A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,12

she said, “for a groom.”

He flashed her a look: And?

And nothing, she thought. Everything about this exchange was inappropriate, the unconscious duke, the dim warren of shelves, the family elsewhere in the house. Years later, she would ask herself why. Why not flee the library? Why not ignore him and go about her business in silence?

Her reason, she thought, then and now, was that she was so very weary of fleeing and silence.

He ambled behind her, coming up close, closer than before. How close, she wondered, would he come?

Close enough to whisper his purpose?

Close enough to touch?

The thought of touching him, of glancing her hand on his arm, or shoulder, or broad back, became a mesmerizing distraction in an already distracting conversation.

Before this moment, Helena’s proximity to men had been the bouncy distance of a quadrille or the itchy distance of apple-tree shoots, but now dancing and apple trees were the furthest things from her mind. Her senses were fixed on this man in a way she could scarcely understand. Her whole consciousness seemed to reach in his direction.

And he’d called her sweetheart.

And he’d looked at the duke with open disgust.

And he wanted to make a deal.

She stopped walking and leaned against the shelf, her back resting against the books. He came up beside her, close enough to smell—wind, and horses, and man. She felt as if she was hemmed in by his body, and she liked it.

He reached for a shelf above their heads and hooked his hand on the ledge. He looked down, and she turned her face up. They did not touch but they were nestled, like a soft chestnut inside its hard shell. They were a silent, matched pair of indecision and judgment. The air between them strummed with a strange, delicious tension. Helena felt light and twitchy and expectant.

By sheer force of will, she began with an obvious lie. “My business is . . . I’m making the duke comfortable until pudding.”

“Hilarious,” he said. “Try again.”

She smothered a laugh and rolled from the shelf. She followed the aisle to the end. He was behind her in an instant, eliciting a senseless thrill. But hadn’t Gran always said that senseless thrills were the very best kind? Why risk everything to avoid the duke if not to experience thrills that made no sense?

I want to tell him, she realized.

The reasons were piling up. She was weary of running. She wanted to state her opposition to someone who would listen. Would Declan Shaw listen? He’d certainly asked her enough times. He was veritably begging her to tell him more.

So he might use it against me, she thought—her last useful thought; her swan song before she revealed all the things she’d wanted to say for years.

She stopped suddenly and spun. He was on her heels, he came up short, and they collided. He reached out and caught her. She felt his strength as if she’d bumped into a tree. She did not pull away.

“I won’t marry the duke,” she whispered. “In case there was any doubt.”

There. She’d said it. The first damning thing.

“Why not?”

“No one asks me that.”

“I’m asking.”

She felt a shimmer inside of her. She looked up. “Because you are a spy.”

“I am a groom.”

“Neither spy nor groom would be privy to this answer.”

“Tell me anyway,” he whispered, tipping his head. He broadened his stance, giving her room. He did not let go.

The answer, she realized, was bursting to come out.

“I won’t marry him because he is ridiculous. And drunk most of the time. Because he’s made no effort to know me. Because the very little he does know about me, he doesn’t like—a sentiment I share. Furthermore, the Somerset estates that will merge because of our marriage will represent a giant financial windfall for both families. His family’s mines and my family’s river will mean more efficient transport of limestone to the Bay of Bristol. Apparently, this arrangement has needed only a wedding to be realized. Two families who are already so very rich will become richer—but at the cost of an ancient forest very dear to me, and the crofters who currently call the forest home. I cultivate a very rare variety of apples, you see—”

“The apple you offered me?”

“Yes, and how unfortunate you refused it. I gave it to a footman. They are delicious. And the season is over.”

“I wanted to take it.”

She paused at this, studying his face. He was so very handsome.

Slowly, she finished her admission. “Lastly, I will not marry him because