark, the reality was far messier. Caroline had failed to arrive at the library this afternoon. The last time they'd seen one another, he'd inadvertently exposed her to one of his attacks, which would never not be humiliating. Even when she'd tried to comfort him, he hadn't been able to explain himself.

After a week of not being home during her visits, she might think he was hiding from her like a coward, and that wouldn't do. So he'd waited for her in the library, methodically looking for more letters in each book in the stacks she'd made, before carefully replacing them. No doubt she had a system in place, but damned if he could determine what it was. When she didn't arrive as expected, he'd worried about her. Worried his reaction to what appeared to be a simple love letter had scared her away. Showing up at the shop just to make sure she felt comfortable returning to his home was extreme when sending a messenger would have sufficed. But he needed to see her for himself.

Compared to her watching him struggle for air, it was relatively easy to open himself to the potential for embarrassment, discomfort, or her justified-but-prying questions. The way Caroline's cousin had smirked when she answered the door confirmed how unusual his behavior was, but he wasn't here for her or her opinion.

The store window showed a shadow moving toward the front of the shop, and then Caroline appeared, opening the door and sending the overhead bell tinkling.

"Your Grace, this is unexpected. Would you like to come inside? There's a fireplace in the office where we can be warmer."

Tempting—dangerously so. In his current frame of mind, it didn't seem wise to curl up by a fire in a dark and quiet bookshop. The image that brought to mind was too cozy. Too intimate. He shook his head. "No, thank you. I won't be long."

Caroline stepped into the circle of gaslight, wrapping a shawl around herself. The red garment appeared handmade and well loved. It had worn thin in several places and was fraying around the edges. Instead of the shawl making her appear shabby, Dorian thought of it as proof that someone cared enough to spend hours creating something for her with their hands. "What can I help you with?"

Lamplight was just as kind to her face as sunshine. Moonlight would no doubt be just as generous to the curves of her cheeks and the sharp dip dividing her upper lip. It was the intelligence in her gaze, the confident sense of knowing she wore like a second skin, that had caught his attention in this very spot so many months ago. After spending so long feeling like he'd lost a similar surety in himself, he'd been unable to look away, slightly envious of her quiet confidence.

That intelligence he respected wouldn't be satisfied with half-hearted explanations or prevarication, and he wouldn't do her the injustice of asking her to stand in the cold just to serve a paltry excuse for his presence.

"Last time we spoke, I wasn't at my best. When you didn't stop by the house today, I was afraid I'd scared you away. I had to make sure you were all right."

It must have been surprise that made her chuckle. "How kind of you to check on me, Your Grace. I'm sorry if I worried you or your staff. I've worked more hours than usual these last few weeks and was feeling run-down. Also, it was a particularly busy day in the store. I'm just now stealing a moment to look at the ledgers for the past week."

A breeze whistled down the street with the accuracy of a scalpel, making the fine hairs at her temples dance and blowing open the front of his caped greatcoat with icy fingers of recrimination. Of course she was exhausted. Between long days at the store and the additional work at his house, it was no wonder she'd needed a day to focus on just one thing.

"Is there anything I can do? If it's too many hours between your usual duties and my library, we can find a solution. Perhaps if I rented a space near here to store the books, it would be less travel time for you. Or I can hire you an assistant. Two assistants. Whatever you need."

The problem solving seemed to be gaining momentum, but he stopped abruptly when Caroline placed a hand on his arm. He could get used to her doing that. "You're very generous, but I simply needed to change my plans for the day. That's all. No storage or assistants needed."

Her hand stood out in stark relief against the oiled cloth of his greatcoat. Smudges of ink shadowed the fingers, settling into the creases to outline her short nails. Such small hands for someone so hardworking and capable. She must have realized what she'd done, because Caroline tried to snatch her hand back, but he covered it with his own.

If pressed, Dorian wouldn't be able to offer an explanation for his actions beyond wanting to keep the contact for a little longer.

Like each time they'd touched, beginning with that first day in this very spot, Dorian was painfully aware of her. The way her hand warmed his like a brand. The way he wanted to breathe her in until every sense was full of Caroline. It would be such a simple thing to pull her closer, for her to step into his embrace. To lower his head and finally know how she tasted.

For any of that to happen, one of them would have to move. Caroline's fingers curled into his arm, tightening her hold.

"Was that your only reason for calling, Your Grace?"

Checking on her may have been the primary excuse for stopping by, but he wanted so much more. Since wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her curves against him on this street, he'd wanted more. Under his intense gaze, she lifted her chin, and Dorian took that as a silent invitation.

