“You read Wordsworth?”
Jasper’s body stiffened, and his fingers tightened around the volume. With a growl, he set it back upon the shelf.
He looked down at her. Her head was tilted at a funny little angle, her brown, unblinking eyes wide in her face.
“Do you not mind your own affairs, my lady?”
Lady Katherine ignored his question. She reached past him, and plucked the copy of Wordsworth’s poems from the shelf. Her brown eyes scanned the title. She opened it and fanned through several pages, pausing, and…
“What are you doing?” he bit out.
“Reading,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the page.
He blinked. The young ladies he’d remembered of the haute ton did not issue insolent, one-word utterances.
She snapped the leather volume closed with a decisive snap, and held it to her chest.
Jasper counted to ten. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to feed the mischievous glimmer in her brown eyes. “What are you doing now?” But the damned words tumbled from his lips.
“I’m purchasing this book, Your Grace.”
Jasper’s eyes did a quick inventory of the shelf. The lone, solitary copy of The Excursion tightly gripped in the lady’s fingers. He gritted his teeth. “Madam, you’ve taken my copy.”
She held a finger up. “You, put the copy back upon the shelf and I am purchasing it.”
“Young ladies are supposed to read the drivel spouted off by Byron.”
She snorted. “Is that so, Your Grace? My, you are very well-versed in the proper behaviors of young ladies.”
His eyes narrowed. What manner of lady ventured out on a snowy day, once again unchaperoned, entered a bookshop, and proceeded to steal the single copy of Wordsworth’s latest works from a duke, no less?
He took a step toward her. She remained fixed to her spot. The book clutched to her chest hinted at her nervousness.
Which drew Jasper’s attention downward, to the ever so small gap in her emerald green cloak that revealed generously plump breasts. He froze, transfixed. Not even when he’d rescued Lady Katherine Adamson had he noted the feel of her against him. He’d been so bloody cold, and livid. Now, in the dimly lit bookshop, he fought to tear his gaze away.
“Your Grace?”
Jasper jerked his attention back to her face. She scratched her quizzical brow.
He gave his head a hard shake, and took another step toward her until they were a hairsbreadth apart, until she was forced to either step away or tilt her head back to meet his furious stare.
Jasper should have expected that a spirited woman like Lady Katherine would toss back her head, and meet his gaze squarely.
“I do not know what manner of games you play, madam. I do not appreciate your dogging my steps. I’ll not be trapped into marriage.”
Katherine’s eyes widened, as she met the pitiless Duke of Bainbridge’s flinty stare. The condescending pull of his lips, the hard glint in his pale green eyes perfectly suited a formidable duke used to having his every wish obeyed.
The absurdity of his charge, she expected, should have outraged her. She dug around in search of the proper indignation and yet…“You believe I would want to wed you?” she blurted. She giggled. “You believe I would want to trap you?” she repeated. His claim was all too preposterous. “Surely you jest?”
The firm, square line of his jaw hardened; the faint cleft at the center pulsed ever so slightly, as testament to his agitation.
It also confirmed how very serious he was.
Laughter burst from Katherine’s chest. The book tumbled from her fingers, and she pressed her fingers over her mouth to stifle her mirth. “I-I’m s-sorry. F-forgive me,” she managed between laughter. She desperately tried to rein in her outburst, but then she caught sight of the duke’s ever-narrowing gaze, and her laughter redoubled. Katherine dashed a hand across her eyes, to wipe away the traces of tears that had seeped from the corners of her eyes. “Your Grace,” she began. “I will forever be indebted to you for your rescue at the Frost Fair, however, I would not have you. Ever.”
She meant those words to reassure him that she had no designs upon his title. His deepening scowl, however, seemed to indicate that her words were having the opposite effect.
Katherine stooped down, and retrieved the copy of Wordsworth’s poems.
“You think my charge so very hard to believe,” he said, his voice harsh with some unknown emotion. “You’ve failed to make a match after your first Season,” he pointed out, as though Katherine needed a reminder from the Mad Duke.
Fury moved with a life-force through her veins. Oh, the insolence of the man. How could the gossips possibly be correct about his late wife? This coarse, hateful creature was not, nor could have ever been capable of love. “I do not care if I had one Season or ten Seasons, I would not forsake my own self-worth for a gentleman who speaks ill of me, condescends me upon every turn, who…” She furrowed her brow. “How do you know I failed to make a match after a single Season?”