Page 12 of A Virgin for His Grace
Arabella's breath caught in her throat as she realized that they were no longer discussing abstract philosophy but something far more personal and dangerous. The air between them seemed to shimmer with unspoken possibility, and she found herself swaying slightly toward him despite every rational thought screaming at her to maintain her distance.
"I... I should think," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper, "that genuine feeling, when it occurs, transcends such considerations entirely."
Devon's eyes flashed with something that might have been triumph or satisfaction. "Should you indeed, Miss Greystone? How refreshingly naive of you."
The words were spoken gently, almost tenderly, but they served to break the spell that had been weaving itself around them. Arabella straightened, forcing herself to step back from the edge of whatever precipice she had been approaching.
"Perhaps," she said with as much dignity as she could muster, "we should continue our tour. I believe you mentioned the library, Livia?"
"Oh yes!" Livia exclaimed, apparently oblivious to the charged undercurrent that had just passed between her brother and her companion. "The most wonderful collection you have ever seen. Devon, will you not join us? I know you are proud of your first editions."
Devon glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, then shook his head with apparent regret. "I fear my correspondence cannot wait much longer. But please, show Miss Greystone whatever she wishes to see. The house is hers to explore as she chooses."
As he moved toward the door, he paused beside Arabella, close enough that she could detect the familiar scent of sandalwood and bergamot that seemed to cling to his skin.
"I do hope you will make use of the library during your stay," he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears alone. "I believe you will find much there to... stimulate your interest."
Then he was gone, leaving Arabella to wonder whether the innocent offer of books had been anything but innocent at all.
***
The library, when they finally reached it, proved to be even more magnificent than Arabella had remembered after the short time she had spent with the Duke there. Two stories of leather-bound volumes rose from floor to ceiling, their gilt spines gleaming in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through tall windows. Comfortable reading chairs were positioned to take advantage of both natural light and warmth from the fireplace which she did remember, whilst several reading tables provided space for more serious scholarly pursuits.
"It is breathtaking," Arabella breathed, turning slowly to take in the full scope of the collection.
"Devon spent years acquiring these volumes," Livia said proudly. "Many of them are quite rare—first editions, signed copies, manuscripts that scholars would kill to examine. He says that a gentleman's library is the truest reflection of his character."
Arabella moved toward one of the shelves, running her fingers along the spines with reverent care. Here were works of history and philosophy, poetry and politics, literature both classical and contemporary. The breadth of the collection spoke to a mind of considerable depth and curiosity.
"What manner of books does His Grace favour?" she asked, genuinely curious about the man whose complexity continued to surprise her.
"All manner," Livia replied. "Though he has a particular fondness for the Romantic poets. Byron, Keats—he says they understood that passion and beauty are the only things worth pursuing in this life."
Arabella paused, her hand resting on a volume of Byron's work that showed clear signs of frequent handling. The revelation that Devon found inspiration in such controversial verse should not have surprised her, yet somehow it did. The Byron of popular imagination was a man who lived according to his own desires, not thinking of the consequences and surely not unlike the reputation Devon himself had cultivated.
"And what of you, Livia?" Arabella asked, turning herattention back to her young charge. "What books do you favour?"
Livia's cheeks pinkened slightly. "I confess to a weakness for novels, though Devon despairs of my taste. I particularly enjoy the works of an Anonymous Writer because the heroines in these books are so spirited, so determined to follow their own paths despite the expectations of society."
Arabella smiled at this admission, recognizing something of herself in Livia's literary preferences. "There is nothing shameful in enjoying novels, particularly well-written ones. Some writers possesse a keen understanding of human nature and the complexities of social interaction."
"Do you think so?" Livia asked eagerly. "Devon says novels are mere entertainment, designed to fill idle hours rather than improve the mind."
"His Grace," Arabella said with a slight smile, "may perhaps underestimate the value of understanding one's fellow creatures. The best novels provide insight into the human heart that more serious works sometimes lack."
"I shall tell him you said so," Livia said with a mischievous gleam in her dark eyes. "He enjoys intellectual discourse, particularly with someone capable of challenging his opinions."
Before Arabella could respond to this rather alarming suggestion, the afternoon light began to fade, and Livia declared that they should return to their chambers to prepare for dinner.
"Devon keeps early hours when we dine," she explained asthey made their way through the elegant corridors. "He says that fashionable late dining is an affectation designed to waste the most productive hours of the day."
As they parted at the entrance to the blue suite, Arabella found herself both grateful for the respite from Devon's unsettling presence and strangely eager for the evening's meal. The man continued to confound her expectations at every turn, revealing depths and contradictions that made him far more dangerous to her peace of mind than a simple rake would have been.
A simple rake, she could have dismissed with contempt. But a man of intelligence and sensitivity, one capable of both cruelty and kindness, one whose dark eyes seemed to see straight through to her soul—such a man posed a threat to her equilibrium that she was not at all certain she possessed the strength to resist.
***
Dinner that evening proved to be a far more intimate affair than Arabella had anticipated. Rather than the formal dining room she had glimpsed during her tour, they gathered in a smaller, more comfortable chamber that felt almost cozy despite its elegant appointments.
