The Duke Heist (The Wild Wynchesters #1) - Erica Ridley Page 0,55
could not indulge such desires.
Chloe’s fingers slid into his hair, dislodging his bonnet from his head. As she stroked the hair at his nape, his entire body felt like purring in pleasure. It required all of his willpower not to pet her even more intimately in response. To show her just how sensual a touch could be. He wanted her to luxuriate in his kisses, to come apart in his hands.
But these were not gentlemanly thoughts. These were the craven yearnings of a man who took far more than he ought to have. To keep kissing her would risk offering more of his soul than he was prepared to give.
In an act of self-preservation, he wrenched his mouth from hers.
She blinked up at him, her eyes sleepy with passion, her lips plump and kissable, her hands still twined about his neck. If he did not find a chaste distraction quickly, he would tumble her onto the closest sofa and lose what little good sense remained.
He wracked his jumbled thoughts for an activity that might not lead to lovemaking.
“Come see my”—he floundered for a suitable word—“library.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “All right.”
And just like that, his rampant desire was washed out by an icy wave of dread.
He never allowed visitors into his library. It was locked for a reason. The last time anyone had glimpsed these paintings had been during the previous year’s end-of-season gala. He’d thought Miss York would like the painting she’d complimented, but her response had been tepid at best. Nothing like Chloe’s surprise and delight at his gift of bonnets.
He tucked her fingers about his arm and led her to his sanctuary. What would she think?
The shelves were not as full as they had once been. Their sparseness did not bother him. He came to the library not just to read but to gaze upon its walls. All that remained of the Faircliffe treasures hung in gilded frames. This, too, was a much thinner collection than it had once been. But, gathered together in one room, the art that remained appeared magnificent.
To Lawrence.
With trepidation, he turned to face Chloe. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide with wonder.
“It’s like a museum,” she breathed.
His knees almost buckled in relief. Museums were good. People flocked there. His chest swelled. She thought his library was fine. He thought she was wonderful.
“It’s my favorite room,” he admitted. The only blight was the empty pedestal where his mother’s angel vase belonged. “Do you want to meet my ancestors?”
“Can I?”
He led her to the wall where he’d relocated what had once been the Hall of Portraits. “This is Loftus Gosling, the first Duke of Faircliffe.”
“He has kind eyes,” Chloe replied. “And a darling dog.”
“That is a very serious man with a very serious companion, out and about on the very serious business of hunting.”
“Mmm. If you say so.”
“All the Faircliffe men have been renowned for their solemnity.” He winced. “Except my father.”
“Do you mean ‘until’ your father? What about the present Duke of Faircliffe?”
“I am very serious and solemn,” he protested. “I have on multiple occasions been called as hard as a glacier.”
“Mmm,” she said again. “Perhaps because they haven’t seen you in a bonnet.”
“It was a very serious bonnet,” he murmured. “The serious-est. If you found it silly, it is because you are silly. I’m at my most statesmanlike with several colorful woodland creatures pinned to my head.”
“Aren’t we all,” she agreed, and set her bonnet at a rakish angle. “Who is this next gentleman?”
Lawrence took her through them one by one, introducing her to great-great-grandparents and recounting family legends. It had been his mother who had shared the old family stories with him, passing them down at night as bedtime stories. He cherished each and every one.
A series of portraits was not the same as having a large family, but it was as close as Lawrence could get. Standing there, picturing the old stories in his mind’s eye, made him feel a little less alone.
He’d always planned on continuing the tradition with his own children one day. Yet this was the first time he’d thought to share those tales with a friend. Not just any friend—with Chloe.
“My favorite bit,” she said, “was how your grandfather won your grandmother. My brother’s favorite would be that he named his horse after his great-great-grandfather’s.”
Perhaps Lawrence’s grandfather had gone to sleep listening to the same bedside tales.
“That does it,” he said. “I’m renaming my horses after the ones in these paintings.”