“Ashton.” Her voice shook slightly. “I didn’t realize the library was occupied. I’d thought all the men had gone out shooting this morning.”
Her eyes were red-rimmed, as though she’d gotten little sleep. She wore a simple blue dress that hugged her gentle curves to perfection, her hair pulled up into a messy, chaotic knot. She looked beautiful, and his male pride swelled again at the knowledge that he’d been the one to pleasure her last night, not Wallingford.
“You should still be abed,” he said, desperate to enfold her in his arms. He didn’t think she’d welcome his touch, so he held himself back, just barely. “It looks as though you’ve hardly slept.”
“I slept perfectly well, thank you.” A lie, and he knew it. With a worried look, she touched a finger to the circle under one eye. “Are you implying I look unrested?”
“That’s precisely what I’m implying. Go back to bed. I’ll fetch a maid to bring you a breakfast tray.” He smiled wolfishly. “Better yet, perhaps I’ll bring it to you myself. Butter and cream might satisfy any lingering cravings, don’t you agree?”
Her cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink. “I don’t know why I bother talking to you. You are completely uncivilized.” She drew in a long breath, then released it with a huff. “And you are not permitted to go anywhere near my bedroom…ever again.”
Just as she turned to leave, he said, “We need to discuss what happened.”
She turned back to him. “Nothing happened.”
He leaned against the desk, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted to the side. “Oh, something most certainly did.”
She stiffened. “I’ve drawn a veil over last night. It doesn’t exist.”
He chuckled. “Really? I remember quite vividly how you—”
“Quiet,” she hissed, crossing the room to where he leaned against the desk. “There are servants everywhere. Someone will hear you.”
His lips curled up into a smile. “We’re quite alone.”
“You’re impossible.” She blew out a breath. “What is it you wish to say?”
“Has Wallingford officially offered for you?”
Before he proceeded, he needed to know precisely how many obstacles stood in his path. If there was already an understanding between her and Wallingford, it would make Ashton’s task all the more difficult.
She hesitated. Defiance flickered in her eyes. “Not yet, but he will.”
Unexpected relief washed over him at her words. In all of his thirty-three years, he’d never been so fascinated by a woman. But Daphne was vivacious, opinionated, exceptional in every way.
“When James returns from shooting, I intend to ask him for your hand.”
Her eyes widened. “No! Please, Ashton, be reasonable. I understand why you feel you must do this, but Edward—”
Ashton pushed off the desk and stood toe to toe with her. “Edward,” he growled. “You speak of Edward loving you, but does he know you, Daphne, truly? Does he know you’re deathly afraid of horses, or that you loathe dancing? Does he know you prefer coffee over tea and brandy over wine? Does he know you blush when you lie?”
She blinked up at him, her brows drawn together. “You remembered all those things about me?”
He remembered every little facet of her, every detail that set her apart. Over the years, he’d watched her, intrigued, never allowing himself to feel anything more.
Her gaze searched his face and a faint smile curved her lips. “How did you know I prefer brandy?”
“You steal sips from James’ glass when you think no one is looking.”
She laughed. “You are very observant.”
He cupped her chin in his hand and brushed his thumb over her plump lower lip. She deserved so much more than Wallingford. She deserved a man who would worship her, a man who would dedicate himself to her happiness. “Only when it comes to you.”
She sobered a little, her gaze dropping to his lips before darting away. “I should leave you to your work. Someone is liable to catch us alone and make a fuss about it.”
He dropped his hand and his gaze fell to the book clutched to her chest. “First tell me, what are you reading?”
What books did she enjoy? He’d buy her an entire library of them.
Clutching the book tighter, she straightened her spine. “Um, just a book of poetry.”
Something in the way she stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable, piqued his interest.
“Interesting. I thought you hated the genre.” He reached out and plucked the book from her hand. She lunged for it, but he held it up, just out of her reach.