Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(58)
But he still hadn’t turned to face her, and he must have heard her footfalls on the stairs by now. “Sebastian,” she called softly.
He turned to her at last, his expression grim in the moment before he appeared to collect himself and don one of his many facades. A sensual smile curved his lips with ease. “Late again, buttercup?” he asked, but there was no bite to his words, only a bittersweet resonance.
Her heart clenched in her breast as she forced herself to descend the remainder of the stairs. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting,” she said tonight the same as she had each night before, taking extra care to maintain the flippancy in her tone. This time, she had a new explanation for her tardiness at the ready. “Someone sent me the contents of an entire book shop, and I spent the course of the day attempting to reconcile the shelves, the existing literature, and the new volumes.”
He strode toward her with a confidence that was purely his, all ducal, and somehow elegant and sinful at once. His dark hair was swept back from his high forehead, and he wore a black coat, black trousers, and a crisp white shirt beneath a gunmetal brocade waistcoat. He looked dark and lethal and delicious.
And hers.
He was hers, she reminded herself as he took her outstretched hand in his and guided her down the last step. The guidance wasn’t necessary. His touch, however, was.
She was smiling at him like a foolish girl, but she didn’t care. “Have you nothing to say, Your—”
“Sebastian,” he intervened, drawing her closer. He lowered his head, and their lips nearly met. His scent swept over her, pine and man and husband. “A one-half Your Grace is all I’m willing to allow tonight, Duchess.”
Her fingers tightened over his. He was ever an enigma, keeping a part of himself from her. The part she wanted the most. His eyes were blue, so blue, bluer than the brightest country summer sky of her childhood before her father had moved them to the city.
“Thank you,” she told him. “For the books.”
He raised her hand to his lips for a kiss, his gaze searing hers. “I would have far preferred for you to select them yourself, but you were stubborn as ever.”
His extravagance still did strange things to her insides. When he’d attempted to convince her to buy half the book shop, she had objected. Of course she had. What sane woman would want her husband to empty his coffers over her literary whims? Her father would never have allowed such a thing.
That thought had ultimately rendered her acceptance of Sebastian’s somewhat high-handed gift all the more acceptable to her. Sebastian wasn’t attempting to control her with his gift. He wanted to please her, and that was the difference.
“I’m a simple woman,” she said then. “I don’t require crates of books, fancy houses, or servants to satisfy me.”
He squeezed her fingers, his expression inscrutable. “What does satisfy you, Daisy?”
You.
She nearly said the word. She almost revealed herself to him, made herself as vulnerable as she could possibly be. Instead, she shook her head, unwilling to give him everything. Uncertain if she could. Her feelings remained too new and strange. The notion of telling him she loved him made her mouth go dry and her heart pound.
“I look forward to reading,” she told him instead. “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me, for choosing books to my liking.”
“Are they to your liking, buttercup?”
His question was unexpected. No one had ever been as concerned with her happiness and satisfaction as Sebastian was. Sometimes, his attentiveness threw her. Other times, it made her sigh.
In this instance, her smile broadened. “The selections were most judicious. You somehow know what I would want to read most.”
He hesitated, and she couldn’t suppress the sensation that he wanted to say more. Instead, he inclined his head and offered his arm. “Dinner, my darling?”
It was a tired phrase, she thought—my darling—as she clenched his muscled forearm. She wasn’t his darling, was she? That phrase, so easily rolled off his facile tongue, didn’t mean what her imprudent heart longed to believe it did.
The truth was that she hadn’t the slightest inclination of what, if anything, he felt for her, aside from desire. The way he looked at her, the way he touched her and held her, told her all she needed to know on that account. But though he’d warmed to her, she mustn’t fool herself.
And right now, he watched her in that way of his that was intimate and assessing all at once. While here she stood, wishing he’d meant to call her his darling in the truest sense. Wishing he’d forego all manners and formality, sweep her in his arms, and take her upstairs.
Oh, foolish, foolish heart.
“Dinner,” she forced herself to say, for it was far wiser than blurting her feelings. “Yes, let’s.”
By the loin of mutton à la Brétonne, Sebastian realized that it was no stroke of chance that all his favorites were being served in the course of one dinner. And he knew instantly that it wasn’t the redoubtable Mrs. Robbins who was solely responsible. Though Mrs. Robbins had been a retainer for his entire life, she had never in all her years of service orchestrated such a dinner on his behalf unless he had specifically requested it.
He met Daisy’s gaze over the lovely table setting—fresh hothouse blooms carefully arranged amidst new table linens, silver, and china, candles flickering with a pleasant glow, all of which he was certain was her doing as well.