Page 12 of The Wayward Duke
Her smile faded. “Speaking from personal experience?”
A harsh breath escaped him. She could always strip him raw. “With you?” He sighed. “Always, sweetheart.”
Their gazes caught and held, a familiar tension charging the air.
Then she cleared her throat and subjected him to the same scrutiny she employed when attacking her canvases. “You look dreadful, by the way. Don’t tell me you forgot to sleep again.”
He schooled his features to impassivity. “I’ve been occupied.”
“Mm-hmm. Let me guess – mysterious papers have been holding you hostage all day. More cryptography, or something equally dire?”
“You know I lead a thrilling life,” he said dryly. “Cryptography and confidential diplomacy until dawn, policy reform over breakfast. By midday, I’ve sorted out a rebellion or two.”
“And how many languages has your thrilling life equipped you with by now?”
His mouth quirked up. “Ten. Would you like a drink?”
Surprise flashed in her features, there and gone. “Yes. Thank you,” she said.
Julian strode to the sidebar and poured two fingers of whiskey. When he turned back to offer her the glass, he was all too aware of their fingers brushing as she took it from him.
Caroline sipped her drink. “I’m swiftly reconsidering everything I know regarding your travels. Tell me, were the Alpine vistas more or less intriguing than the notorious Third Section? That coded letter I saw earlier looked quite official.”
Damn. Too sharp by half. “Ridiculous notion. Dukes make poor spies.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “We simply allow our expertise to be discreetly used from time to time by Her Majesty’s operatives.”
“Ah. And how often does your sense of patriotic duty compel you into cryptographic service?”
He turned his glass between idle fingers. “Often enough to develop something of a reputation for code-breaking.”
Now he had her undivided attention. “And what are you working on now? Still International Morse?”
For a moment, he saw a glimpse of the old Caroline. The woman who once looked at him with such affection and desire. Before grief carved out softer emotions, leaving them both hollowed out.
He didn’t want to lose that fragile connection.
Standing, Julian went to his desk, unlocked the top drawer, and pulled out the encrypted letter he’d been labouring over for the past eight hours. He held it out to her like a white flag of surrender.
Or a plea for parley.
“This came to me just this afternoon.”
Caroline set her glass aside and took the letter, scanning the sheet of unfamiliar symbols. “Not International Morse, then. What language do you suspect?”
“Possibly Russian.” He paused. “Do you know Russian?”
“I took a tutor,” she said quietly. “After I heard you’d been to Moscow. Brushed up on my Cyrillic and vocabulary.”
Something possessive and heated unfurled in his chest. She’d kept track of his travels after he fucked everything all to hell.
“When you said you were learning languages to find common ground…” He rolled the whiskey between his hands, amber liquid catching the light. “I didn’t think you meant it.”
I thought you’d said it to hurt me.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I did.” Caroline scrutinised the cypher now. “Polyalphabetic Vigenère tableau, possibly.”
A smile touched Julian’s lips. “There’s that spark. The only time I’ve seen your eyes light up like that is with cryptography and—”
“Painting,” she said. “I know.”