Dorian covered her lips with his in a firm kiss. The kind of kiss neither could misconstrue as accidental or casual. There'd be no going back after this. An act of bravery to counter the cowardice he'd shown on the Thames when he'd pretended not to remember her name.

Then, he'd feared Caroline would somehow guess that everything about her was seared into his brain. Now he desperately hoped she'd let him show her how deeply she'd slipped under his skin.

If she pushed him away, he'd take the rejection. In that case, he'd make sure they were never in the same room again for both their sakes.

Or she could… do that. Open her pillowy lips in welcome.

After a heated second, Caroline pulled away, gasping. She stared at him, as if searching for something. Whatever it was, he hoped she'd find it, if it would bring her back to him.

When she rose on her toes and returned her lips to his, he let her swallow his small cry of victory as he gave in to the heady desire and deepened the kiss. As he wrapped his arms around her, Dorian stepped out of the lamplight, closer to the heavy wood door of the bookshop, away from possible prying eyes.

Eager fingers clutched his shoulders, ran through his hair, cradled his jaw. At some point, his hat fell off, and he didn't care. Not when his arms were full of orange-blossom springtime, and her mouth was a marvel of heat, indescribable softness, and the honey she'd had in her tea. It all combined into the new experience of Caroline. If his mouth weren't occupied doing better things, he'd have shouted, Finally! to the skies.

Over eighteen months of pent-up longing poured out on a moan of relief that almost immediately recoiled into a spiral of lust. Every inch her hands explored was hers to conquer. Dorian held her close enough to feel a faint tremble rock her as he nibbled and sucked and drank her in, leaning against the shop door for support.

God help him, but if a kiss from this woman could destroy his composure to this degree, he might never recover from a night in her bed.

And not a single part of him considered that to be a problem.

The kiss could have gone on forever, but as the wind buffeted his back and he protected her from the elements with his body, logic decreed that she couldn't be out in the cold much longer with just a shawl and a lusty duke for warmth.

Even though he was the one pulling away, he still made a low sound of disappointment. "You'll catch your death out here. I should let you go."

Emotions flickered across her features in a silent reply before settling into a composed expression. "Yes, of course."

That was far less than what she wanted to say. He was certain of it. Angling his head to place a kiss at the corner of her mouth, it thrilled him to feel her arms tighten around him. "What were you thinking just now? During the pause."

"The pause?"

"Before answering, you waited." He searched for the right words. "It's something you do. Like you have a whole conversation in your head and then only say the least interesting bits."

Caroline laughed. "If I voiced every thought in my head, I would have more enemies than friends, and my days would be far more complicated."

An honest answer, and an intriguing one. "Will you tell me what you were thinking just now? Let me into the pause."

"Why?"

"Because it sounds like that's where the real Caroline Danvers lives, and I must confess I fancy her. Probably more than I should."

"Do you really want to know what I was thinking?"

"Absolutely. My God, your skin is unbelievably soft." His lips grazed her cheekbone, then trailed along the fine curls at her hairline.

"I was thinking you have some nerve to come here and kiss me like that after claiming to not know my name two weeks ago." Wicked delight curved her lips as she teased, tilting her head so he'd have better access to the delicious column of her neck.

Ah, so they were going to talk about that. As much as he wanted to wince or shy away, he couldn't help a laugh against her velvet skin. Because this was the woman who'd been so unguarded when they met, who griped at him about making a mess and knocking her down. This was the woman he'd watched disappear behind a polite facade. Frankly, he'd stand here all night and freeze to death if it meant Caroline spoke to him without pausing to consider her words. "I knew your name. I owe you an apology for pretending otherwise."

"Why did you, then?"

"Cowardice." Truth wasn't always pretty, but that was the truth. "I was afraid you'd realize I've been paying too much attention to you since we met."

"But that was nearly two years ago."

"And I can't forget it. Any of it. How you fit in my arms so perfectly when I caught you. How even travel weary, you were so damned pretty. Then you told your cousins what you'd gone through to get here, and I knew you weren't just beautiful. You were remarkable. I kept finding reasons to return, to see how you were getting on. From that first moment, you've demanded my attention without ever asking for it."

Her breath was coming in quick pants as he spoke, pressing her breasts into his chest and inciting torturous pictures in his imagination. Uncovering those curves, making her gasp and moan until she was rosy and satisfied. Then doing it all over again.

Caroline rewarded his honesty with another kiss. Dorian draped his coat over her shoulders as she wrapped her arms around his waist—sheltering her from the cold night as his body pinned hers to the wood door.

From somewhere beyond their cocoon of kisses, a man whistled. "Criminy! Someone's having a nice Valentine's Day, eh, luv?"

When Dorian pulled away, Caroline's laugh was infectious, unguarded. There was no pause when she said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Your Grace."