She pressed a breath through her teeth. Did she see a brief flash of delight flash across the stuffy lord’s face? Surely not? “All I need is a little help up. Then I can hop to the library.”
He swung a glance behind him. “Where is my aunt, anyway? Surely there is a maid somewhere who can act as your crutch?”
No doubt he did not wish to be alone with her again. The rate he was going, it didn’t matter. Red waistcoats and brute strength be damned, she wasn’t going to make the mistake of letting him near her again.
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.” She pushed to standing and eased her foot slowly off the stool. “See? I do not need—” The moment she set her uninjured foot gingerly on the floor, pain burst up her body, throbbing so quickly through her it took her breath away.
Clem collapsed to one side, breaking her fall with her arms splayed and landing upon the French embroidered carpet. She knew it was French because she had a very close view of the intricate pattern.
Before she pressed up from the floor, an arm wrapped about her back, then another under her legs. The world moved suddenly, and she found herself set against a solid wall of muscle.
“I swear you are so much trouble, Musgrave,” Roman muttered.
Clem didn’t manage a response unless splaying one’s hand upon the ruby red silk of his waistcoat counted. He smelled of Floris but that was not as distracting as the arm settled around her back and under her legs. A protest tangled in her throat then died. She absolutely should not be enjoying this.
“Where to?”
“The library,” she managed to whisper. If she had been in her right mind, she would have taken pleasure in reminding him they’d just discussed this.
“Of course,” he replied gruffly.
She was not in her right mind, obviously. How could she be, with his arms supporting her so wonderfully and the line of his jaw in her view? She spied a little dusting of stubble and would wager the man had to shave twice a day to maintain a cleanly shaven look. What a bore. If she were his wife, she would be inclined to encourage him to break the rules a little and let it grow in the afternoon. A little mess on perfection would be quite a pleasant sight, she reckoned.
Roman carried her with all the ease of a man carrying a bouquet of spring flowers. Heat flowed freely through her body all the way from her cheeks to her throbbing ankle. She’d never considered herself a romantic sort of woman, even after readingVirtue Rewardedwhich only highlighted reasons not to fall for a man as far as she was concerned. Her failed engagement only emphasized her desire not to entangle herself with the opposite sex.
But it seemed all it took was for a strong man to scoop her into his arms and a flood of romantic notions swarmed her. Perhaps she was not as strong-willed as she thought.
“Here we are,” he announced, using his back to push open the door to the library, and headed toward an overstuffed armchair. The heat inside her chilled instantly.
Roman had been right. He should have left her where she was. Maybe even run for the hills. Because as much as she wanted to deny it, this attraction was only growing worse, and she did not wish for one moment to be released from his hold.
∞∞∞
Facing thousands of French soldiers was still less terrifying than a wall of leather-bound books, their gilded titles mocking him as they caught in the daylight streaming in through sash windows. Roman folded his arms and peered up at rows upon rows of books. He owned a bigger library in the country, but he never, ever set foot in it. He knew what would happen if he did. That same crushing sense of dread would press down upon his chest. Everything he tried as a child he succeeded at—fencing, shooting, arithmetic.
But reading...
Aware of Clementine leaning upon a ladder in the periphery of his vision as she plucked down one book then the next, he snatched the first book in front of him and rifled the pages. He didn’t even look at the words. What was the point? Too many hours of his life had been wasted as a child, plodding from word to word and making too many mistakes. His first schoolmaster had declared him unteachable.
Roman snorted. Fusty Reynolds would be surprised to see him standing here right now. Though he supposed he’d be less surprised considering he’d been lured in by a woman. Roman’s days of chasing after skirts were long gone, though it seemed some habits did not change.
Somehow, he’d ended up in the place he hated the most simply because Clementine Musgrave demanded it.
“What is it?”
He glanced in her direction. She remained propped against the ladder, her injured foot dangling free. Pale stockings peeking out from the hem of her blue gown painted an oddly intimate image. There were many reasons he should not be here, the biggest being how much he’d enjoyed having her in his arms. Clementine’s almost casual appearance was another. Even with the damned library door open and his aunt down the hallway, he could wind up in trouble.
“Roman?” She waved a hand at him.
“Sorry?”
“You snorted. Is it your sensitivities to dogs? Are you sensitive to dust too?”
He looked back at the library shelves, eyeing the coating of dust upon each one, untouched since the time of his uncle’s death he reckoned. His aunt didn’t have enough servants to keep the room as clean and tidy as it should be.
“No, no dust sensitivities,” he confirmed.
“Oh good.”