Page 236 of Dukes for Dessert

“I can put it away.” He started to stack a pile of journals.

“I don’t mind.” She stepped into the room. “Are you redoing the inventory list?”

“And risk dismemberment? That’s your domain.” He lifted a sheaf of documents. “These are House of Lords projects.”

“All of this?” She moved to take the seat opposite him, but he motioned to the empty chair at his side. Soon, their elbows were touching. “I thought you were finished for the summer.”

“Parliament closed in July and the new session won’t reopen until November, yes. But there is always work to be done. These two journals chronicle the changes in imports and exports, this pile of correspondence has to do with choosing leadership for a few committees, and this stack of reports—but of course I’m boring you.”

She shook her head. “You’re not. Really. The first book I ever read twice was a tome on descriptive geometry, so if you’d like to make a wager on which one of us is more likely to out-bore the other…”

“Ooh, descriptive geometry,” he echoed with wide eyes. “Is that one by Radcliffe or Walpole?”

She swatted his arm. “Gaspard Monge, actually. Perhaps more people would read those gothic novels if they applied more logic than swooning virgins and dark fantasies.”

“No they wouldn’t.” Azureford affected a dramatic pose. “‘I must flee the Castle of Otranto with its ninety degree angle flying buttresses.’”

“Well, that explains why the castles are always so frightening,” she replied with a straight face. “Buttresses cannot properly support their weight unless they’re installed at forty-five degree angles. A good, solid swoon is completely understandable when there’s a castle falling down about one’s shoulders.”

He laughed and opened the journal marked Imports. “Remind me never to buy you a romantic novel.”

Carole stuck out her tongue and listened to his explanation about the intricacies and differences between the Importation Act of 1812 and the Import Act of 1813.

In no time, she began to realize that Azureford was not only surprisingly humble and droll, but also very, very clever. He scarcely needed to glance at the journal entries to quote them exactly. How many times had he gone over this material? Could he just look at things and remember them? No wonder everyone in the House of Lords seemed to want him on their committee.

Luckily for them, Azureford seemed passionate about every one of the worthy causes blanketing his dining table. If he hadn’t been a lord, Carole rather suspected he’d have served in the House of Commons. Being born a duke was essentially carte blanche to do or have anything His Grace desired, but he wasn’t resting on inherited laurels. He was probably the single most competent representative in all of Parliament.

She shifted in her seat. This new facet made him all the more attractive.

Not that she dared develop a tendre for him, of course. He was shooting for the stars and she was staying put. No matter how magnetic she found his passion, her loyalty was to her family and the vow she’d made never to abandon her father.

Well, that was putting the cream before the scone, wasn’t it? Her cheeks heated. She was here as his library inventory consultant, not to compete as a future bride.

He paused. “I’ve lost you. What are you thinking about?”

“Parliament,” she hedged. You being wrong for me in every way.

“I don’t mind. Most people see it as an excuse to come to Town for the Season.” He winced as he belatedly realized most residents of this village might not share that privilege. “Oh. Have you ever had a… Have you been to London?”

“No and no,” she answered, for the first time wondering how different her life might have been, had she made different choices. “I have a great-aunt who would have been willing to sponsor me for a proper come-out, but my place is here.”

“You could be part of Society,” he said with astonishment, “but you said no?”

“It’s… I couldn’t leave my father. You didn’t see him after the fever took my mother. I mean, you don’t see him now, but back then it was even worse. He was too melancholy to rise from bed, to dress, to eat. If it hadn’t been for me, I think he would have died of a broken heart. I couldn’t leave him and risk the melancholy returning. Not when there would be no one to save him this time.”

“I am sorry,” Azureford said softly. “I do not know what it was like to be in your situation, but I do know how it feels to lose one’s parents. I would not wish it on anyone.”

She pushed up from the table with a forced smile. “Weren’t we meant to finish packing up the library?”

“Of course.” He rose to his feet, but his dark gaze stayed locked on her. “After you.”

For the next hour, the only words spoken between them related to the titles she was adding to the master list, or the books Azureford swiped from the crates and carried over to his stack of rescues.

Carole was just about to tease him about keeping Edward Gibbon’s Critical Observations on the Sixth Book of the Aeneid, when she finally caught sight of a familiar blue journal with a distinctive Q embossed on the front cover. She wrenched it from the stack and pressed it to her pounding chest with a disbelieving gasp. It was here. She’d found it!

She resisted the temptation to flip through its pages at once, raking her eyes over her reimagined renditions of local landmarks and private parlors. It was as if a part of her heart had finally been returned. The part that believed escaping into a false reality was just as good as living in the real world. She started to tuck the sketchbook inside her reticule before Azureford noticed anything amiss, only to realize he was staring right at her. Her stomach sank as she slowly turned to face him.

He raised his brows. “What did you find?”

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