His full name was William Raleigh, Duke of Trent, Earl of Shreveport and Kayes, Baron Chesterfield, and husband of Elizabeth, the wife he’d been rumored to have murdered. Of course Vivian didn’t exactly believe that…exactly.
Standing now at his front gate not far from the cliff’s edge near Mousehole, she paused to take in the elegance of his stately home, simply called Morning House, as noted on the engraved plaque at the entrance. The look of the rectangular, light brown brick building, with its dark gray shutters and fifteen-foot-high, massive black front doors suggested more of a home in mourning than an example of the beautiful countryside around it. But then that was a play of words that likely didn’t occur to the duke himself.
Vivian had come here several times by coach to deliver floral arrangements but had chosen to walk the distance from the village to the duke’s house on this day since she carried nothing but a reticule to match her pale plum-colored day gown. It had been raining at dawn, and though still cloudy this early afternoon, a fine mist lingered in the air, and the cool breeze off the ocean made the skin on her face and neck tingle. It was a feeling she adored.
It was rumored that although the duke spent as many as eleven months of the year here, he owned very little of the land, presumably only the immediate area surrounding the home itself. The view was certainly incredible, though. From where she stood now, Vivian could see not only the house and grasslands, but the sea beyond—cold, gray and ominous today, as it dropped to the horizon behind the building proper.
Drawing a full, deep breath, Vivian pushed the heavy gate open to enter the small, beautifully landscaped yard and centered her thoughts on the business ahead. And it would be business, she’d decided before she’d stepped foot from her cottage this morning. She would offer the duke a business proposition. She was, after all, a businesswoman.
Vivian didn’t see any footmen upon her stroll up the walkway. She climbed the stone steps with a swift lift of her skirts, and after straightening her bonnet and smoothing her stays, she rapped twice with the heavy brass knocker.
A level of anxiety coursed through her as she waited a good three or four minutes for an answer. One would think a duke of immense means could afford efficient help. But then the Duke of Trent was known for being as mysterious as he was wealthy, in every mea sure.
At last she heard the bolt slide back from the other side of the door, and after a few seconds of patient waiting, it slowly opened to reveal an older gray-haired man she assumed to be the butler given his impeccable dress and flat, formal demeanor.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he said with a curt nod.
Vivian’s mouth dropped open a fraction at his presumptuousness. Of course he knew who she was because she’d brought flowers to the servants’ entrance before, but this day it seemed as if he expected her as a guest. She hadn’t even had a chance to hand him her card.
“I would request a moment with his grace,” she said, recovering herself. “If he is at home.”
The butler nodded once. “Do come in, madam.”
He pulled the door open fully and moved to the right to allow her entrance. She stepped into the foyer, withholding a gasp of surprise. Far from the look outside, the inside stood out brightly, cheerful and inviting, revealing white marble floors, a fringed chair or two in white satin, a large crystal chandelier hanging from a rounded, pale ceiling, all pointing attention toward the gold-leafed table at the center, on top of which sat an enormous crystal vase filled to overflowing with daisies, pink roses, and wild buttercups. For a second—only a second—Vivian felt offended that the duke obviously purchased flowers elsewhere from time to time.
“This way, if you please,” the butler coaxed, gesturing to his left. “His grace will receive you in his library.”
Vivian held her tongue from asking where these particular flowers had come from, when it suddenly occurred to her that rarely anyone but the duke and his staff ever saw them. True, even a socially shunned duke occasionally would need to entertain business associates, but Vivian had serious doubts that much business would be conducted in so remote a place as south Cornwall. How unfortunate to own such a grand and beautiful home, adorned so tastefully, with the knowledge that no one could appreciate it but oneself.
She followed the butler down a long hallway, her shoes making a rather noisy clacking sound on the hard marble floor, her eyes drifting to the long bay windows on her left, thick cream-colored curtains pulled back with gold tassels allowing an unhindered view of the cresting ocean beyond.
