CHAPTER FIVE
“Good luck, Miss Sinclair,” Peter said again.
Two days later, her carriage rolled to a stop before the Duke’s estate once more, and Joan felt her stomach twist with nervous anticipation. She had spent the past days wrestling with her decision, weighing the benefits against the risks, telling herself this was purely a practical arrangement.
Joan accepted his hand and descended from the carriage, smoothing her skirts with fingers that trembled only slightly. “Thank you, Peters.”
She had on a gray day dress with long sleeves and a high neckline that suggested respectability. She looked like a governess or a lady’s companion.
She walked into the mansion and the butler opened up before she could knock. His expression was as carefully neutral as before.
“Good morning, Miss Sinclair,” he said with a bow. “His Grace is expecting you. If you would follow me.”
Jenkins led her down a different corridor this time, deeper into the house. They passed closed doors and shuttered windows until finally he stopped before a heavy oak door and pushed it open.
“Miss Sinclair.”
Joan stepped into the room—and her breath stopped.
It was a study, and it was magnificent. Three walls were lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of them packed with leather-bound volumes. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface clear except for an inkwell and several neat stacks of papers. Windows along the fourth wall let in filtered light through heavy curtains, creating a sort of perpetual twilight.
But it was the books that captured Joan’s attention.
She moved toward the nearest shelf as though drawn by an invisible thread, her fingers reaching out to trace the gilt lettering on the spines. Philosophy texts. Volumes of Plato and Aristotle. Locke and Hume. Rousseau. Kant.
Oh, what a collection.
She had always loved philosophy, had devoured every text she could find in her late father's modest library. But this—this was extraordinary. Some of these volumes must be first editions. Worth a fortune.
Her fingers trailed reverently along the leather bindings, and she pulled out a copy of Hume’sA Treatise of Human Natureto examine it more closely.
“What are you doing?”
The voice came from directly behind her.
Joan spun around so quickly that she lost her balance. Her foot caught in her skirts and she pitched forward with a startled cry.
Strong hands caught her shoulders, steadying her before she could fall. Joan found herself pressed against a solid wall of muscle, her palms flat against a broad chest, her face mere inches from?—
The Duke.
He was fully dressed today in an impeccably tailored coat of dark blue superfine, a crisp white shirt, and a black lace scarf tied across his eyes like a blindfold. The scarf covered him from just above his eyebrows to the bridge of his nose, concealing his scars partially.
Joan’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his coat, could smell that same intoxicating scent of sandalwood. His hands on her shoulders were firm, holding her steady, and she was acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched.
Oh God.
She jerked away from him, nearly stumbling again in her haste. Her face felt like it was on fire.
“Your Grace!” she managed, her voice coming out higher than usual. “I—that is—I apologize. I was merely examining your collection. I didn’t hear you enter.”
The Duke moved past her with confident steps, his walking stick tapping lightly against the floor. He navigated around the desk and settled into the large leather chair.
Joan’s embarrassment deepened. She had been so focused on the philosophy texts that she had completely ignored her surroundings. She cleared her throat and clasped her hands together, forcing herself to regain some semblance of composure. “Your Grace, I have come to inform you that I accept your offer.”
“Have you?” He leaned back in his chair, his scarred hands resting on the armrests. Even with the silk scarf covering half his face, she could tell he was smiling. “How fortunate for both of us.”
“However,” Joan continued, lifting her chin, “I must confess that I find your choice of assistant rather puzzling.”
