Page 50 of The Duke’s Masked Wallflower

She followed not long after with a candle in one hand and a new book in the other. Heading up the wide staircase and along the gallery corridor toward her own room, she stopped halfway down.

Gabriel stood there in the dark, in his shirt sleeves, his cravat loosened, and his hair disordered, like he had been running his hands through it.

But what is he doing here? Rosalie thought, pausing at the end of the corridor, unnoticed. On the way to my room?

She took another step forward and was betrayed by the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath her. Cursing old houses, she stopped in her tracks as Gabriel turned. His face flashed with surprise, perhaps horror, and then with relief.

“It’s only you,” he whispered, laughing quietly. “I thought it was a ghost. What are you doing, Miss Winthrop, wandering my house at all hours? Should we have locked up our valuables?” He came closer. “What is that under your arm?”

“A book,” she said, equally as quiet as he had been. She shot a careful look at the doors on either side of the hall, unable to remember who had been assigned which room. “I found I could not sleep.”

He observed her for a moment, his head tilted to the side. His eyes were heavy with either sleep or the drink Lord Beaumont had said they had imbibed.

Then, he grinned. “I know perfectly well what you were doing. My friend the marquess told me he had spied you before he went off to bed himself. I do hope he was proper with you.”

Rosalie’s eyes widened. “Entirely proper,” she protested. “He would not... I would never...”

“Hush now,” he told her, shaking his head. “It is more of my teasing. I do like to tease you sometimes, don’t I?”

“I do not like it when you do,” she said, half-sincerely. “I must retire to my room.” She moved past him, her heart racing so hard she was certain he could hear it, and she paused in front of her door. “Are you not retiring?”

“I might,” he said, leaning himself against the wall, “now that I know you did not trip up the stairs and break your neck in a tumble.”

“Sadly, I have no such confidence that you will make your way to your chamber in one piece.”

“Have faith in me. It is not far from yours.” His smile was disarming, and Rosalie hated the effect it had on her. “I could navigate this house blind, anyway. Though I will not stop you if you wish to escort me, Ros.”

“Ros?” No one had ever called her that. Why was he coming up with nicknames for her now?

“Do you not like that either?”

“I am so used to Rosie.”

“I like Ros for you. And what about the house? How do you like it? I am sorry I was so far away from you when you arrived.”

“I...” She looked at him, her throat closing in on itself as he came closer again, refusing to maintain an appropriate amount of space between them. Her body felt cold and exposed beneath her nightclothes; her hair, worn loose, was like chainmail over her shoulders. “It is the loveliest house I have ever seen. Fourteenth century, so lovely... built under Henry VI...”

“My little historian, my favorite scholar. Would that you had been my tutor instead of that old bore Mr. Crawley.” If he had not been so deep in his cups, she could have mistaken the look in his eyes for one of admiration rather than inebriation. “He used to teach me here, you know? I was worried you would find the house cold. It has not always felt warm to me... but it is warmer now.”

He reached out and touched her arm. The gesture was so light, just above the wrist, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of her sleeve. For a moment neither of them moved, the candle between them casting their shadows long against the wall.

Was it true what her mother had said, that he was much more tragic than he pretended to be? Or did Rosalie want to see him as a tragic hero to explain the ache behind her breast every time he was nearby? To think of him as someone uncomplicated and vulnerable, and not just someone who was playing with her for his own vain amusement?

His fingers pressed deeper into the flesh of her arm, leaving dents where his skin connected with hers. A shiver ran down Rosalie’s back. She wanted to lean into his touch, to throw the book on the ground and kiss him again, like they had kissed the first time they had met.

To her own surprise, her free hand found its way through the air, settling on his chest. He made a noise she could not interpret, something deep and rumbling, and her eyes fell to his mouth in response, the need to kiss him growing with every second that passed. She traced the outline of his lips with her eyes, focused on the red ridge of flesh beneath his teeth.

“It would be so very wrong to hold you,” he said, confirming every one of her doubts and fears. “But I want to hold you madly.”

“It is the wine driving your heart,” she said quickly, breathlessly.

“It is not the wine.”

“You will not say this tomorrow.”

“I might say it.”

“You will not.” She let her hand fall from his body, calling to mind all the other things he had said, the implications that she was beneath him in quality and beauty. She may have been good enough for a drunken kiss, but nothing more. “I know what you feel, and you will not.”