Chapter 6

Where in hell was Lady Andromeda going? He'd come to Lady Charlotte's side only to see if he could ignite some jealousy, but she'd left instead of watching him pretend to woo her sister.

"Mr. Kingston?"

She had looked at him while leaving, as if he were the reason she fled. He didn't have time to chase, but a bit of chase might be necessary, considering he'd chosen to pursue a woman promised to another man.

"Mr. Kingston?"

An absent man.

"Mr. Kingston!"

"Yes?" he snapped. Hell. He took a steadying breath. "I apologize for my tone. And for my woolgathering."

She smiled, a wan thing that did not reach her eyes. "I was merely inquiring why you are here. When we last spoke, I thought you understood me perfectly."

He straightened his shoulders. "I need a wife."

"For money?"

"No. I've plenty of that."

"For social connections?"

"Don't care about those. Besides, most connections don't want me."

"Love, then?" She spoke with a hesitance, a reverence, a softness at odds with the woman he'd so far met.

"No. Not that." He should tell her about Alex, about needing to create a home. But she seemed like an icy wind beating against a door, not the homey hearth that kept the family inside warm. "It's a family obligation."

"I know well of those."

Frustration ticked in his bones like the second hand of his pocket watch. "Do you know when your sister will return?"

"Why?" Her body went entirely still as she studied him.

"You need a chaperone. The one you have seems to be asleep."

She shrugged, relaxing a bit. "Aunt Millicent stays up much too late reading. She enjoys an afternoon nap."

Who cared when Aunt Millicent preferred to sleep? Lady Andromeda had disappeared, and he could not cultivate jealousy if the woman he wished to make jealous had fled.

He stood. "I'll return shortly." He left without waiting for a response. Once in the hallway, he looked left and right, then peered up the stairs for good measure. No Lady Andromeda. Which way had she gone? He ambled down the hall toward the duke's study.

A door farther down stood ajar. He slipped through and found an arse wiggling in the air.

A gentleman would look away. But he could not. As arses went, it was… magnificent. The perfect shape and size for a man's hands. For his hands. The arse plummeted toward the heels just below it, and the woman who owned the arse sat back with a huff. And the sweet, simple profile of Lady Andromeda appeared, outlined against the yellow wallpaper. She wore soft green today, and the color suited her well, better even than pink had the day they'd kissed. Her cheeks had bloomed into springtime flowers. The gown's color brought out green flecks in her eyes, and her light-brown hair seemed darker than before. Tiny wisps of it escaped her simple coiffure and curled about her neck and brow. She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, shook her head in clear exasperation, mumbled something about the twins playing games, and dove back in, that delicious arse popping up into the air once more, muslin draping lovingly over it.

He closed his eyes against the seductive sight and forced out words. "Lady Andromeda, are you in need of assistance?"

A yelp.

Terrified the wardrobe had fallen on her, or perhaps, she'd gotten stuck between it and the wall, he opened his eyes to find her safe and pretty and staring at him in absolute horror.

She jumped to her feet. "Mr. Kingston. What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?"

She backed away from him and hit the wall, giving a little jump and gasp before shaking it off and returning her attention to him. "This is my mother's room. I have more right to be here than you do."

"You're supposed to be with your sister, are you not?"

A suspicious shade of red splashed across her cheeks as her gaze darted toward the wardrobe. Horrid at hiding her emotions. "Lady Templeton is an old friend of my mother's, and she wished to know if we still had a book my mother had borrowed from her years ago. I'm retrieving it."

"Is that it?" He stepped closer to her. "Or do you have other reasons for leaving?"

"N-no. I'm not sure what other reasons I might have."

"Perhaps you do not like seeing me court your sister."

She scoffed, rolled her eyes. "That's what you think is happening? Poor, addled man." She appeared to relax, her shoulders sinking as her muscles relaxed, the furrow between her brows disappearing. Why had she been so bothered to begin with? And what had she been searching for behind the wardrobe?

He took another step closer. He knew her family history, had been with Samuel when he'd been told the news. Both parents—dead. "Does it bother you to be here? In your mother's room. You should have sent a maid to find whatever it is Lady Templeton needs."

"No. No, it does not bother me a bit. Not anymore. We are often in this room. It feels like she is with us when we are here."

He stepped even closer. And she backed into the corner created by the wall and the wardrobe, though she'd already gone as far as she could.

"Are you scared of me?"

"No." Another eyeroll.

"Then are you hiding something?"

"No." All bravado gone.

"Then why do you retreat?"

"Why do you pursue me when you should be down the hall with Lottie?"

Because he didn't want Lottie. "Should we discuss the kiss?"

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again before she bit her bottom lip. "Since you are courting my sister, we should pretend it never happened."

"Impossible. I do not ignore facts." Or kisses that swept life through him, swept need and desire through him, too.

"I'm positive you are quite capable of achieving the impossible. You should return downstairs. It would not do for us to be caught together. Alone."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" He grinned, the one that often got him exactly what he wanted. This time he wanted a stout no. No, Mr. Kingston, I would never seek to rid myself of your company.