Seconds later they stopped at the double doors that led to the library. The butler opened them without knocking then stepped aside for her to enter. Of course at first glance it looked just as a library should, although the Duke of Trent appeared to have exquisite taste of the most expensive kind.
The room was quite large, taking up perhaps a third of the entire southeast wing, smelling faintly of tobacco and leather. Both the walls and high ceiling were papered with dark brown and navy stripes in a style that matched fringed floral lamps and the brown leather furniture that surrounded an ornately carved tea table sitting directly on an oblong, inlaid Oriental carpet at the center of the dark wooden floor. A small conservatory of sorts extending out from the far wall displayed a variety of greenery before huge arched windows that no doubt featured a spectacular view of the sandy beach coastline and ocean beyond.
The glass-enclosed bookcases were only six feet in height or so, lined across the westernmost wall to her right, and stuffed top to bottom with reading material. Above them hung portraits and painted landscapes in gilded frames. An enormous, dark oak secretary stood against the northern wall, likely where the duke worked when handling estate matters, as it neatly seated two, side by side, in black leather rockers. On the easternmost wall, and displayed as the focal point of the room, was the over-large fireplace, trimmed in brown marble and ornately carved wood, now cold and swept perfectly clean of ashes.
Despite the fact that the library had been decorated in a purely masculine flavor, as befit a library, this one was simply gorgeous.
“Please make yourself comfortable, madam,” the butler chimed in at her side. “His grace will be here shortly. My name is Wilson, and Bitsy will serve you while you wait.”
She turned her attention to him once more. “Thank you, Wilson.”
Giving her a slight bow, he took his leave, closing the doors behind him. Only seconds later, as Vivian began to remove her gloves, in walked a parlor maid carrying a large silver tray. Pretty and tidy and all of about sixteen, she curtsied once, then strode toward the center tea table.
“Would you care for coffee or tea, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” the girl asked in a soft, flat tone.
“Tea would be fine,” she replied with a formal smile, though inwardly intrigued by the manner in which she’d been treated in this home thus far—not as a woman from the village who sells flowers for a living, but as an honored guest, whom everybody seemed to know by name. Very odd, indeed.
While the parlor maid poured tea into a white china cup from a silver pot, Vivian sat unobtrusively in a leather chair across from the large, high-backed sofa of the same quality material. As soon as she’d arranged her skirts, the girl placed her full cup and saucer on a short round table to her right.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
The fragrant, steaming tea smelled heavenly. “No, this is quite…lovely.”
The maid curtsied once more, then quickly took her leave, closing the large doors behind her, her footsteps echoing down the hallway as she departed in relative haste.
Vivian swiftly untied her bonnet and removed it, smoothing the hair at her forehead back into place. She’d plaited the length of it, winding the braid and pinning it at her nape, but loose strands had detached themselves as they always did. Funny how she rather cared about her appearance this morning, wanting to make an impression on the Duke of Trent. How she managed to be here now, alone in this exquisite room, served immediately her choice of fine tea or coffee, left her suddenly amused and squelching a laugh of pure absurdity. For just a second, she had to wonder if perhaps the duke had inherited his obviously substantial income from the death of his wife. Such wealth represented in this room alone could be motive for murder, she supposed.
Vivian lifted her cup with surprisingly calm hands and sampled the tea, a wonderfully strong Lapsang Souchong. Somewhat unconventional for standard fare, especially when serving to a guest of the lower class. But it certainly brought back memories.
For nearly ten minutes she heard nothing aside from waves crashing against the shoreline through the open conservatory windows. It irked her a bit that he’d kept her waiting for so long, but then she wasn’t altogether ignorant of the well-bred and their plays of command, if that’s what this would prove to be. And of course the time alone allowed her to grow more nervous with each passing minute, though he couldn’t possibly know that.
The sudden click of the latch on the double wooden doors made her start. She immediately turned her face to the entrance of the library, then shifted her bottom on the chair uncomfortably when she found him looking at her, his dark, probing eyes piercing hers with cold intensity.
