Good Lord, he’d grown indecisive.
For most of his life, the “right thing” to do had been readily apparent. But ever since he’d met the Wainwright ladies, his clarity had muddied.
“If you’d just comethisway, Miss.”
Miss?Neville stopped short as a footman’s directive startled him out of his reverie.
“I think,” the servant continued, “you’ll find the yellow parlor the most comfortable place to wait.”
“Thank you, but no—”
Oh, for God’s sake!Neville recognized Millicent’s voice and shuddered. What crime had he committed to deservethis?
“—I prefer to wait for my sister in the library.”
No. No. No.Frantically, he glanced about. But, unless he threw himself through the window, the library had only one egress.
“Now, if you would just be so kind as to—”
Millicent rounded the staircase’s corner and stopped short, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on him. His heartbeat raced, but his expression involuntarily softened.
Keep your mind on the problems at hand, man!
But how could he? The winter air had rosed her cheeks. The hue was unearthly, making her look like the subject from the Italian painter Guercino’sThe Guardian Angel.
“It’s alright,” Millicent said. “Lord Neville and I will wait together.”
Without a by-your-leave, she walked right into the library.
The footman’s hesitancy emphasized the impropriety. With neither the duke nor the duchess at home, two unrelated, unmarried people of opposite sexes should not be left unchaperoned.
Yet another rule Millie chose to ignore.
She had no real awareness of the many dangers she blithely courted, and, apparently, no awareness at all of the nature and depth of Neville’s passion. She thought him dull, uninteresting and completely incapable of ravishing her in his cousin’s library.
The latter of which he was, of course.
He hoped.
“I’ll have that hot drink you offered before,” she told the footman. “Tea, please. And one for Lord Neville as well, may I assume?”
“Yes,” he answered without thinking.
Just as if he were already taking a sip from said beverage, heat fanned his cheeks. He stepped to the side, allowing her to pass. As she did so, he caught a whiff of something light and floral, a scent like one he recalled his mother wearing long ago.
He cocked his head and frowned; the scent brought to life a memory long forgotten.
When he was young, he’d always loved to sit at the foot of his mother’s dressing table while his mother prepared for an evening out. She’d place a droplet of cologne on her finger and then dab just beneath each ear. He would look up and inhale. He’d thought his mother was the loveliest mother in the world.
And now, his mother wasn’t speaking to him. Instead, he was confined in a library with a young lady who shouldn’t be speaking with him right now, either.
Millie took a seat.
Neville moved awkwardly toward a chair, as if he were still that toddler playing at the foot of his mother’s dressing table. He must appear odd to Millicent, possibly even deranged. As a matter of fact, he rather felt as if he were losing his mind.
“Are you going to sit?” she inquired politely.
“Yes.” He forced his knees to bend, landing inelegantly against the chair’s cushion.