"Yes! That is exactly what I'm trying to do. So good of you to notice. Now do please be a decent fellow and—"

"Why do you wish to be rid of me?"

"Because you are a nuisance. Because you are meant to be courting Lottie, and the first time you appeared to do so, you kissed me. And the second time you appeared, you quite abandoned her to follow me."

"Yes, a clear pattern. I never ignore those." He cocked his head to the side. "You're annoyed with me."

"Oh, you noticed? I thought I hid it well." She pretended to pout.

"You liked the kiss." He wanted her to admit that before he admitted his true purpose. He needed the truth clear before them, so she could see it, too.

"Whether I liked it is neither here nor there."

That meant she'd liked it. Hell, that felt good.

"Why is your suitor not here?" he asked.

"Why does everyone ask that?" A statement of pure, unadulterated exasperation, the words blowing wisps of hair out of her face as her eyes rolled high.

"Because any man in his right mind would not wait four years to marry you once he'd won you. Aren't you ready to step into your future? It would make me itch, burn, to stay idle when what I wanted was just within reach. I couldn't do it. I'd feel stuck."

She sighed, rubbed her face in her hands. "I tire of this conversation. Return to Lottie, please."

He strolled across the room toward the open window and leaned against the frame. Beads of sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and the air from outside did not help cool him. She fascinated him. Every thought in her mind had free range across her face, from the dreamy desire to be courted he'd seen right before their kiss to her slight panic as she faced him now. He felt he could read her like he could the skies at night, like he could a book before falling asleep.

"Tell me about your betrothed." He wanted to watch her face as she spoke of him, see what he could find out about not just the man but how she felt for him. The last time she'd spoken of him, she'd not been able to meet his gaze.

"Hell and chaos," she muttered, sinking into the wall. Then she popped up and walked toward him, chin stubbornly high. "Very well. If you promise to leave after."

He nodded. He'd leave after he had what he wanted. Knowledge. Her, too. But knowledge paved the way for her.

She stopped on the other side of the window and leaned against the opposing frame, mirroring his position of crossed arms and high chin. She looked him square in the eye for one shaky breath, then she turned her attention out the window. "Lord Bashton is handsome, strong, and sweet. He is kind and charming and responsible and—"

"Not attentive." Her litany of perfect qualities felt like darts in his chest. They pricked and pained and annoyed.

"He's a focused man," she insisted.

"Not focused on you."

"On books. He is a scholar and a collector. We have that in common."

"You collect books?"

"In a way. My mother used to. And I have taken up her practice." She laid her temple against the windowpane and finally met his gaze. "My sisters and I have." She gave a quick laugh. "Do you know how we found my mother's books organized? By color. Not by title or author or even subject. Color. Quite the puzzle to figure out at first, but—"

"Do you know what system Lord Bashton uses to organize his books?" She had swiftly changed the subject from her betrothed, and he would not allow it. He could curve it right back around.

Her head swung as if it were a weathervane in a violent wind, and she peered out the window once more. "I've no clue, but I'm sure it's most sensible and brilliant. Now, I prefer to organize by subject, then author, then title, all alphabetically, of course."

Another swift change of subject away from Lord Bashton. Interesting.

"May I see?" He popped off the window and strode across the room to a small alcove where the walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves lined with books.

She ran after him. "No! Oh, ah, yes? Yes."

Why such hesitation? He turned.

And she rammed right into him, her chest, soft and lush, butting up against his own. Everywhere they touched, his body came to life, to acute awareness. Hell.

He set her away, put her at arm's length. For now. "You do not wish me to view your mother's books?"

"No!"

He frowned.

"Ah, I mean yes. This way." She grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the alcove. "These are organized in quite a different manner. By sister. Those are Lottie's." She pointed to one section of the wall, dropping his hand. "And those are mine. Then Prudence's, then Imogen's and Isabella's, and so on all the way to June." The younger sisters' sections were much smaller than the rest and seemed to contain slim books meant for children, hymn books, and poetry. "My mother put them this way. We have never changed it."

"But these are not organized by color."

She squeaked, closed her eyes.

"If you never changed the organization of her books, then—"

"A different collection. Her… rare books were organized by color. These use a different system."

"By child."

"Yes. She liked to have books for all of us in here, so we would be more likely to spend time with her." She looked over her shoulder at the large open space before the fire. "We used to sprawl out there every day, reading, chatting, laughing." She traced a finger down a thick spine.

"You miss your mother." Grief came off her in waves that hit him in the heart like a well-aimed arrow.

"Yes. Do you miss yours?"

"I do not remember her."

"You can still miss her."

He leaned his back on the shelves and scratched his jaw. "Can, but don't."

Her hand settled on his upper arm, the softest of touches.

He shrugged it off. "I know you said you do not care about my parentage, but I am surprised to see you so willing to discuss my mother." No one else was.

