Page 2 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke
Eveline tilted her head, considering. His hands, she noticed, bore ink stains along the knuckles—faint but visible to someone who knew what to look for, having spent considerable time sporting similar marks herself. His fingers were long and elegant, but there was a slight callus on the middle finger of his right hand that spoke of extensive writing. More tellingly, the way he held the book suggestedgenuine familiarity rather than the careful reverence of someone handling an unfamiliar object.
"I believe," she said slowly, "that you do read. Extensively, in fact. But I also believe you're the sort of man who enjoys being underestimated, which suggests either commendable humility or dangerous cunning."
Something flickered in those grey eyes at her reply. "How remarkably perceptive. And which do you suspect it is?"
"In my experience, truly humble men don't dress with such attention to detail or carry themselves as though the world owes them deference." She gestured toward his perfectly arranged cravat, his coat that fit him with the precision that spoke of London's finest tailors, the subtle gleam of what was undoubtedly a very expensive watch chain. "Which suggests the latter."
"Cunning," he mused, as though tasting the word. "Such a harsh assessment from someone who's known me for only fifteen minutes."
"Fifteen minutes can be quite sufficient for forming initial impressions. Though I admit they're sometimes proven wrong upon further acquaintance."
"Sometimes?"
"Very rarely," Eveline said with a smile that was probably too sharp to be properly ladylike. "I have something of a talent for reading people, much to their frequent discomfort."
"I can imagine." He shifted slightly, and she realized he'd moved closer during their conversation, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. The bookshop, with its narrow aisles and towering shelves, suddenly felt considerably smaller. "And what else does your talent tell you about me?"
This was dangerous territory, the sort of charged conversation that her mother would have whisked her away from with horrified efficiency. A proper young lady didn't engage in such intimate discourse with strange gentlemen, didn't allow herself to be drawn into the sort of verbal sparring that made her pulse quicken and her cheeks flush. She should make some polite excuse and retreat to a safer section of the shop, perhaps browsing the poetry until the rain subsided and she could make her escape.
Instead, she found herself stepping closer, drawn by the challenge in his voice and the way his attention felt like sunlight after years of being treated as a potted plant; decorative but essentially silent.
"You're someone accustomed to command," she said, her voice dropping to match his intimate tone. "Your posture, your manner of speaking, the way you expect others to yield space to you...it all suggests authority. Military, perhaps, or political. But there's something else..." She paused, studying the fine lines around his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw that spoke of carefully controlled emotion. "You're disappointed in something. Or someone. It's made you cynical, I think, though you wear it well."
The silence that followed her assessment stretched between them like a taut wire, filled with the sound of rain against glass and the distant murmur of other patrons browsing the shop's offerings. She'd overstepped, she realized with amixture of horror and defiance. Ladies didn't make such personal observations about gentlemen they'd just met, didn't peer beneath polite facades to the shadows beneath.
But she'd always been terrible at being a proper lady.
"Remarkable," he said finally, and there was something in his voice she couldn't identify. Surprise, certainly, but something else as well. Something that made her breath catch despite her determination to remain unaffected by grey eyes and expensive cologne. "Quite remarkable indeed."
Before she could respond, the shop bell chimed with the arrival of another customer, and the spell was broken. The newcomer brought with him a gust of cold air and the scent of wet wool, reminding Eveline rather forcefully that she was lingering in a bookshop with a stranger while a storm raged outside.
"I should..." she began, then stopped, unsure what exactly she should do. Purchase her book and leave? Continue this increasingly fraught conversation? Demand his name and direction so she might torment herself with wondering about him for weeks to come?
"Yes," he agreed, though his tone suggested he was no more certain than she was, about what course of action propriety demanded. "You should."
But neither of them moved.
The rain seemed to intensify, touching the ground with renewed vigor, and Eveline found herself grateful for the excuse to remain. Not because she was enjoying their conversation, she told herself firmly. Certainly not because there was something compelling about the way he looked at her as though she were a puzzle he was genuinely interested in solving, or because his smile transformed his rather austere features in ways that made her pulse skip in the most unseemly manner.
No, she was simply being practical. Only a fool would venture out in such weather.
"The storm shows no signs of abating," she observed, as though this were a perfectly reasonable explanation for continuing to stand mere inches away from a man whose name she didn't even know.
"None whatsoever," he agreed gravely. "Most inconvenient."
"Terribly so." She shifted her weight, acutely aware of his proximity and the way the narrow aisle seemed to contract around them. "Though I suppose it provides an excellent opportunity to browse more thoroughly. I'm told Mr. Hatchard has acquired some fascinating new titles recently."
"Indeed? And what sort of titles capture your interest, Miss...?" He let the question hang between them, clearly hoping she might finally provide her name.
Eveline hesitated. Once she gave him her name, their encounter would shift from anonymous flirtation to something more concrete, more real. She would become Miss Eveline Whitcombe, a bluestocking spinster and social curiosity, rather than simply a sharp-tongued woman who read Greek and had opinions about parliamentary legislation.
The prospect was both thrilling and terrifying.
"Eveline," she said finally, offering only her Christian name as a compromisebetween propriety and the strange intimacy that had developed between them. "And you are?"
For a moment, something flickered across his features which seemed like surprise again, or perhaps calculation. When he spoke, his voice carried an oddly formal note that hadn't been there before. "Adrian."
Just Adrian, then. They were to remain on equal footing in their semi-anonymity, it seemed.
