Valentine had reached her in a flash, arms wrapping firmly around her waist just as she slipped from the rung. Her body collided with his chest, the shock of it knocking the breath from her lungs.
The library fell utterly still, as though the dust motes themselves were holding their breath. Cecilia’s fingers were splayed against his chest, caught mid-clutch, and his hand, meant only to catch her, now lingered at the small of her back, anchoring her in place.
It was too close. Far too close.
Yet, she did not pull away. She should have. She knew she should.
But her heart was thudding wildly against her ribs, and her limbs, though steady now, remembered the sudden lurch of the ladder and the quiet thrill that followed...the thrill of being caught. Of being held.
It was the first time they had truly touched.
Though she had spent every day convincing herself she could live with the terms of this marriage, she found herself notmoving. Not even blinking. Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his coat. She could feel the solid, living heat of him beneath. She tilted her face upward, panicking even more on seeing that Valentine was watching her. There was something in his eyes, something she couldn’t name, that made her forget how to breathe.
“Shall I carry you to your chambers, Duchess?” he asked, his voice low and maddeningly composed. “Or do you mean to cling to me all evening?”
The words landed like a splash of cold water. Her eyes flew to his, wide with disbelief as she awkwardly broke free from his hold. “My apologies,” she managed to say. “Thank you.”
She remained turned toward the shelf, pretending to study the spines of several books she wasn’t truly seeing. The heat hadn’t left her cheeks. Nor had the echo of his touch.
Behind her, he hadn’t moved. She could still feel the shape of his presence, tall and very still as always.
She cleared her throat softly. “Are you following me, Your Grace?”
“Following you?” he questioned.
She finally glanced back over her shoulder. “Well, I have seen you twice in one day. That is quite surprising.”
The corner of his lips twitched as he reached down to adjust his shirt. “I don’t like how things ended in the garden,” he said at last.
His response surprised her. She turned fully to him then, curious.
He studied her a beat longer, then added more carefully. “You are allowed to play with Abigail, Duchess. That…wasn’t what I meant. I want her to grow up well. I don’t always know what that requires. But I know she smiled when she was with you, and that is not something I take lightly.”
Cecilia gave him a small smile. A threadbare gesture of peace, stitched together with all the things she did not wish to sayaloud. She turned her face slightly so he couldn’t see too much in her expression. Arguing again would yield little, so she decided not to table all her concerns at that moment so as not to ruin it.
“What is it you’re searching for?” he asked, glancing at the shelves behind her as he changed the subject. “Surely nothing so rare as to risk another fall.”
He stepped closer, his gaze flicking briefly to the ladder she’d nearly toppled from. “There are servants for that sort of thing, you know. You’ve no business climbing shelves like this. Or climbing stone benches to reach roses in the garden. In fact, I strongly advise against it.”
Cecilia didn’t look at him, but the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. “I’m perfectly capable of climbing a ladder, Your Grace.”
“That may be true,” he replied, folding his arms. “But whether you should is another matter entirely. What were you looking for?”
“A book,” Cecilia said, still scanning the row of spines before her as if it might magically appear now that he was watching. “Goody Two-Shoes. Miss Flaxman said it might be somewhere on the upper shelf.”
Valentine’s brow arched higher, his arms crossing more tightly across his chest. “Goody Two-Shoes? Why on earth would you assume a book like that would be in my library?”
Cecilia blinked, straightening. “Because Miss Flaxman said it might be, Your Grace,” she answered plainly. “Also because it’s a book worth reading.”
He made a low sound, something between incredulity and disdain. “It’s a penny moral, written for the lower class.”
She stiffened. “I don’t think that matters, Your Grace. What precisely is wrong with obedience and thrift? Or kindness, for that matter?”
He looked as though he might laugh. “I have no intention of filling my daughter’s head with populist fairy tales. It’s not the sort of thinking I want to foster in her.”
“Have you even read the book, Your Grace?”
Valentine squinted his eyes. “Why would I need to? I know enough about it to form an opinion.”
