He sat. Opened the book cover. Fauna of the Tidal Flats of Devon.
Perfect.
He leafed through the pages, found a plate illustrating a clam digging through mud. And damnation if the clam’s extended foot didn’t look exactly like a man’s—
“Excuse me, Your Grace. I thought I should see if you require anything for your comfort.”
Miles’s voice cut into his thoughts and nearly startled him. She stood there looking...younger than he might have liked. His comfort? Oh, indeed—but not at all in the manner she meant. “Thank you, Mr. Germain. I’m doing well enough at the moment. Are you settling in?”
“Yes.”
“And everything is to your satisfaction?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
Somehow that was no longer a surprise. He watched her wander into the library and wondered if she realized how much her face gave away as she stared at the vast shelves.
She had a hunger for these books that he could scarcely fathom.
Her lips were parted a little, and he studied them, only now realizing that he knew their curve and color by heart.
He returned his attention to the book. “There are some who find my estate quite comfortable, believe it or not,” he said, feeling unaccountably grouchy.
“No doubt they do.” From the corner of his eye, he saw her move closer. He shifted his eyes, watching her legs as she moved. “What are you reading?”
His gaze snapped back to the page. “A treatise about tidal flats.”
“Have you a particular interest in tidal flats?”
“Yes.” He’d never thought about tidal flats in his life. “I find them fascinating.”
“Indeed? I never would have guessed.” She didn’t sound pleased.
“I can hardly keep my eyes from the page.” He started to read aloud. “‘The lugworm is a creature that buries itself in the soft, wet sands,’” he began, then wished he hadn’t, because the concept of being buried in anything soft and wet was not helpful. He skimmed ahead. Ah, yes. “‘It feeds on detritus left behind by other creatures, such as the fecal matter of clams and other burrowing mollusks.’” He looked up at Miles and smiled. “Fascinating.”
That line appeared above her lip. “Such a marked change from your interests in Paris, which as I recall, were—”
“I am quite aware of what they were.” He looked up now, straight into her eyes—good God, he knew those by heart now, too, with their deep brown streaks set in rich walnut—and held her gaze on purpose, but she refused to look away. “As I’ve said, this house is my retreat from the world.” Starting yesterday, anyhow. “When I’m here, I indulge all of my quieter interests.”
“Such as reading.” She said it doubtfully, as if she wondered whether he could read at all.
“Among other things, yes.”
“What other things?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Any number of things. Was there something you wanted, Mr. Germain?”
Because the longer she stood there, the more there was something he wanted, and he could not start down that road or there would be no end to the torment. He was alone in this blasted house, and the only women here now were the servants, whom he refused to turn to because he wasn’t running a brothel...
And her.
She smiled tightly. “Not at all, Your Grace. I shall leave you. Happy reading.”
Oh, indeed. He let his eyes follow her as she walked out—her legs, anyhow, encased in their breeches—and thought of something that would make him incredibly happy, and it had nothing to do with reading.
“READING.” HARRIS SCOWLED, then narrowed one eye. “Well, if it’s reading he wants, then I know just the thing.”
Ten minutes later, Millie stood with Harris in an attic room packed with erotic art. “He ordered it all stored away up here,” Harris said, and led her through the statues and paintings to a set of trunks, which he opened to reveal a large collection of books. “If he wants to read, let him read these.”
And so as evening fell, and His Grace was safely upstairs resting, Millie snuck into the library. Tidal flats, indeed. If he was going to change his mind about Greece, he would not change it because of any feces-eating lugworm.
Millie finished slipping the seventeenth potential motivation onto the bookshelves in His Grace’s library—thank you, Harris and Sacks—and stepped back. In a library this size, he might not even find these books. Perhaps...
She glanced at the desk, where three books sat together in a stack. If it wouldn’t be too obvious, she would plant one there. But he had certainly set those books aside himself, and he would know immediately if someone had added a title—especially a title as eye catching as A Widow’s Adventures, being the Story of a False Virgin Unmasked.
She narrowed her eyes at a shelf near the floor by the window, where a book had fallen over. Hmm. She glanced over her shoulder, went to the bookcase, crouched down. Added A Widow’s Adventures on its side next to the other fallen book—A Beekeeper’s Guide—and stood up. Nudged the widow’s adventures a bit to the right with her toe.
There. That stood a good chance of catching his attention. Except...
She frowned at a space on the next shelf up. Would he ever notice a book lying so close to the floor?
She picked it up. Spent a moment second-guessing the new location—
“Looking for any book in particular, Mr. Germain?”
Devil take it.
The book felt coal-hot in her hands. She didn’t dare put it down, didn’t dare keep it—
“Not I, Your Grace,” she said accusingly, turning, holding the book out, “but I see that you have been doing a bit of reading—and exactly the sort you should not be doing. This is precisely the kind of thing I advised you against,” she preached, tapping the book’s cover. “And here I find it within easy reach of your desk. How do you expect to make any sort of quick recovery when you’re exciting the senses with—” she leafed quickly through the book and stopped at the first image she came to “—with this.”
Which turned out to be—dear God—an engraving of a man fondling the merry widow’s breasts.
The duke glanced at it, at her, and raised a brow. “How indeed.”
“I can’t think why you hired me if you didn’t plan to follow my recommendations.” Millie’s cheeks flamed hot. She pretended it was indignation.
“You needn’t be embarrassed in front of me,” he said. “I am all too sympathetic to a man’s weaknesses.” He reached for the book, took it from her hands. “Let us see what you’ve been entertaining yourself with, shall we, Mr. Germain?”
“Your Grace, I assure you—” That I was not entertaining myself.
“Mmm, yes,” he murmured, paging through it, glancing at the images, skimming. He looked up. Offered a little grin that she felt in her knees. “Do let us peruse it together, shall we? Perhaps with a bit of snuff and some brandy?”
Because that, apparently, was what men did?
“There’s nothing healthful about snuff,” she said. And I don’t wish to peruse that book with you. Except there could be no assurance that