Page 33 of Romancing the Scot
Grace hesitated and then froze when his thumb brushed across her bottom lip.
“I think you need to sit.”
She plunked down on the bench.
“Much better,” he said.
He moved away from her, but her heartbeat was slow to find a normal rhythm. As she struggled to recover some semblance of calm, she stared across the room—at the chairs, the desks, the dying embers in the fireplace, the darkness that had covered the landscape outside the windows. She stared at everything that didn’t matter, to keep her eyes from locking on the person who had come to dominate her attention before he even entered the room.
So many times Grace had heard her father lecture his protégés on the importance of knowing enough but not too much. Learn his weaknesses, but don’t develop camaraderie.
She’d come into this library to learn enough to direct conversation when they went riding in the morning. Instead, in the hours she’d spent poring through clippings of published records of trials and copies of official court proceedings, she’d become an admirer. She respected how he conducted his courtroom. She was encouraged by his principles and his efforts to see justice honestly applied. Reading through those pages, it was easy to see him as a champion for those who were powerless in the world.
But all of that paled in comparison with her feelings when Hugh Pennington caressed her lip. The risk of comradery was not an issue here.
“Were you able to find anything of interest in this library?”
“Yes. A great deal. Thank you.” She glanced at her host as he stretched up to put a couple of volumes on a high shelf.
His shoulders were impossibly wide, and yet his dinner clothes fit him impeccably. She studied every detail, watching as he picked up another book from the floor. He opened it, pretending to be interested, but Grace knew he was keeping track of every move she made.
And he’d touched her lip, she thought, reliving the moment again.Her lip.
She was falling for his charm. But there would be only one person who would suffer if they were to become involved.
He slowly slid the book into its place on the shelf and picked up another that was partially hidden under a chair.
“So what did you find to help you pass the time?”
She forced herself to remember what she came here for.
“I spent much of my time reading the folio Lady Aytoun keeps.”
“My mother?” He put the book on the shelf and turned to look at her.
Grace motioned to the large album sitting on a nearby table.
“That hodgepodge of scraps about the family? With all of this literature around you?”
Modesty and confidence. With the exception of a few decades-old references to Lord Aytoun’s work and political positions, particularly on local issues, most of the folio cuttings pertained to Hugh Pennington’s military successes and the cases he’d presided over in court.
“I disagree,” she told him. “I found the articles more than informative. They provided me with a keen understanding of Baronsford and its master.”
He ran a finger down the spine of another book and Grace imagined his hand sliding along her own spine.
“A keen understanding?” he asked with a smile. “Glancing at a few clippings is the basis of forming an opinion? I’d be a bit nervous to hear what you’ve decided.”
A few clippings? If he only knew that she could recite every article and record word-for-word.
“You . . . and your family have a history of championing causes. From what I read, your father has had a great influence for good in the Borders. You continue that tradition.”
He waved the book at her. “If I’ve done anything worthy of your approval, it’s due to the principles my parents instilled in me.”
Grace felt the same way. She’d become the person she was due to her father.
“The guidance of a good parent doesn’t guarantee the same outcome in a son or daughter,” she replied. “It’s to your credit, m’lord, that you’ve become, for example, such an outspoken advocate of tenants’ rights.”
“You must have dug deep into that folio to find evidence of that.”
