Page 29

“The sun does not come into this room at this time of day.”

She finished shoving the manuscript back into her writing desk and snapped the lid closed. West raised his eyebrows. But all he said was, “I have decided to sail up past Burano to one of the larger islands tomorrow. The weather has been rather warm. It will be refreshing to be on the water. I thought that you might like to make some of your sketches.”

“Sketches?” Her thoughts had been so taken up with the catastrophe of her book that she seemed to have lost the ability to follow normal conversation. “Oh. Sketches.”

She did not want to sketch. She was not good at sketching. She was not good at anything. She felt as though the whole world could look in the open window and see her exposed as not only a failed authoress, but a failed… everything. She just wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head.

But she couldn’t tell West that. And it was too difficult to think of an excuse. “What sort of an island is it?”

“I am told that there are farms and vineyards and a little village. In this weather it will make for a pleasant walk.”

Nothing mattered now anyway. Besides, she already knew that she could paint a vineyard. “Very well. Why not, I suppose. It is not as though I have anything to show for all my time here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She froze. What had she been thinking? “Nothing. Nothing at all.” She must be more tired than she’d realized.

He hesitated a moment longer. “Well.” His voice dropped to a more intimate pitch. “Then I shall look forward to your company. As I always do. Though I wish that you would join me now.”

Had he gone mad? She put her hand reflexively to her hair. “But I—I look dreadful.”

He looked puzzled. He reached casually past her cheek and took one of the loose ringlets between his fingers. “You most certainly do not.”

She ought to give him some sort of set-down. But her brain wasn’t working anyway, and now the feeling of his hand toying with that strand of hair was sending tingles all the way from her scalp to her spine, to her lower belly… She wished that he would stop. “I did ask you not to interrupt me when I…” She took a breath. “In fact, I really must to get back to… to…” Her mind wouldn’t supply the word.

His eyes were fixed on face. They dropped to her mouth. His fingers still held the loose strand of her hair. She felt as though she was tethered to him. She couldn’t seem to move. He bent toward her. There was a moment when she might have pulled away. And then his mouth came down on hers.

The slightly sandpapery feel of the skin around his mouth, the heat of his lips teasing hers, the scent of his shaving soap… Her senses were flooded with him. Her body had been asleep, cramped, hunched miserably in her chair. Now every nerve was alive, and every kiss seemed to begin before the last one had ended.

Her fingers had strayed again to the back of his neck and were twined in his hair. That feeling of her clothes being too hot, too tight, too… many returned. She wanted to… No.

She pulled away. Her hair jerked out of his fingers with a sharp tug. Her face was burning hot.

There was a silence. “Is something wrong?” he asked, finally.

How close she’d come to… to throwing herself at him—right here in the library! It was mortifying. “I beg your pardon. I shall not keep you from your walk. I am quite busy—as you see.”

He studied her a moment. “If you wish to join me, I should be glad of your company.”

“Join you? Looking like this?” She took another step backward. “I should need to have my maid to put my hair up, and change into a promenade dress, and…” She broke off. “After all, people expect a duchess to look a certain way.”

“I should not mind waiting. I am on no particular schedule.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh. “It is only a walk. I mean to go to St. Mark’s, and take a turn or three about the square. Fare una passeggiata, as the Italians call it. St. Mark’s is where everyone goes to see and be seen. It is rather like driving on Rotten Row—only later in the day, and without a carriage.”

Despite herself she was intrigued “Is it?”

“Yes. In fact, Bonaparte himself once called St. Mark’s Square ‘the drawing room of Europe.’ You will meet any number of people. Perhaps even Lord Byron—or some of your gallant middle-aged admirers from the Austrian delegation.”

That brought her back to reality. She didn’t want to meet people. People didn’t like her. “They did not admire me. They tolerated me. And that was only because Lady Theodosia’s husband was a hero in the war. Anyway, I am too busy.”

“Ah.” His face fell a little. His eyes strayed to her writing desk. It was plain that he wanted to ask her what she was doing.

Annoyingly enough, she’d had a letter from Lady Theodosia only that morning that said, “I do hope that you are not using the excuse of your work to avoid meeting people and enjoying yourself in Venice with the duke.”

Nobody understood the pressure that she was under. She drew herself up. “It is quite out of the question.”

“I am disappointed to hear that.” And before she could react, he bent and kissed her again. His lips brushed hers softly, and the smoldering heat in her lower belly flared rebelliously into an open blaze. Without even meaning to she leaned closer as he deepened the kiss. Once again she felt herself tumbling into a useless jumble of thoughts, excuses about a dalliance in the library…

“I beg your pardon.” She jerked back. “I—I have a good deal to do here.”