Free A Duchess to Remember by Christina Brooke Page B

certain.
    He might be forced to accept that the lady had been sincere in her refusal to come tonight. The notion whipped up his annoyance every time it struck him.
    He’d planned for this evening, quite meticulously. The possibility that the intrepid and resourceful Lady Cecily Westruther would not find a way to be here had not occurred to him.
    He’d relied on the challenge of it to pique her interest as much as her desperation to know more about the Promethean Club. He thought he’d discerned in her a fascination for him that reciprocated his growing obsession with her.
    She couldn’t have remained oblivious of what had lain thick in the air in his library that night. Each flare of those dark, velvety eyes, every nervous gesture seared themselves upon his memory.
    Those reactions had not denoted fear, but an awakening desire in an innocent but otherwise remarkably self-possessed young woman. The contrast was delicious, intriguing. He couldn’t get her out of his head.
    Had she thought about him in the intervening days?
    So many duties and pursuits had occupied him in the week since they’d met. Yet, Lady Cecily’s face, so vivid and striking, was rarely absent from his thoughts. He turned over their conversations in his head, took them out and viewed them with the critical appraisal of a playwright watching actors perform his work.
    He wished now that he could rewrite that script, that he’d taken what he wanted instead of holding himself so sternly in check.
    But no. His instincts about Lady Cecily Westruther’s interest in meeting him here might have been faulty, but his judgment about her lack of experience was accurate. He needed to take her in slow measures, to hold back every ounce of his own desire while he teased hers forth slowly, delicately, like silk thread from a cocoon.
    His lips twisted, mocking such self-delusion. He had fooled himself about many things, it seemed, including his power to compel her. He couldn’t recall ever being surprised by a woman before.
    It occurred to him that he wasn’t entirely sure of anything where this young lady was concerned. Where did he want it all to lead, anyway? His interest in her was far from platonic; yet, she was an innocent. Moreover, she was a gently bred lady. As such, she was forbidden.
    Why couldn’t he seem to remember that?
    Logic did not make so much as a dent in his determination to know more of Lady Cecily Westruther. Perhaps this strange infatuation would fizzle and die on closer acquaintance. Yet his character was not capricious. His first impressions of people were generally sound.
    When another half hour passed, Rand finally accepted he would not see her tonight. The evening held not the slightest allure for him now. He propped his shoulders against the wall to await the dawn and wished these people would get the hell out of his house.
    Five minutes later, one of the footmen brought him a note.
     
The library. Hurry!
    He read it with a surge of triumph. Crushing the note between his fingers, Rand nodded his thanks to the footman and slipped away.
    *   *   *
     
    Was there ever anything so unfortunate? Cecily crouched, frozen, behind Ashburn’s desk as she waited for two very tedious lovers to finish their business and leave the duke’s library.
    She’d searched this room for nearly an hour before the library door opened and a man and a woman came in.
    Cecily had dropped to the floor, praying they hadn’t noticed her. But she needn’t have worried. Soon, it became clear that this pair’s attention was wrapped up in each other.
    A lady’s low, suggestive laughter thrilled across the room, followed by a masculine gasp.
    Oh, good God! That’s all she needed. She blew out an exasperated breath and waited for the lovers to do what they’d come in here to do, then go.
    Although on second thoughts, the gentleman didn’t seem all that loverlike.
    “Really! No, really, ma’am. I don’t think we ought. I mean, deeply flattered. Most