Vivian nearly dropped her tea. If she’d thought Gilbert Montague seemed tall and intimidating, it did nothing to prepare her for the magnificently…sturdy physique of the noble Duke of Trent. Flustered, she placed her cup and saucer back on the small table and slowly rose to face the man for the first time.
He stood just inside the doorway with an air of grand, even forceful, sophistication. Though dressed somewhat unobtrusively for an individual of his prestige, he nevertheless wore an expensive silk morning suit of deep brown, tailored to fit his large form to perfection as it detailed the strength he exuded from his broad shoulders to his long, muscular legs. His cream-colored shirt, certainly made of silk as well, pressed against his chest, subtly revealing brawn he didn’t attempt to hide. He wore no waistcoat, and his necktie, light brown and knotted loosely, only worked to focus more attention on his marvelous facial features—his clear, dark complexion, strong jaw, wide mouth, straight, sharply defined nose, and even his forehead, where attractive lines of middle age were only beginning to appear.
But it was his rich, hazel eyes that arrested her, increasing her nervous ness by the second. Serious of expression as he was now, he pierced her with a gaze that left her feeling quite enveloped by his power. What kind of power that was, she couldn’t be sure, though she was somehow instinctively aware that he knew exactly what she was thinking. It made her waver on her feet. One thing was certain: Being this close to him for the first time, Vivian was quite sure she’d never been made so speechless by the mere appearance of a man.
Moments passed in silence as they more or less just stared at each other. Her mouth went dry and she licked her lips.
Slowly, he began to walk toward her. “Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he drawled with the slightest tip of his forehead, his deep voice both smooth and coaxing. “A pleasure.”
“Your grace,” she replied with a gentle curtsy, sounding—thank God—less anxious than she felt.
“Please, sit down,” he fairly ordered, moving closer to her.
She paused, unsure whether to remain standing and extend her hand due to the serious tone of the meeting about to take place, or sit and chat as if they were good friends. Awkwardness made her mumble simply, “As you wish.”
His dark brows lifted minutely. “Indeed.”
Vivian felt her cheeks grow hot as he continued to assess her. With graceful distinction, she seated herself once more in her chair, arranging her skirts while trying to avoid watching him as best she could, relieved now that she hadn’t applied rouge to her skin before leaving her home this morning. She certainly didn’t need any.
At last he stopped, his impressive form only two feet or so from her, hands behind his back, candidly eyeing her, or at least she felt his gaze on her face. She could smell his subtle cologne—woodsy, with a touch of spice—
“It’s lovely to finally meet you, madam.”
She jerked her head up, to find no flattery in his expression, not even a trace of humor. It wasn’t as if he seemed at all suspicious, but she knew he had to be. Nobody ever came to call on the duke who’d killed his wife. Or so it had been rumored.
“Please join me, your grace.”
That inappropriate insistence surprised him as thoroughly as it did her after the words were out of her mouth. He pulled back, and for just a small, significant second, Vivian noticed a flash of amusement cross his features. She wanted to shrink into the fine leather chair.
“As you wish,” he answered very slowly, his voice lowered.
Vivian knew he’d purposely repeated what she’d said to him only moments ago. She just wished she knew if he were teasing, or mocking her in his arrogance.
“Indeed,” she returned, lifting her chin—and brows—a fraction, knowing he could toss her out of his house for such audacity. Instinctively, though, she knew, just knew, he wouldn’t.
He stared down at her, assessing, making her hot all over from his probing stare. Then moments later one side of his mouth began to curl up. Suddenly their word play seemed rather like a game, and much of her nervousness vanished. Odd that it didn’t at all feel to her like they’d only just met.
He broke the connection first, turning and striding around the tea table to sit comfortably on his leather sofa. Studying him, Vivian couldn’t help but be in awe at his presence. Strange, that she’d never felt so unusual around a man before, even her husband.
“What can I do for you today, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” he began formally as he returned to the point of her visit, helping himself to steaming coffee.
