when I wish to be seen.”
“Shhh,” Declan said, but he thought, You must want me to see you very much.
I see only you.
Darkness pervaded the carriage room. The corners were swallowed by shadows. The duke’s four vehicles loomed like carriage-shaped voids. A distant window offered a dusty rectangle of silver moonlight. Declan blinked, willing his eyes to adjust. He closed the door gently with his hip and pivoted. For a long moment, he held her, listening, alert for any stray movement or sound.
In his arms, she breathed in and out. Her breath on his neck was a caress. It wrecked his concentration.
You were in jail too long, he told himself. Across the room, he could just make out a workbench, clean and level. He strode to it, plunking her down.
“You have five minutes,” he said.
She jolted when her bottom hit the bench—“Oof!”—but did not resist. She reached out for balance, clasping his biceps with both hands.
“Five,” he repeated, staring at her bare fingers on his arms. His own hands were buried in layers of white fabric, holding tightly to the curve of her waist.
“And what should I say in these five allotted minutes?”
“You’re joking?”
“Yes,” she said coolly, “I’m joking. It is such a lark when servants take me up and haul me into dark rooms to interrogate me. Which, by the way, is precisely the behavior of a spy.”
“Not this again,” he groaned.
“Of course, this.”
“My lady . . .” he warned. His hands slid from her waist. He stepped back.
She held up a hand. “Look, Shaw, I know you are not a groom. I know Girdleston assigned you to me for some restrictive, duplicitous reason. My work avoiding this wedding is too important for me not to know your assignment or the reason for it.”
“Fine,” he said. “If I was a spy, do you think I would tell you?”
“If you were a spy, a real spy, I don’t think you would have allowed the library to go unchecked. And yet Girdleston appears to know nothing. If you were a spy, you would not be entertaining me in this stable—”
“I’m not entertaining you.”
“You are not marching back to the house.” She raised an eyebrow. “Please be aware: if you are a spy, you are very bad at it.”
“I am a groom,” he tried.
“If you are a groom, you are familiar and entitled and bossy.”
“Your five minutes are up.”
“I need more time.”
“And I need you safely back inside the house.”
“Your relation to me, spy or otherwise, was not the only reason I’ve come. I have something else to ask you.”
“I have nothing else to tell you,” he said, but in truth, he thought he could talk to her all night.
“It’s not a question, it’s a request. And your answer will inform all my other concerns. I need your help.”
Declan went still. This sounded like a trap. “What help? The kind of help available from a stable groom?”
She shrugged. “Possibly. It’s for tomorrow. There’s a party I’m meant to attend with my mother and sisters.”
“And what is proven if I refuse to help?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Do not trouble yourself. The important thing is, if you do it, it will help me a great deal. And if you refuse, your loyalties will be revealed. And I can make do.”
Declan tried to make sense of this. “How will my loyalties be revealed?”
She shrugged. “Will you listen to the request?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You could haul me inside and hand me over to Girdleston. But that, too, would tell me so much.”
Declan sighed. She’d known that she would be safe here with him. She’d known that Girdleston would not be informed. He was doomed. He was utterly doomed.
“Right,” she said, forging ahead. “Here is my request. This party should include the usual trappings, tea and cake, with droves of gossipy women and piles of gifts. So many gifts, in fact, I believe we will require several carriages for the purpose of conveying them home. I cannot imagine that grooms will not be part of this . . . transport.”
“The coachman mentioned this,” he said cautiously.
She planted her hands on the bench, sending waves of billowing fabric puffing in drifts down her body. “Well, because you are my private groom, I should like to have you there to attend me. Inside this party.”
“Inside a ladies’ tea party?”
“Actually, it’s a garden party,” she mused. “That is, if the weather holds. Lady Canning’s garden is a great source of vanity. If it is remotely mild and dry,