Page 34 of Darkest at Dusk
“You could not sleep,” he said softly. “A situation in which I find myself quite often.” His lips twitched, though the movement never quite became a smile. “And so you sought…what, precisely? A midnight stroll?”
There was no censure in his tone, no mockery, only a quiet curiosity that felt more disconcerting than any accusation.
“I heard something,” she whispered.
He exhaled through his nose, a sound partway between amusement and resignation. “This house is filled with strange sounds, Miss Barrett. It groans, it whispers, it shudders and clanks. May I suggest that you not chase after every sound you hear?”
She should have felt chastised, cowed. Instead, she felt angry—angry at his dismissiveness, angry at his effortless calm while she still felt as though her skin was stretched too tight over her bones. Worse, she felt a spark of something sharp and enticing, as though his very indifference dared her to provoke him.
“In future, I will be sure to chase only those noises that promise certain danger,” she said, acerbic. “What is the point of wandering in the night if there is no threat?”
His huff of laughter was low and warm. Unsettling.
“I, too, wander when I cannot sleep,” he said, then glanced down at himself before meeting her eyes once more, his expression sardonic. “I had not expected to meet anyone in my nocturnal wanderings, or I would have dressed with more formality. Please excuse the state in which I find myself.”
His words only served to draw her attention to his naked skin, the ridges of his belly, the thin, dark trail of hair that descended?—
Pressing her lips together, she dragged her gaze away.
He took a step closer. The scent of his skin teased her, a clean hint of citrus and…mint. It felt illicit to breathe it in; even so, she did, letting the scent stroke her senses.
Her mouth grew dry, her pulse racing.
She took a hasty step back.
“Come,” he said, his voice low, his gaze locked on hers. “I will take you back to your room.”
“No need.” She shook her head, stepping away.
He watched her, expectant, amused.
“No need? Then please lead the way, Miss Barrett.”
She edged around him and paused as she took in the hallway, trying to remember how she had arrived at this spot. Finally, she took an awkward, sliding step to the right.
His voice was a low murmur behind her. “Other way.”
She turned, her movements rigid.
Without another word, he led her through the darkened corridors. As they walked, her senses betrayed her, focusing on the subtle sway of his gait, the faint rasp of linen over his hips, the warmth radiating from him in the cold dark. She was acutely aware of everything about him, his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles of his back shifting beneath his skin as he moved. His state of undress. She had never seen a man without his shirt.
Oh, she had read Papa’s books of anatomy, seen the drawings therein, but nothing had prepared her for this.
Rhys Caradoc was…beautiful.
As they turned down yet another hallway, her shoulder bumped his arm. He made no indication that he even noticed. But she noticed, her skin tingling beneath her wrap.
Her pulse beat a frantic rhythm, her every sense painfully aware of him in the velvet-dark corridor, that unfamiliar twist low in her belly gnawing at her like hunger.
When they reached her door, he turned to her, his gaze lingering on her face. The shadows softened the hard lines of his jaw, but his eyes, those piercing gray eyes, held an intensity that made her stomach flutter.
“Why did you buy my father’s collection?” she asked, both because she wanted the answer and because she wanted to prolong their moment together. “Are you an antiquarian?”
If he was surprised by her questions, uttered here in the dim corridor while they stood improperly close, he made no indication.
“The answer to the second question is no,” he said. “The answer to the first is that I wanted to gain his good favor.”
“Because you wanted something from him.” Her thoughts drifted to the key around her neck. It lay beneath her bodice against her skin, the metal cold. “You wanted his private collection. How disappointed you must have been when those books were not included in the material you purchased. Doubly disappointed when he refused to part with them that day when you came to call.”
