Chapter Eight

I f he needs another book, I'll eat my hat," Constance hissed as she scurried past Caro the next day.

Hattie snorted from her place at the register, then called out a merry "Welcome back, Your Grace. May I help you find anything this morning?"

Panic tightened Caro's throat, and she struggled to swallow. Where she stood behind the bookcase nearest the register would hide her from anyone entering the store, and she was grateful for it. Drawing in a calming breath, she tried to settle her thoughts.

Although why they'd settle on command now, when they'd been whirling since his kisses the night before, she couldn't guess. As expected, his presence was the furthest thing from a soothing balm to her nerves. If this heart-pounding, fizzy feeling was what Constance experienced every time she had a new beau, it was a wonder the woman hadn't run away to a nunnery before now. In her books, the first meeting after their initial kiss never felt like this. Her heroines were usually swoony and a little giddy. Not this knotted tangle of anticipation and the vague need to vomit.

What had she been thinking, to lift her face to his and invite that kiss? Then to repeat the action over and over, until their tongues were tangling and his heartbeat was a drum under her palm. Caro remembered him placing his hand over hers, and asking herself what Blanche Clementine would do.

Blanche Clementine would kiss the duke and turn him to putty in her hands.

Caroline Danvers, however, was an agitated mess over what she'd done. He was a bloody duke, and she was the disowned daughter of a country vicar. This kind of pairing might work in one of her books, but expecting a relationship in real life was ridiculous.

And yet, remembering the kisses they'd shared made her knees weak. Holland had been open about his desire, perfectly willing to let the spark between them flame into something she feared would grow beyond their control. He'd seemed to welcome the passion, and in the moment, so had she.

Now that she'd tossed and turned all night, pondering their kisses incessantly, Caro acknowledged that she was scared. Because as amazing as those kisses had been, it was the gentle teasing afterward that made it the most erotic experience of her life. She wasn't a virgin, yet his gentle request that she fully speak her mind felt more personal than the time she'd spent with her last lover. Not that the experience had been all that great, truth be told. But that was beside the point. If that man had paid attention to her the way Holland had, she might think of the relationship with more fondness.

In the dark, lit only by gaslight, she'd felt seen. She'd been desired. For almost two years, she'd admired the duke in the same way a child longs to touch a pretty glass figurine. Last night, she'd been allowed to not only touch, but stroke and taste.

His footsteps sounded with quiet precision on the wood floor and Caro realized she didn't know what to do. They were in public, so she couldn't greet him like a beau. Would he want her to if they were alone?

Or perhaps he was here for the sole purpose of telling her that last night was a fleeting moment of madness, and he regretted every second of it.

A pain around her heart made her gasp softly, then straighten her spine. If he was here to tell her he never wanted to see her again, then so be it. Better to be ready for the blow than be taken unawares like a moon-eyed ninny.

"Miss Danvers? May I speak with you a moment?"

Sweet heaven, his voice alone was enough to make her thighs damp. Caro dug for some inner reserve of aloof professionalism and turned to face him. She dipped a curtsy—a stern reminder to herself of this man's place in society versus her own.

When she finally met his gaze, it wasn't the ardent man who'd teased and kissed her the night before but the composed, stoic duke she'd grown accustomed to seeing who stared back. Ah, so he did regret what they'd done. Ignoring the stab of hurt at the idea of this man harboring her as one of his regrets, she forced her mouth into a cool smile.

A flicker of something crossed his face, so quick she almost missed it. Given his overall demeanor, she doubted he'd answer if she asked what that emotion had been.

"How may I assist you, Your Grace?"

The knot of his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Caro let her eyes rest there, on that column of skin above his cravat.

"I came by to see how you were faring after… well. I see I was correct in my instinct to call." He spoke softly, and she was grateful for it. The last thing they needed was a customer to overhear their conversation. Although she didn't think there were any others in the shop right now, except her cousins.

"I am perfectly fine, Your Grace," she said, addressing her words toward the jade stickpin securing the folds of starched linen around his neck.

"Are you, though?"

"Of course. Thank you for your consideration." Even as she said the words, Constance's singsong voice echoed in her mind. What would Blanche Clementine do? Blanche would already have her hands under that perfectly cut dark-blue coat and be rubbing against him like a cat in heat.

