A Promise by Daylight. Alison DeLaine

might have liked. His comfort? Oh, indeed—but not at all in the manner she meant. “Thank you, Mr. Germain. I’m doing well enough at the moment. Are you settling in?”

      “Yes.”

      “And everything is to your satisfaction?”

      “Not at all, Your Grace.”

      Somehow that was no longer a surprise. He watched her wander into the library and wondered if she realized how much her face gave away as she stared at the vast shelves.

      She had a hunger for these books that he could scarcely fathom.

      Her lips were parted a little, and he studied them, only now realizing that he knew their curve and color by heart.

      He returned his attention to the book. “There are some who find my estate quite comfortable, believe it or not,” he said, feeling unaccountably grouchy.

      “No doubt they do.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her move closer. He shifted his eyes, watching her legs as she moved. “What are you reading?”

      His gaze snapped back to the page. “A treatise about tidal flats.”

      “Have you a particular interest in tidal flats?”

      “Yes.” He’d never thought about tidal flats in his life. “I find them fascinating.”

      “Indeed? I never would have guessed.” She didn’t sound pleased.

      “I can hardly keep my eyes from the page.” He started to read aloud. “‘The lugworm is a creature that buries itself in the soft, wet sands,’” he began, then wished he hadn’t, because the concept of being buried in anything soft and wet was not helpful. He skimmed ahead. Ah, yes. “‘It feeds on detritus left behind by other creatures, such as the fecal matter of clams and other burrowing mollusks.’” He looked up at Miles and smiled. “Fascinating.”

      That line appeared above her lip. “Such a marked change from your interests in Paris, which as I recall, were—”

      “I am quite aware of what they were.” He looked up now, straight into her eyes—good God, he knew those by heart now, too, with their deep brown streaks set in rich walnut—and held her gaze on purpose, but she refused to look away. “As I’ve said, this house is my retreat from the world.” Starting yesterday, anyhow. “When I’m here, I indulge all of my quieter interests.”

      “Such as reading.” She said it doubtfully, as if she wondered whether he could read at all.

      “Among other things, yes.”

      “What other things?”

      Oh, for God’s sake. “Any number of things. Was there something you wanted, Mr. Germain?”

      Because the longer she stood there, the more there was something he wanted, and he could not start down that road or there would be no end to the torment. He was alone in this blasted house, and the only women here now were the servants, whom he refused to turn to because he wasn’t running a brothel...

      And her.

      She smiled tightly. “Not at all, Your Grace. I shall leave you. Happy reading.”

      Oh, indeed. He let his eyes follow her as she walked out—her legs, anyhow, encased in their breeches—and thought of something that would make him incredibly happy, and it had nothing to do with reading.