"I'm long past being shocked." She laughed, a bouncy thing of absolutely lightness that seemed to let sunlight into the alcove.

"Oh? And why is that?"

Her laughter stopped as quickly as it had begun. "No reason." If she'd had a lock on her lips, she'd have thrust the key into it and slammed the bolt home that very moment. "You should return to Lottie."

"Not yet. Which is your favorite?" he asked, perusing the books and ignoring her groan.

She appeared just beside him, their shoulders touching, and pulled a book from a shelf. "This." She handed it to him. "I suppose."

"Lyrical Ballads," he said, opening it. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I have always liked it. My mother used to read it to us."

"Nothing more recent? Not Pride and Prejudice? Everyone seems to love it."

She shook her head. "I've not read it. I do not read new books." She placed her palm on the spines. "Just these we already have. The ones that belonged to my mother."

"You should. My favorite book is Gulliver's Travels, a book my captain uncle gave me. But I've read Byron's poetry and a room full of other books. You may not have found your favorite book yet, Lady Andromeda. It's out there, waiting for you."

"Then it will have to wait awhile longer. Forever, perhaps." She spoke as if there was no one to hear.

But he heard. He snapped the book shut. Hell, he'd even felt. "Rubbish."

"You cannot tell me what to read, Mr. Kingston."

"I'll loan you my copy of Pride and Prejudice."

"And if I do not wish to read it?"

He leaned close. "You will."

"You cannot make me." She leaned closer, too, so that their bodies leaned together like lines about to cross.

"Then Bashton should. You're stuck."

She lurched away from him as if his words were bullets. "Why in heaven's name would Bashton tell me what to read? And I'm not stuck!"

He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against a shelf. He looked down at the top of her head. "You are a horrid liar, Lady Andromeda."

She inhaled and retreated toward the window.

He replaced the book on the shelf and followed. "If you do not wish to discuss fiction, Lady Andromeda, perhaps you can tell me what you're lying about?" Something was off. Nothing he could clearly see, a premonition only. But he'd learned to listen to those. It helped him see what stories readers would spend their hard-earned money on. She'd been searching for something when he arrived and evading his questions ever since.

She turned, punctuating the little twirl with a growl. "Leave, Mr. Kingston. I will entertain your presence no longer."

"What were you searching for when I entered? It could not have been the book you spoke of. Why would it be behind a wardrobe?"

Her mouth thinned, locking something away, and her eyes opened wide, spilling out more than she likely realized.

"Did you think to find a book behind the wardrobe?" he repeated.

She brushed her skirts, monitoring her motions with intense focus. "You must go court Lottie, or the other men will win her. You need a respectable wife, yes? She's as respectable as they come."

Something odd about that last bit, something… sour.

"I'm not scared of a little competition."

"I'm sure you're not," she mumbled.

"Do you want me to return to your sister?"

"O-of course!"

"Do you want me to kiss your sister?"

"What kind of question is that?" There they went again, those cheeks burning apple red.

"Do you blush everywhere, Lady Andromeda, or—"

She growled and fisted her hands in her skirts. "Oooh! Leave. I must retrieve the book for Lady Templeton."

"Why can't you do so in my presence?" He hooked his thumbs in his trouser waistband and rocked back on his heels.

Her head fell back on her neck with a moan of frustration that his body interpreted as a moan of quite a different sort. "This is my own personal hell, isn't it?" She darted toward him, swung him toward the door, circled behind him, pressed her palms into his back, and pushed.

And got nowhere.

He looked at her over his shoulder. "You think to move me?"

She pushed again, to no avail, so she put her shoulder against him and used her body weight. "Yes. I'd. Hoped. So." Each word a grunt.

He chuckled and gave way. She fell into him, and he tried his best not to enjoy the feel of it. But too soon her feet scrambled to right herself, and she no longer rested against him.

"Consider me moved, Captain," he said, walking into the hallway.

"Thank heavens. Wait. Captain?"

He watched her over his shoulder. "Because you're always ordering me about. Don't despair, though. I like being ordered about." He winked, then left. Or almost left. He swung around and slapped his palm into the door swinging his way, stopping it from slamming shut in his face. "Lady Andromeda?" He beamed down at her.

She scowled up at him.

"I've decided not to court your sister. I've decided to court you." He'd not meant to tell her, to increase her resistance to him, but the temptation had proven too much. He wanted her to know. Needed her to know he pursued her and no other woman.

Her eyes were moons now, large and luminous and panicked. She put all her weight into the door, pushed, and grunted, and he slowly released his hold. Didn't want her to fall. The door clicked home in its lock, and he said, "I'll return."

"Go to—"

He swept down the hall before he could hear the rest of her statement.

Chuckling, he stepped back out into the heat of the London day. Lady Andromeda. Not only did his body buzz to life in her presence, but his brain did, too. She was a determined little minx, a desirable bundle of womanhood, and a delectable mystery. Some of his favorite things wrapped up in a flowery scent he couldn't wash away. He'd been right. She was the right lady to woo.