She forced herself to breathe deeply. Gazing directly into alert, hazel eyes, she replied, “How is it that your house hold knew of me the moment I arrived, your grace? I didn’t even need to leave a card.”
If her turn of phrase surprised him again, he didn’t let it show, though his forehead did crease in frown while he poured cream into his cup.
She waited.
Finally, sliding his spoon across the rim and laying it on the saucer, he admitted, “My staff are aware of you, madam.” He looked into her eyes once more. “And so am I, naturally.”
That answer, however vague, gave her an instant, almost wicked sense of elation.
She smiled triumphantly. “Naturally.”
He took a sip of his coffee.
“You do frequently buy flowers from my nursery, after all.”
“Yes.”
When he added nothing to that, she lifted her cup of tea and held it in front of her. “The arrangement in your foyer is lovely, although not mine.”
She thought for a second that his lips pinched in amusement once more.
“Professional rivalry, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”
She straightened and lifted her cup to her lips. “Not at all.” She sipped, then placed it back on the saucer gingerly. “Only an observation.”
He nodded once. “I see.”
He probably did, since her cheeks were undoubtedly pink again. She ignored that. “May I ask from whom you purchased the arrangement?”
“I’ve no idea,” he replied, taking another drink of his own morning brew. “Wilson, or my house keeper Glenda, purchases them. I’m not privy to their choices for the temporary decoration of my home.”
Of course he wasn’t. She felt ridiculous in asking.
“But from this day forward, I shall order my employees to buy only those you grow and supply, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he added quite casually.
She blinked, astonished. “Oh, no, your grace, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t,” he cut in. For a second or two, a droll smile crossed his mouth. “That’s irrelevant, really. When it comes to personal items, I buy what I like.”
She laughed lightly, enjoying his mood. “Flowers as personal items, your grace?”
“They can be, don’t you think?”
“Like shoes or pocket watches?”
“I suppose so,” he maintained.
She shrugged. “And yet a moment ago you didn’t care about house hold decorations,” she said mildly, challenging him. “And house hold decorations can hardly be compared to the fit of a shoe or the expense of a pocket watch.”
“True enough.” His grin widened a fraction and he lowered his voice minutely. “But you have changed my mind for me, madam. I imagine a flower arrangement is a display of creativity, or can be, and is therefore a reflection of the artist, the one who grows the flowers and then displays them.” He cocked his head a bit and assessed her, face and figure. “As in all artistic displays, from painting to sculpture, I buy what I like.”
I buy what I like. He’d said that twice, specifically, and Vivian didn’t know exactly how to interpret his point, if indeed he had one. Deep inside, though, she felt a stirring of something warm and intimate, as if he’d touched a part of her she seldom revealed to anyone. An odd feeling, to be sure. Yet on the surface she was thrilled that he seemed to single her out among many, first with his knowledge of who she was, and then with his spontaneous decision to buy only from her. But it was his low, silky-deep voice that threatened to melt her into submitting to his every wish.
Silence reigned for a moment, awkward in one manner, remarkably friendly in another, as they both took refreshment. At last, after finishing his coffee, he placed his cup and saucer on the tea table and relaxed against soft leather to regard her speculatively.
“I don’t suppose you came calling on me today to discuss the floral arrangements in my home, did you Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”
A rather polite way of asking her to state exactly what she wanted with him, she supposed, though his return to the reason for her visit unsettled her momentarily after the lightness of the time they’d only just shared.
“No, actually.” She cleared her throat and placed her teacup and saucer back on the small table at her side. Smoothing her skirts then folding her hands in her lap, she faced him directly, giving him a polite—and hopefully charming—smile. “It’s interesting that we should be discussing art endeavors, your grace, as I’ve come with a personal proposition for you. From one collector to another.”
“I see,” he acknowledged. “You’re an art collector, then.”
She couldn’t read his suddenly insipid expression.
“I hope that my unexpected calling is not at an inconvenient time,” she said quite properly.
He frowned then, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not inconvenienced,” he said stiffly, his tone subdued. “I don’t receive many visitors, so having you here is a refreshing change.”
