Page 237 of Dukes for Dessert

“M-my missing earring?”

“It looks surprisingly like one of my books.”

“Not your book.” She took a deep breath. “My book.”

He crossed his arms, one eyebrow cocked expectantly.

There was no good way to do this, so… out with it all at once. She held the sketchbook flat and upended her reticule. The “missing” gold-and-citrine hoop tumbled out, winking accusingly from atop the dyed leather.

“You lost your earring,” Azureford said slowly, “inside your reticule?”

“I lied,” she admitted, although it was obvious he’d worked that much out for himself. She put her earring back into her reticule and lifted up the sketchbook. “I lost this on the night of your party.”

His eyes were unsmiling. “A diary of your innermost thoughts?”

“Pictures of them,” she admitted. “It’s a sketchbook. I wasn’t going to show you, but I thought you might like—”

“—to know the real reason you’ve been visiting?” A muscle worked at his jaw. “Yes. Thank you for telling me. You can go now.”

“No, it wasn’t like that at… All right, yes. That was the reason I visited this year. But I came to your party last year because I wanted to get to know you better, and I still do. You’re not at all what you first seemed, and I like you so much more than I imagined I would.”

“This apology of yours,” he said dryly. “It needs work.”

“I want to help,” she burst out. “That’s what I’m really saying. Judith is the only other person who knows this sketchbook exists, but no one but me has ever seen the drawings. I love buildings. I love imagining how I would remodel them even more. I drew your parlor—”

“You drew my parlor?”

“—when I dashed off to the retiring room for a few minutes. On my way back, someone bumped into me and my sketchbook skidded into your library. I didn’t want to look like I was stealing one of your books, or call attention to its contents…”

“You drew my parlor in ‘a few minutes?’”

There was only one way to prove to him that she possessed the skills he needed most. Carole took a deep breath. She was going to have to trust him. A little. And hope that the duke’s infamous hauteur and reticence meant he was much too proper to gossip—not that he had close friends in town to share scandalbroth with anyway.

“Here.” She ignored the shaking of her hands. “I’ll show you. It’s the last one. It’s unfinished.” She flipped to the right page and shoved the sketchbook in his direction.

After an agonizing moment, he stepped forward and accepted the small volume. He studied the illustration in extended silence before finally looking up. “Why is my parlor filled with drunken, cheroot-smoking women?”

“They’re not drunk,” she protested.

“They’re carrying tankards of ale and flintlock pistols. At any moment, one of them is going to slur, ‘I wager I can shoot that bonnet right off of your head’ and the next thing you know, there’ll be a bullet hole in my favorite framed kilt.”

“You have a favorite kilt?” she stammered.

“Apparently. You’ve drawn one on my wall.” He held up the sketch, eyebrows raised.

“I was going through a Scottish phase.” She waved a hand. “But if you take away the pistols and the cheroots and the extraneous kilt, this is exactly your parlor. Not how it does look, but how it could look.”

“If I were insane,” he agreed. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, I can do this. I can turn your library into a billiard room.”

“Anyone can turn a library into a billiard room. Step one: Get rid of the books. Step two: Install billiards. I’ve already received estimates from the best craftsmen in the area.”

“Anyone can purchase a table,” she parroted. Good God, he needed her far more than he knew. “Not everyone can create an experience. The best table your money can buy might be the centerpiece, but that doesn’t mean just tossing it in the middle of the room.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No! Have you even played billiards? Lighting is fundamental. Daytime play is best with natural illumination. Evening play requires a custom-crafted framework of three to six oil lamps positioned at the proper angle.”

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