She accepted the book from him, and promptly stuffed it back on the crowded bookshelf. “I don’t read Leigh Hunt’s work,” she said, detecting the defensive note in her words.
The duke inclined his head. “It would not matter if you did.”
“Oh, it certainly would,” she said. She could only imagine the furor if the ton believed the plain, bluestocking Adamson twin read the work of Leigh Hunt. “Not that I do. Because I don’t,” she said, hurriedly. Katherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rattling on. “Very well, then. I must be going.”
Before the duke could utter another word, she spun on her heel and quickly exited the shop. A blanket of white covered the pavement, the snow that rained down from the sky, large, fluffy flakes. A sweet, uncharacteristic quiet filled the London air. Katherine searched around for her carriage.
From over her shoulder she detected the faint jingle of the bell from inside the bookshop, then the steady crunch of boots turning up the fresh snow.
Katherine’s back straightened, and she resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. She didn’t need to look. She knew he was there, watching, walking over to her...and still, his commanding presence didn’t fail to unnerve her.
Katherine gasped, as the duke stopped alongside her. She slapped a hand to her breast and spun to face him. “Must you always—”
“Here,” he said, gruffly.
She blinked at the wrapped package in his hands.
“Take it,” he ordered.
Katherine looked around, aware of the impropriety of accepting a gift from a gentleman, in a very public place, no less. Except, the streets remained eerily empty, devoid of people passing by. She took the wrapped package from him, and proceeded to open it.
The Excursion.
Her heart did a quick pause, and then resumed its steady tempo. “No, you mustn’t…”
She spun around in search of the duke, but his long legged stride had put considerable distance between them; his black cloak stirred about his powerful legs, in a stark contrast to the white snow.
Her gaze fell to the book he’d given her. He was a perfectly odious bounder, and yet, twice now he’d shocked her with his generosity; one in risking his life to save her, and two in allowing her the sole copy of The Excursion. He struck her as a self-centered, unfeeling nobleman, and yet, with unexpected gestures, continued to defy the image of boorish lout.
And Katherine hated that she did not know what to make of the gentleman. She preferred a world where black was black and white was white, and there were no colors in between. Her father’s betrayal taught her that gentlemen were ultimately selfish creatures who put their own comforts and desires before all else.
In her clear world, with his harsh treatment and callous words, he was a reprehensible fiend.
But in a suddenly unclear world, the same duke who’d purchased the expensive volume for himself, had now given it to her.
She dusted her gloved finger along the trace of snow that coated the leather cover. When she’d first learned of her family’s financial situation, she’d lain awake in the middle of the night, a crushing fear upon her chest. In those scariest of times, she’d found solace in Wordsworth’s poems. The sonnets had reminded her that for as tenuous as her circumstances were, and for all the fear she carried, there was always some far greater sadness.
Thinking of the Duke of Bainbridge, and all he’d lost, she rather believed he’d known that greater sadness. When she’d plucked the volume from the shelf, she’d hoped to aggravate the flinty-eyed duke. Now, staring down at it, considering what he’d done, and more importantly, what he’d known, Katherine knew very well it would be wrong for her to keep the book.
Just then, the footman rushed over to help relieve her of her package. She held a hand up. “Stephens, I need to return to the bookshop. I need to pen a note, and when I’ve finished, I’ll require you to deliver this package to someone.” Katherine handed it over to him, and turned back to the bookshop.
In that moment, Katherine realized the duke was not all he seemed.
And she didn’t know why that thought should terrify her as it did.
~7~
Jasper stomped his way through the snow, down the long stretch of pavement, onward toward his Mayfair Street townhouse, his hands empty from his visit at the bookshop.
He gritted his teeth so hard, pain shot from his jawline, and radiated up to his temple.
He’d recognized that look in her eyes; her eyes that put him of mind of warmed Belgian chocolate. The winter air swallowed the growl that climbed up his throat.
What in the name of St. Stanislaus was the matter with him?