It had bothered him that she’d returned to strict formality. She knew that instinctively. Perhaps it was only the words he’d used, perhaps the distant sound of the ocean beyond, but Vivian felt a tinge of the loneliness he likely experienced every day at being an accused murderer and forced to live outside the grace of polite society. She certainly understood that well enough. Then again, she really knew nothing about this uniquely handsome man sitting across from her. It was just as likely he enjoyed a self-imposed solitude.
But it would do her no good to speculate on his troubles. She pushed her thoughts away to concentrate on the reason for her visit, as ugly as it was.
“Your grace,” she began, trying not to squeeze her hands together too tightly, “I’ve been given some news lately which I feel obligated to explore to its fullest.”
His dark brows shot up a fraction. “News?”
She carried on; the faster she reached the object of her quest, the less time she had for panic to settle in and expose her.
“It’s come to my attention, sir, that you are in possession of a rare Shakespearean document—a sonnet, I believe. I would be most interested in acquiring it.”
For the longest minute he didn’t move or respond in any way, only watched her with a fierce concentration. Then his lips twitched, just once. She tried to ignore what immediately felt like a negative reaction and continued before he dismissed her outright.
“I know this is rather…sudden, but I would like to suggest that perhaps we can come to some sort of satisfactory agreement for which you might be willing to sell me such a valuable piece of history.” She hesitated, looking quickly to her hands then back to his face again. “I’m very interested in the work and believe I can manage the expense, what ever that might be.”
She knew at once how ludicrous that must sound coming from a woman who worked more or less for her own self-maintenance, and directed to a duke of unquestionable wealth. But he didn’t mention that. Instead, he remained quiet and still, studying her so intently now she grew cold beneath her stays and petticoats, even with the warm, moist summer air drifting through the room from the open windows beyond. Vivian wasn’t sure how to continue until she received some verbal response from him.
She waited. So did he, apparently. Moments later, she murmured, “Your grace?”
“Would you tell me how you became aware of such a treasure, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”
His tone had cooled, and she realized he suspected less than honest reasons for her request. She attempted a smile to convey confidence.
“Actually, I came across the news quite by accident.”
“By accident. Really…” he replied, now leaning on his right elbow, finally shifting his large frame so that he could relax into the sofa. But he never took his probing gaze from hers.
“Yes, indeed,” she continued, attempting to sound pleasant and congenial despite the solidifying dread at the center of her stomach. “But of course, as a buyer of fine art from time to time, I wouldn’t want to reveal where I get my good information.” She raised her brows in an air of sly, almost teasing defiance. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Certainly, I do,” he said, tipping his head to her once. “But a manuscript isn’t exactly art, is it?”
Vivian drew a deep breath and exhaled quickly. “Not exactly, no. But it can be a collectable piece of history.” She leaned toward him and added, “I’m also an admirer of the theater. A piece like this one would satisfy my desires on more than one level. I would take very good care of it, your grace, of that you can be most assured.”
For several long, tense moments, she candidly held his gaze, noting that sunshine from the windows cast a light upon his irises that made them appear deeper in hue, almost forest green. So striking, and if it were any other time she might think—
“How old are you, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” he asked very quietly, gently rubbing his chin with his fingertips.
Her mouth dropped open a fraction as her shoulders shot back. “I—I beg your pardon?”
He leaned all the way forward with that, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. “How old are you?” he asked again without pretense.
“I’m middle-aged, as I suspect you are.”
“Ah.” He grinned. “Not a proper question to ask a lady, am I right?”
She fidgeted, crossing and then recrossing her ankles beneath her skirts. “You know that, sir,” she said in reply, trying to sound a bit more playful in her response, hoping he didn’t see through the sham. Her cheeks were hot again as she grew ever more uncomfortable in this home, in his presence, and God willing, he would consider her rise in color part of her embarrassment, not fear of exposure.
“In your thirties?” he pressed.