As she'd already realized, Caroline Danvers was nowhere near as brave as Blanche. Better to give him an easy reason to walk away than hear him list all the reasons why their kiss, and the most erotic interlude of her life, was a mistake. This might be the lack of sentimentality Connie had mentioned. Since Connie is the one usually doing the leaving, she wouldn't understand the need to protect oneself. She waved the dust rag covered in lemon oil toward the shelves she'd been cleaning. "If that is all, I need to resume my duties, Your Grace."

His lips worked, but ultimately, he remained silent. A moment later, he dipped his head and turned on his heel.

Carol blew out a breath. You did the right thing. Closing her eyes, she willed the moisture welling there to retreat as quickly as his footsteps were.

The footsteps abruptly stopped, then resumed and grew louder. The brush of fine kidskin against her bare hand made her eyes fly open in surprise.

"I apologize, but I can't walk away yet." His voice was a whisper, yet no less urgent. "I asked how you were, but I didn't share my own state."

Caro met his blue gaze and saw a fierce earnestness there that made her catch her breath.

"Unlike you, I am not fine. I didn't sleep well last night. I don't know if I am supposed to feel excited about finally giving in to the urge to kiss you, or if I am supposed to be begging forgiveness right now."

She wet her lips with her tongue and couldn't help the small thrill she felt when his eyes tracked the movement. The tiny flare of heat in his expression gave her the courage to be honest. "To be honest, I don't know either."

When he squeezed her hand, she realized he still held it. "If you don't return my regard or if you feel pressured to act as if you welcome my attention, please say so. I promise you'll suffer no repercussions and endure no further unwanted advances."

Shaking her head, Caro fought a smile. He was so very proper. The poor man probably couldn't help it. He was a duke, after all.

All urges to smile vanished.

You're a duke. What do you want from me? Am I a plaything to be discarded? A convenient distraction? Or a mistress to serve at your leisure? If you wanted me as your mistress, would I be strong enough to resist temptation and say no? Would I regret rejecting you? Would I really regret it if I said yes and had you all to myself for a brief time?

"Our positions in this world are wildly different, Your Grace."

Dark brows pinched together over blue eyes gone stormy. "Don't do that."

"Do what? Remind you of reality?"

"You paused," he said simply. He looked at her exactly the same way he had the night before. Like a man focused on something he found utterly fascinating.

She was just as defenseless against it now as she had been then. When this man, who'd caught her attention so long ago, stared at her as if he found it impossible to look away, it made her believe there could be something between them.

Caro gripped his hand tighter and spoke her fears aloud. "But it's the truth, isn't it? I don't know what you want from me. For all I know, you kiss women in doorways every night, and it was simply my turn. So, I don't know how to feel. Do I return your regard?" Be bold. Be Blanche. "Yes. Am I glad you slept poorly? Also yes. Because so did I."

His low laugh rippled over her like a caress, and that was her reward for speaking honestly.

Holland raised her hand to his lips, sending tingles up her arm from the brief contact. "Do you know how many women I've kissed since my wife died five years ago?" Before she could hazard a guess, he answered. "One. You. I don't make a habit of kissing women in doorways." Discomfort twisted his mouth in a wince. "Why I kissed you, I am not sure. I've wanted to do so since the moment I met you, and I seized the opportunity, I suppose."

It had mattered to him as well, then. No matter how this ended, that made her feel better.

"What happens now?" she asked.

His chest expanded on an inhale, as if he was finally allowing himself to take a deep breath. "I'm not sure. But if I may make one request?"

She nodded.

"Let me see you. The real you. Be honest with me to the best of your ability, and I will do the same."

Warmth suffused her chest, and she had to bite her lip to contain a smile she knew would make her look like the moon-eyed ninny she feared being. "You mean you won't always be serious like you were when you arrived today?"

His face slid back into the stoic mask she was all too familiar with, and he said, "I shall do my best." If not for a playful glint to his eyes, she'd have thought him in earnest.

Caro laughed, then covered her mouth to stifle the sound, lest anyone peer around the corner at them. "Teasing? I'm impressed."

Holland's thumb slid over the top of her hand in a repetitive caress, and she wondered if he realized he was doing it. "My friend, Lord Southwyn, claims I turn cold and serious when I'm anxious. I'm often unsure of what to do or say when I'm around you."

