Rogue in Red Velvet. Lynne Connolly

the company of the other guests, Alex treated her with polite respect, but no more. It suited her, she told herself stoutly. At least neither were pretending their friendship was anything other than he had said but she did wonder why he hadn’t bolted from his unwanted, ardent suitors before now.

      Escaping from the prospect of what promised to become an excruciating musicale one afternoon, she made her way to a small storeroom, where she found another nest of family books. Thankfully, these were collections of letters, bound into volumes, rather than the huge inventories and she carried the half dozen books into the library, to the table she had commandeered for her use during this visit.

      She paused in the doorway. “Good afternoon, sir.”

      Alex glanced up and smiled, then returned to his book. He’d come here for the last few days, poring over the receipt books she’d found the day she met him. “Did you know they made their own spirit here in the old days? It was called raspberry cordial but from the ingredients listed here it contained considerably more than raspberries and water. They were skilled at the use of the still. Ladies could indulge in spirits without appearing unladylike, one imagines.”

      “And ratafia is different?” She put the books down at the end of the table. “Flavored with almonds but completely lethal. I’ve seen one of my aunts take glass after glass and not able to stand up at the end of the evening. Aunt Joleta is famous for the problems she has with her legs. It isn’t her legs, it’s her balance.”

      He looked up, a smile wreathing his features. “I have relatives like that. One of my aunts never goes anywhere without her sedan chair and a pair of sturdy footmen to carry her around. Sometimes I look forward to old age. They call it eccentricity. In me it would be something far worse.”

      Age would suit him. She doubted he’d lose his power or that magnetic presence.

      She shook her head. “Sometimes it’s because they have nothing else. They’re missing something.”

      He straightened. “Sometimes it’s because they aren’t satisfied with what they have.”

      “Are you speaking from experience?” She should really put a guard on her tongue, but with him it was so easy to say what she thought.

      He nodded curtly. “I’ve known people like that. They destroy everything to get what they want. Then they don’t want it.”

      “Will you be like that?” She shouldn’t have asked such an impertinent question and turned away, picked up one of the books. “I’m sorry. I always say too much. I try so hard not to but it happens. Could you pretend I didn’t say that?” Usually she had no problems with people she didn’t know well but she found herself relaxing far too much around him and not reminding herself who he was and what he represented. Money, power, influence.

      “No.” He sounded closer.

      His proximity disturbed her, sent her heart racing and tightened her throat. Even now, even when she couldn’t see him or feel him, she sensed him. The scent of his light citrusy cologne washed over her in a seductive wave. Ignoring it was no longer possible, although she’d tried to do it for days now.

      “No, I won’t pretend. People do that too much. You’re charming, Connie, and you shouldn’t let people cow you.”

      While not shy, she was so very aware of what people said about her. A childhood of blurting out inappropriate comments had only added to her discomfort in company. She was supposed to not care but she did and sometimes it hurt too much, even when the criticism came from people she didn’t particularly care about. “I should have a thicker skin.”

      “Or someone who understands you and wants to take care of you. Do you think Jasper Dankworth will do that?”

      She didn’t look on Jasper as a soul mate. “I’m sure I can learn to live with my unfortunate vulnerability. Please don’t concern yourself.”

      She turned, the book she’d picked up, forming an effective barrier between them. “I found some letters this morning. Shall we see if they connect with the entries in the inventories?”

      He returned to the inventories. “What dates do you have?”

      “This one is 1589.”

      She flipped through the letters. “These are a quarter of a century later. A shame because they won’t marry up. What about the other inventories?”

      She was glad of his help with the heavy books they’d collected in the dusty storeroom, now thankfully properly cleaned. He spread them out on the long table and she opened the letters and flipped through them. At least they’d been bound in roughly date order. She fetched the other documents and books she’d discovered and they matched them to the books by date, occasionally reading out juicy extracts, showing the quaint habits of a bygone age, or strange connections with their own.

      Slowly a picture formed, of people and the way they lived. Not dry historical characters but living, breathing people. “I love this.”

      He glanced at her. “I can tell. You glow when you make a new discovery. In a way, it’s a shame you don’t hire yourself out doing this kind of work. My father would employ you in a heartbeat.” He leaned back in his high-backed chair, one he’d pulled over from a nearby window embrasure. “You could make a career of it.”

      “The Downhollands have an interesting history.” Her heart quickened. She’d dearly love to, but because of her birth, her status and her sex, she had little opportunity. “Careers are for men.”

      “Tell that to the florists of London, the women who run successful businesses in the city and for that matter, the housekeepers and lady’s maids.”

      She turned with a smile. “That’s a very enlightened point of view.”

      He shrugged. “It’s a practical one. I’ve never ignored what I can see and experience.” The expression in his eyes heated, and their gazes locked and held. Slowly he got to his feet and stood over her.

      She didn’t give way this time. He gazed at her and this time she met the warm, desirous expression in his dark eyes, the way he crowded her, as if to protect her. But danger lay in his closeness, an intimacy she didn’t know how to manage. Her body responded, softening and dampening for him.

      “So what am I experiencing here?” he murmured. Someone on the other side of the table wouldn’t have heard him clearly.

      She licked her suddenly dry lips. “I don’t know.”

      “I think you do.” His arms went around her, holding her close to his strong body and he brought his mouth down to hers.

      She expected fast ravishment but what she got was slow seduction. His lips touched hers, then he grazed them, adding a final, loving touch that she couldn’t resist.

      He held her in his thrall, spellbound and finally she admitted the truth of her feelings for him. She wanted him, so much, and even though she couldn’t have him, she’d at least have this. She’d lain awake longing to know what his kiss was like, how he’d feel.

      Exquisite, that was how. His tongue flicked out and touched her lips, outlined them. The featherlike brush sensitized her, readied her for him, made her want to feel him deeper, more intimately.

      She parted her lips, just a little. He darted his tongue in, tasting, then out, then with a groan, he tilted his head and pressed his mouth more firmly over hers, sealing them together. She grasped his waist, impatiently shoving his coat aside, getting as close as she could to that firm, male skin. Only his waistcoat. He spread his hands over her back and held her close, making her feel absurdly safe, all the time plundering her like a pirate. He swept his tongue into her mouth, exploring her like a man dying of thirst. She gave a single sigh of acceptance and relaxed back into his arms, letting him support her.

      She’d never experienced anything like this, this sense of oneness, of two people striving together toward a mutual end. He tasted wonderful as he marked his presence on her heart and soul, there for all