Oh, what did it matter? She sighed. “I will be thirty-five years of age in November, your grace,” she revealed with only a hint of annoyance.
He continued to stare at her, nodding vaguely as if piecing together a puzzle.
She needed to get back to the point of her visit. “And how old are you, sir?” Vivian closed her eyes briefly as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She absolutely could not believe she asked him that. What the devil was wrong with her?
His head shot back a bit in obvious surprise. “We have so very much in common, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he drawled. “I’ve been thirty-five for well nigh two months now.”
So much in common? She ignored that. “Your grace—”
“And what of your husband?”
“I—” She blinked, feeling a sharp, stabbing shock. Twice in one week the man she’d married had come up in conversation, and this time it made her shiver to her toes. “My husband?” she murmured thickly.
Much of the humor left the duke’s expression as his eyes roved over her face.
“What happened to him, madam,” he clarified, his voice calm and controlled.
She squirmed in her chair. “He died.”
His brows rose fractionally again. “Yes, I would imagine so if you are a widow.”
“I am a widow, your grace.” Flustered, Vivian added, “I’m not sure how my personal affairs have anything to do with the reason for my visit, however.”
“I’m not sure, either. But I find you fascinating.”
Vivian’s lips parted with a shallow gasp. Her heartbeat suddenly thudded against her chest as her eyes opened wide. He simply watched her, certainly noting her reaction of shock to such a personal disclosure. Or maybe it wasn’t the actual words but the manner in which he expressed them that made her mind and body feel charged with energy. It had been years since a gentleman had been so very forward with her, and she couldn’t, for the life of her, recall a proper thing to say.
He sat up again, leaning casually against the sofa back. “Would you like to see it?”
She swallowed. “Your grace?”
The right corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “The manuscript, madam. Would you care to see it?”
She shook herself. “Right here? Now?”
He shrugged minutely. “Of course. I imagine you’re curious, and where else would one keep a document of such value but in one’s library?”
Her first reaction was to reply a safe. But instead, she attempted a smile again, regaining her composure. “Where else, indeed?”
Immediately he stood, towering over her as he offered his hand to help her rise.
The thought of touching his physical person, even for something as innocuous as this, filled her with a most peculiar dread. She decided to ignore the feeling as she gently placed her palm in his.
His skin felt rough and warm, his hand large and solid, and just as she raised herself to stand beside him, she grew acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, even though his fingers only faintly brushed hers. She pulled away at once, realizing he felt all too human and real—not at all like a murderer should feel.
The side of his mouth lifted with a hint of a smirk, as if he’d read her thoughts and dared her to comment. Then suddenly, he bowed his head slightly and gestured to his left.
Vivian nearly had to brush up against him. She avoided that as much as possible, even as he seemed to expect it, though she did catch another delicate whiff of his cologne.
Nerves rattled now, Vivian clutched her reticule to her waist and allowed him to lead her as he walked with swift, purposeful strides toward the glass-covered bookshelf at the northwest corner of the library, the farthest from the open windows, she noted, as sea air was undoubtedly bad for the preservation of books, especially valuable and very old copies.
As they approached, Vivian noticed that one side of the bookcase was locked; presumably this particular side of shelves held the priceless work she sought. Not exactly a safe, but adequate protection, she supposed.
The duke reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a key. He inserted it, turned the lock, and opened the glass door.
The shelf was replete with books, including an old family bible, which the Duke of Trent reached for without hesitation. With careful hands, he pulled the large, black, leather-bound copy from the shelf and balanced it against his outstretched arm.
Apprehension, coupled, oddly enough, with a surge of excitement, overwhelmed her as he opened the hard cover, its fragile, worn pages crinkling as he turned toward the middle. She stepped closer so that her skirts couldn’t help but brush his legs. She regretted that, but she wanted to be near enough to get a good look at the piece of history that could ultimately—if fears became realized—bring her social degradation.
“There is no place safer than this, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” the duke maintained, his voice low and grim. “This book in itself is more than one hundred years old.”