The sweet man, to admit such a thing. Who'd have imagined a powerful duke had been nervous around a lowly bookseller? "Well, I've enjoyed speaking with you like this. Like we did last night. Beyond the kissing," she hastened to add.

"I'm finding a fondness for plain speaking as well, Miss Danvers." He kissed her hand once more. "Until next we meet."

"I have time to work in the library tomorrow," she said, a little of Blanche's bravery coming to the fore.

His wide smile, directed entirely at her, made her pulse quicken. "Then I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Miss Danvers."

The top of her hand tingled as he walked away. Perhaps Caroline Danvers wasn't as bold as her nom de plume. But there might be room within her for more than practicality and jadedness. There could be space for a little bit of Blanche.

This wasn't the first time Dorian dreamt of Caroline Danvers, nor the first time he awoke from a dream hard, aching, and hungry for her. However, after he'd taken himself in hand and rose to dress for the day, there was a lightness in his chest, rather than the usual burden of hopeless longing.

When he visited the bookshop yesterday, there'd been that moment when he'd been certain one evening of frantic kisses against a door would be all he'd have with her. Turning around to reengage had been an impulsive risk but one that served him well in the end.

Speaking his mind had been a relief, but the real moment of satisfaction had come when she softened, and he witnessed the sparkle return to her eyes. Those plump lips had curved, lifting her round cheeks, making her face distinctly heart shaped, and it had taken everything he had to not kiss her again, public location be damned.

At breakfast, his mother raised one arched brow over the rim of her teacup as she studied him. "You're in an awfully good mood."

Dorian spread butter over his toast and shrugged. "I suppose I am rather cheerful this morning."

When he didn't offer more, Gloria prodded. "Has something happened? Perhaps you've come to a decision regarding your bride? There's still time to plan an engagement ball to welcome the rest of the ton back to Town."

The toasted bread stuck in his throat, forcing him to cough into a napkin and guzzle too-hot tea to wash it down. His good cheer was dissolving significantly faster than the breadcrumbs clinging stubbornly inside his mouth.

"Please don't let your mind stray too far down that path. I am not making a decision yet. In fact, I think I might pull back from that project slightly." At his mother's militant expression, he added, "Not abandoning it altogether. I have a duty, after all."

Even as Dorian prevaricated, he recognized a sick feeling in his gut. Discussing the bride hunt with his mother while nearly giddy over seeing a woman who fit none of the requirements for a duchess stole the last of this morning's optimism.

Gloria couldn't force him down the aisle, no matter how scary her glares and raised eyebrows were. Yes, he needed to marry and sire an heir. And yes, the men in his family were frightfully short-lived. Not to mention the rather emotionally fraught birthday arriving in a few months.

"It is an important decision," she said with a tone that explained she was feeling magnanimous. "I trust you're aware of your duty and the need for some haste."

It struck him, not for the first time, that his father must have been quite strong-minded to have not only won the respect of a woman like Gloria, but kept it, even after his death.

Life would certainly be simpler if his father were still alive. Father had been a wise, gentle man. A good parent and kind husband. He'd know what to do about Juliet's letters and this damned bride hunt. Dorian would give anything to have him here, teaching him what it meant to be a duke when it sometimes felt as if he was rebuilding his life one piece at a time.

Wiping his mouth on a cloth napkin, he stood. "Enjoy your breakfast, Mother. I find I'm not as hungry as I thought I was."

As he left the room, she called, "Don't forget! We've invited the Humphrys to the theater this evening. Miss Humphry's parents are feeling ill, so it will be the three of us. Please be charming, Dorian."

He paused, one hand on the doorjamb, and hung his head. Drawing in a deep breath, he continued walking. One night at the theater wouldn't kill him. It wasn't as if it were a public declaration of intent.

Even though it would guarantee more tongues wagging, building on the existing speculation. God, the gossips would talk, and he was knowingly handing them more choice conversational morsels.

A thought flitted through his mind, there and then gone. Like a timid creature skittering into the light, then darting away lest it be seen.

A man brave enough to have a relationship with someone unconventional—perhaps someone like a bookseller—would have to be immune to things like gossiping matrons. That would take the strength of knowing oneself thoroughly. Like his father had.

Dorian straightened to his full height and headed toward his study. As usual, a pile of work awaited him there—more than enough ducal decisions to occupy him until Caroline arrived.

After all, there was more than one way to do his duty.