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“A pity, that. Would you like to hear more? About my dreams?”

“No.” Yes.

“They were merely of this place. And you. Haunting the grounds like a luscious ghost.”

How had he known what she wanted despite her words?

He tapped the book where it rested on his thigh. A lovely thigh, muscle straining against buckskin, other parts straining against it too.

She licked her lips.

He noticed, his eyes blazing to life. “In my dreams, it seemed as if you had been here always, waiting for me to return, to join you here.”

“Silly things, dreams.”

“Perhaps. But then I could not sleep, so I went looking for that damn manuscript again.” The slight, charming smile he’d worn since she entered dissolved, replaced by a mouth bracketed with worry, frustration. “Didn’t find it of course. But I did remember exactly why I love the library at Seastorm. So comprehensive. A book on every subject your heart desires.”

A subject she could warm to. “It is rather magnificent. Did you see the books I found yesterday? And those large windows with the deep seats. I could study there all day.”

His smile returned. “I could see you there, you know. In exactly the window seat you’re talking about. I swear I saw it by candlelight last night. Your gold hair rolling down your back, your pale chemise shining against the darkness, your nose deep into a book. Had to close my eyes and shake my head to rid myself of the image.” He chuckled. “But after I’d banished that ghost, I went in search of literary distraction and found something quite interesting.”

“Oh? What?” She could not keep the excited curiosity from her voice. “A clue to the manuscript’s location?”

“No. I found my father’s special collection of books. The ones I’m not supposed to know exists.” He tapped the book on his leg again.

Ah. Her belly tightened again. He’d found his father’s naughty books. Quite obviously.

“You may keep such information to yourself, Mr. Cavendish.” But she could not help craning her neck, trying to read the cover on the spine of the book balanced on his muscular leg.

“Have you ever readThérèse the Philosopher?” he asked.

“I… I am afraid I have not.” Almost impossible to speak with lust thickening her throat and tongue, scattering her focus.

“An excellent book. Most enlightening. Interesting reading after such dreams. This is, by the by, not a seduction. Merely a conversation.” He grinned, so slow and with such intent, and with just one corner of his full, firm lips. “I shall leave it now.”

A knock on the door, as if he’d summoned propriety and focus in physical form. As if she’d summoned relief from whatever had been roiling to a boil between them. A distraction from the needy pulse between her legs and that onslaught of charm. Not a seduction? Ha.

“Come in,” Jackson said, standing. He crossed the room and laid the book on the table closest to Gwendolyn, then sat behind his father’s old desk. “Good morning… Joshua, is it?”

The young man who entered the room wore a footman’s livery in deep blue and gold. He bowed. “Yes, sir.”

“You worked here when my father was yet alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gwendolyn stole a single glance at the plain-looking book before jumping to her feet and setting up a workspace on a small table to the side of Jackson’s desk. Paper, pen, an inkwell, and blotting paper. She’d observe and listen, offer questions if she thought of any, and write it all down to study later for clues, if there were any. Mostly, though, she’d stay silent and watch.

Jackson needed no help making others feel comfortable with him, comfortable enough to spill their secrets.

Jackson gestured the footman to a chair across from him. “Sit! I’d feel awkward if you didn’t.” He gestured to a plate of biscuits that looked fresh. “Please take one.”

With wide eyes and some hesitation, the footman did so, and with each flaky, buttery bite, he relaxed.

Jackson chose a biscuit from the plate and placed it before Gwendolyn, too.

She ignored it and picked up her pen. Time to work. They’d dawdled in the personal long enough.

“Are you aware,” Jackson said, turning back to the footman, “that my father was writing a book before he died?”