“Remarkable,” she replied, glancing up to his face, now only inches from hers. “A family treasure, is it not?”
His gaze shot briefly to her lips. “Indeed.”
A piece of stray, dark hair now hung low across his brow, his eyes narrowed and surprisingly intense as he worked to find the manuscript between fragile pages.
At last he stopped at what appeared to be a piece of sheer cloth. Gently, he unwrapped it until the work she sought lay exposed.
Vivian stared at it. Written in scrawled handwriting, she could barely make out the words of the short sonnet. Time had taken its toll on the fragmented parchment, but the signature was undoubtedly written by the hand of William Shakespeare.
“Incredible…” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied, his breath touching her ear and cheek.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the room.
“May I ask you something, madam?”
She crossed her arms over her breasts, eyeing the sonnet because she found herself unable to look at him. “Of course.”
“Why are you really here?”
Her gaze shot up to his face. Staring into probing eyes of dark hazel, her first thought, absurdly enough, was how very polite he was in asking a question that implied nothing but the knowledge of deception on her part. It also caught her completely off guard, and for a moment, rendered her dumbstruck.
He carried on as if he expected no immediate answer from her. With a light chuckle and a shake of his head, he said, “Forgive me for being blunt, but I have such trouble believing you’re a collector of rare documents, that you have the means by which to purchase this should I want to sell it, and that, in the end, you learned of this particular priceless sonnet by accident.” Huskily, he revealed, “Only ten or twelve people in all of Great Brittan know it still exists in original form, and of those, only five or six know I own it.” He watched her intently. “So you can understand my curiosity as to how a middle-aged widow who sells flowers in Penzance became aware of something so unique.”
Vivian didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, but her insides felt like crumbling, admitting all and to the devil with propriety and a future of relative ease and contentment. And yet somewhere deep within her she couldn’t let go of her dignity. She had made a good life for herself, tucked away in the safety of Cornwall, and nobody, least of all a thieving, lowly actor, would take it from her without a fight.
But she couldn’t fight the Duke of Trent. She knew that instinctively. She could, however, play his game.
Standing rigidly, she lifted her chin slightly to the side and smiled at him coyly, hoping he didn’t take note of the boiling fear within her.
“It happened exactly as I said, your grace, though I now understand why you don’t need a safe,” she intimated, trying to keep her tone warm and teasing. “And yet, under the circumstances, I find it odd that you showed this to me anyway without reservation. Why?”
He blinked, clearly taken aback by her audaciousness, if not her subtle evasion. Then he slowly grinned, mesmerizing her with the simple lifting of his marvelous mouth.
“Because, Mrs. Rael-Lamont,” he murmured softly, his gaze burning into hers, “you have a quick wit and smell like flowers. I like that.”
Vivian drew a sharp intake of breath, felt blood rush to her face, no doubt pinkening her cheeks to expose the heat she felt from such an intimate…confession? She had no idea what to say. Once again, he’d managed to stun her into silence. And God, how many times had he made her blush this day?
He saved her from further embarrassment, though, as he abruptly turned his attention back to the manuscript, recovering the parchment and then closing the bible, tucking it safely back into the bookcase with a shutting of the door and a click of the lock.
He turned to face her fully, hands behind his back. “I shall consider the reasons for your visit today, madam. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got estate matters to which I must attend. Wilson will show you out.” He nodded once. “Good day, Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”
She’d never been dismissed more abruptly in her life. Still standing only a foot away from his distinguished form, her skirts still resting against his long, sturdy legs—though he didn’t appear to notice that—Vivian could do nothing but excuse herself.
Curtsying once, she pulled her reticule against her stomach. “As you wish, your grace.”
His brows rose fractionally at that, but he didn’t respond.
Turning, she walked to the door. “Thank you for your time, sir,” she mumbled as she reached it.
He nodded curtly. “Until we meet again, madam.”
Another shiver coiled up within her, and as Vivian quickly made her exit from the property, she couldn’t help but feel the Duke of Trent’s clever eyes on her back, ever watching.