A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,11
frustrated pause. “Look, sweetheart, I’m here to serve. Whatever you need.” Another pause. “Obviously.”
Helena felt color rise into her cheeks. No servant had ever referred to her as anything but “my lady” or “Lady Helena,” and she’d never been called “sweetheart,” not once. She slid from the desk, twitchy and unsettled. Two parallel bookshelves stretched to the back of the room, and she disappeared between them, studying titles. First insubordination and impertinence and now sweetheart?
“What’s to be found in the duke’s study?” Shaw asked—same question, new variation. He was definitely a spy. How stupid and careless had she been? Acquiring a spy within ten minutes of her arrival? She cursed under her breath.
“Can you read, Mr. Shaw?” she asked.
“Yes, I read.” His tone made it obvious that she’d insulted him. She told herself that she didn’t care. She told herself that she would send him away, in earnest this time. She kept walking.
“You’re searching for something?” he guessed.
“I’m searching, and you’re spying,” she said. “How astute we both are.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“No?” she asked. “So you’ve not been hired by Titus Girdleston to follow, and observe, and report like a spy?”
She reached the end of the shelf—a vast collection on dog breeds and animal husbandry—and turned, disappearing down another cavern of shelves.
“Nope . . .” He followed her.
“If you are not a spy,” she said, “and you are not a groom—”
“I am a groom.”
She whirled around. “You look nothing like a groom. You’re too large, you show absolutely no deference, and you look ridiculous in livery. No man of your . . . your . . . bearing would pursue employment that stipulated yellow velvet. No groom would stalk me through a library.”
“If you thought I was something other than a groom, then why did you agree to my service?”
Ah, the question of the century, she thought. Second only to, Why am I arguing with you now?
He persisted. “When Girdleston offered, why not refuse?”
She said, “You looked useful.”
“I am useful.”
“And you looked biddable.”
“I’m—”
He struggled to confirm this. She wanted to laugh. If her time in the study had not been so incredibly risky, and fraught, and fleeting, she would have laughed. But every moment in Lusk House was risky, fraught, and fleeting and there was no time for laughter. There was also no time for this conversation, and yet—
“You thought I was stupid,” he realized.
“Your face did not have the look of inherent cruelness,” she corrected, speaking to the books. “You did not look mean.”
“You thought you could manage me,” he corrected.
She looked up. “I can manage you.”
“You cannot,” he shot back. “And you should know that I am very . . .” he swallowed, “. . . mean.”
Now she did laugh, and they heard the duke stir. Helena clamped a hand over her mouth, looking at Shaw with wide eyes.
Shhh, he motioned, a finger to his lips. They leaned to see around the shelf. The duke rolled to his side, mashing his doughy face against the leather, and resumed snoring.
He whispered, “And I’m not a spy.”
“Then what are you?”
He paused, staring into her eyes. She stared back, relishing the opportunity to study the handsome symmetry of his face. His jaw was angled, his nose exactly the right size, his mouth full but wholly masculine. He looked confident and commanding but not petty. He did not look like he would take advantage of her simply because he was big and strong and was employed by her sworn enemy. It was something about his eyes, she thought.
She wondered where Girdleston had found him. Most of the Lusk House servants were stiff and sour and had worked for the family for their entire lives. Her impression on previous visits had been a sort of “stoic loyalty” among the staff. This man had the bearing of someone who . . . who might be only passing through.
Finally, Shaw spoke. “How about you tell me your purpose, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“I beg your pardon?” The words Absolutely not shot immediately to the tip of her tongue. And yet—
And yet she could not seem to say the words. He stood very close. So close her skirts brushed against his boot. Close enough to see a scar below his ear. She had the vague instinct to take a step back. I should run, she thought. Instead, she licked her upper lip. He stared at her mouth.
Slowly, he repeated, “How about you tell me your—”