Page 32 of Romancing the Scot
She’d lost count of the hours her head was buried in the folio of clippings. She should have accepted Mrs. Henson’s offer of a supper tray earlier.
Grace didn’t try to stand immediately. The room was still teetering slightly, the rug and furniture rolling in the heaving swells of a ship at sea. She felt around in her hair and found a small lump rising where her head struck the table. She closed her eyes and blinked a few times, willing her vision to focus.
He stood. “I’m sending for Namby this instant.”
“I have no injuries to speak of. Please, I’m perfectly fine,” she called after him. “I assure you, m’lord, I have no need for the doctor.”
He paused and turned around.
“Dr. Namby said this was to be expected, that my recovery would take a little time. He encouraged me to be patient,” she continued. She’d lost one of the soft kid slippers. “Of course, I didn’t listen. I shouldn’t have been climbing the ladder.”
“Are you certain?” he asked, coming back to her. His face showed his skepticism. “You seem bruised.”
She searched for a graceful way of getting to her feet. The books around her would be a problem.
“Right now, my dignity has taken more of a bruising than my body.”
Hugh pulled something from beneath a tented volume of Shakespeare and knelt at her feet. Her slipper.
“Thank you. I was looking for that.”
She fumbled with the slipper, feeling his gaze on her. His look alone was like a slow caress, following the movements of her fingers, fixing on the place where her skirt had risen up, showing a glimpse of stocking. She managed to pull on the shoe.
She didn’t trust herself to look up into his face as he stood. He extended a hand to help her rise, and Grace couldn’t ignore the offer. His hand was warm, his grip firm. She was on her feet in one gentle motion.
“How are you feeling now?”
He didn’t let her go right away. His fingers touched her waist lightly, like a dancer in a waltz. She told herself he was trying to keep her from falling again.
But if that’s all he intended, Grace’s awareness was going a different route. She stared at the loosened neckline of his shirt. The scent of leather and Madeira filled her head. She was considered a tall woman in many circles, but he towered over her. And until now, her knees had never gone weak in response to a person’s height. But Hugh Pennington clearly wasn’t justanyperson.
She looked up into his eyes and found him staring at her lips.
“I’m entirely . . . I’m perfectly . . .” Her voice belonged to a stranger. “Thank you, m’lord.”
Grace started to back away from temptation, but her heel kicked a book. She turned quickly, taking a deep breath and forcing her sanity to return.
The volumes scattered around them came into focus. More had fallen than she’d been aware of. Precious books lay open, their pages bent and in disarray. She’d done damage here.
“Please accept my apologies,” she blurted out. “It was reckless of me to reach for the shelves as I was falling. I’ll take full responsibility in putting this room right. I’ll inspect each one.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he said, cutting her off. “They’re just books, and you’ve done no harm.”
He helped her move from the center of the mess, his hand resting on the small of her back.
“However,” he said, leading her to a nearby bench, “I will allow you to sit right here and keep me company while I put them back up on the shelves.”
Without her shawl, Grace’s arms were uncovered, and they brushed against his jacket. She was too close to him.
“I’m a perpetual nuisance for you,” she insisted, turning to face him. “Please, m’lord. Youmustallow me to straighten this chaos I’ve created.”
He seemed to be assessing her. His eyes meandered slowly over her face. Hers did the same, and this close, he wasn’t perfect. He had a faint mark on his chin. There was a longer scar running down the line of his jaw. His nose was not so straight and a bump on the bridge indicated that it had been broken and set at least once. Evidence of a stitched wound showed plainly above one eyebrow. This was not some soft English aristocrat. He was a battle-tested man of war, and his face reflected it.
And she found him more appealing for every masculine mark and scar. In short, if she had any breath left in her body, Hugh Pennington would have stolen it away.
Her gaze collided with his, and the hunger she saw in his gray eyes brought home the dangerous game she’d started.
“Sit.”
