Page 40 of As the Devil Dares

“And why were you in the garden?” she pressed. “The ladies were all asking where my handsome escort had gone.”

There was poison somewhere in that, he was certain, but he knew not to antagonize. Instead, he drawled, “There’s only so much talk about muslin a man can tolerate before he goes mad.”

When she opened her mouth to give that the retort it deserved, he took her arm. “In here.”

He pulled her out of the hall and through a double doorway.

She stopped in surprise to gaze at the room. “The library?”

In answer, he tugged at one of the books. With a soft click, a hidden door opened and the false façade of the bookcase gave way to reveal a shelf filled with crystal tumblers and bottles of all kinds. He grinned. “Where Chesney keeps his best liquor.”

She swept her gaze around the room. “It’s amazing,” she whispered, a touch of awe in her voice. “I don’t think I’ve seen a private library in London to match it.”

“My family believes in the value of books.” He liberated one of the bottles and a crystal tumbler from the stash and set them on the nearby reading table. “They also believe in the value of good drink.” When her eyes met his as a smile of amusement tugged at her ripe lips, her glance warmed through him. Spurred on by that moment’s quiet connection, he revealed a private part of himself by admitting, “I’m hoping to have a grand library myself someday.”

“I believe you will,” she murmured, turning her attention back to the room around her.

She slowly circled the room, taking in the floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves, the dark walnut paneling and wine-colored drapes, the Turkish rug…She stopped in front of the marble fireplace and looked up at the painting hanging over it.

His gaze followed hers—

His father’s portrait. His heart skipped with a pained ache. Good God. For the first time, he’d walked into this room and forgotten that portrait was here, and he wasn’t prepared for the rush of guilt that swept over him because of it. Or the grief.

“Richard Carlisle, Duke of Trent, Baron Althorpe,” he offered in explanation, hoping his voice sounded normal. Then added quietly, “My father.”

She threw him a surprised glance over her shoulder before returning her attention to the painting. “It’s a lovely portrait.”

A copy of the one his father sat for when he was granted the dukedom, the painting had been commissioned by Josephine when he died. She’d wanted it simply because she wanted a portrait of her father in her home to remember him by, never suspecting how the sight of it cut raw slices into Robert’s heart. Nor would he ever tell her. Richard Carlisle had been the man who saved her from the hell of the orphanage, loving and raising her as one of his own, while Robert was the man who took all that away.

“Your father was a very handsome man,” she commented softly.

He forced a grin as he splashed the whiskey into his glass, not feeling at all jocular. “People say I resemble him.”

She sniffed and turned away from the portrait. “I don’t see it.”

His lips twisted at that. Mariah, true to form.

“Sit down so I can clean you up,” she ordered gently, gesturing at two leather chairs pulled up to the reading table. When he hesitated, she heaved out an exasperated breath. “Oh, don’t worry! You’re safe with me.” As he began to sit, she added, “After all, I haven’t murdered anyone in a library all week.”

He froze for a heartbeat, then pinned her with a look as he finished lowering himself into the chair. “Just the garden, then?”

Her eyes danced mischievously as she took the chair next to his. “Death by kitten.”

Damnable woman. When he clenched his jaw and began to rise from his chair, she placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him and softened her gaze as she looked up at him. Faint remorse shone in her eyes for teasing him.

He let out a patient breath and settled into the chair.

“Show me your arm,” she ordered gently.

He stretched his forearm across the reading table toward her, then raised the glass and gratefully took a long swallow. Both to ease the pain of the scratches on his arm and the hollow ache in his heart.

“You did get quite a wounding, didn’t you?” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her pelisse and gently dabbed at his arm to clean off the droplets of blood clinging to the jagged scratches. “Who knew a tiny kitten could be so lethal to such a big, strong man?”

Enough. With an aggravated sigh, he began to rise from the chair.

“Carlisle.” She brushed her hand down his forearm before he could pull away completely, a soft caress that tickled up his arm and made his breath hitch. Her hand slid into his, palm to palm, and he felt her pulse beating gently against his own where their wrists touched. She gave an apologetic squeeze to his fingers, one that sped through him with a heated electricity that tingled at the backs of his knees.

He slowly eased back down.