Chapter 35

After stepping past the entrance to the library, Devorlane stepped back. The movement was not just against his better judgment, but after last night, instinct screamed not to. The only saving grace, when his feet did it anyway, was his boots were noiseless on the tiled floor. He was on his way out, a ride to clear his head, freshen his body of the chills that had swept it all night. He'd no idea of the time. The darkness outside didn't tell him a thing, not at this time of the year with Christmas four weeks off. But the library was lit and in the grate a smoldering fire offset the chill of the cavernous room with its quiet corners and arched alcoves.
She was dressed as ever in black. Was he mistaken to think the bodice of this dress was lower, displaying the faintest hint of creamy cleavage? Not that it should matter a damn whether she displayed cleavage or not.
If his gaze, his interest, merely rested on the cleavage, that would be bad enough. He was bound even by the tilt of her head, the line of her neck, as she sat there at the table. Last night her hair had spilled loose about her face, this morning it was tied, if not particularly tightly, with a piece of black ribbon at the nape of her creamy neck.
He bit his lip. Why hadn't she just left? Taken the papers and vanished into the same kind of thin air Sapphire had that Christmas Eve.
Tilting his jaw, he exhaled faintly. He could and should have locked the damn boxes up. To be truthful though, when he'd strode back into his bedroom last night and locked the door, those papers were the last thing on his mind.
Not that virgins troubled him terribly. Had he known the truth when he'd made that bargain with her, though? He shook his head to gather himself. At the very least he wouldn't have been so impatient when she'd insisted on walking to the bed, after the fiasco with her legs. Desperation had overpowered him.
He narrowed his eyes as they appraised the soft swell of her breast. Yes, he had felt the need to move the encounter along, quite unusually for him. It was that or walk out, feeling she didn't want him. At that point he wasn't for walking out because her wanting him wasn't what this was about. Not just that. He never fumbled like a fifteen year old, even when he'd been fifteen himself. Last night he'd fumbled.
Of course, she'd denied being a virgin.
Of course, she'd every reason to. She was Sapphire.
Again his eyes appraised her. Bargain? So far she hadn't been very damn much of one had she? Well? All right, he'd feel a hell of a lot better about the encounter and his own lack of restraint, and the fact she was here at all, if she'd smacked her hand off his jaw because she was telling the truth. He had insulted her.
The last thing in the world Devorlane wanted to do was step over the threshold, so what the hell was he doing not just over it, but across the library floor as well? Why should he stand there feeling badly about last night though? About the whole bargain he'd struck with her, come to that, if she was a virgin? Anyway that damned provocative scent of hers had him magnetized. He was standing beside her, inhaling it before he knew it.
"Prove it."
Her gaze licked sideways, then it licked back onto the papers, as if she regretted not taking them and bolting while she had the chance. Good. He needed this creature to be at his mercy, not the other way about. It was just unfortunate, when he needed that so badly, the memory of that moment when he'd fleetingly possessed her made his blood pound with longing. Virgins didn't do that to him as a rule.
"And a good morning to you too, Lord Hawley."
"Is it?"
"Well, whether it is or not, to answer your other question, it's early days."
"We both know the papers aren't what I'm talking about."
No. Her virginity was what they were talking about, which was why the faint blush that crept over her cheekbones was so satisfying.
"Of course, it is very clear such things don't interest you."
"But they must interest you, or you wouldn't still be here given my terms. Or maybe you think I'm going to let you away with anything because you're London's premiere jewel thief? Dressing as you did last night. Arguing like a fish-wife. And let's not talk about the fact you're incapable of keeping your hands to yourself."
It was true. Bringing her here had at least disabused him of one thing: the tiny flickering notion he pitied her.
He wagered the desire she must have to strike him-probably with the papers-warred within her against the possibility of being bundled on the next coach for London, without them. Unless she meant to knock him unconscious with the box itself, as the stare she cast it, then him, said. Several moments' worth of ticking clocks and crackling logs and shadows seemed to advance across the rug. Clearing her throat, she pushed the chair back.
"Lock the door, Lord Hawley."
"What the hell for?"
So now she was on her feet, she could hit him with that box? What did she take him for exactly? The same damn fool he started to think everyone else did around here? Tilly and Belle and the others? The man who had somehow failed to take control of his life?
Her fingers edged to the tie holding her hair. Keeping her gaze fastened on his, she loosened it and shook her hair free. One movement for that. One for the ribbon beneath her breasts, the one holding her pretty black gown shut.
"What do you think? You asked me to prove something, didn't you? Don't be coy about pretending you don't know what it is."
Devorlane's throat dried. Yes. He had. But not if he lived to be a hundred did he expect to be told to lock the damn door. When he thought of all the women he'd known, the cheapest whores, the most expensive courtesans, the married women he'd had no qualms about taking his pleasure with, he'd no desire whatsoever to find himself thinking, she was the first to make him this brazen offer.
In the library too, of all places, where he'd sat as a boy, poring over his grandfather's books. Playing with that globe on the table there.
To say he was stunned, that shock raced through his veins, was an understatement. Because she looked as if she meant it too. Of course, she'd looked that way the night she'd planted those emeralds on him, which was why he should be concerned she looked that way now.
"So what are you waiting for?" Before he could stop her, she tugged the dress down over her hips. "Lock the door."
His glance shot over his shoulder. Then ricocheted back again to where she stood in a simple cream chemise, facing him squarely. 'Put some clothes on, for Christ's sake. Jesus, stop standing here like that.' He, who never thought to hear such sacrilegious words pass his lips, was shocked to find himself almost uttering them. She could not possibly be serious.
"Well, Lord Hawley? Or maybe you want Tilly walking in and seeing what I am going to do to you? Maybe you are also an exhibitionist?"
"Me? What a sod-awful thought."
"Of course, I haven't seen her since I arrived."
She bent down and edged off her shoes. Nice ones. Nothing like what she wore last night. "But I doubt she wants me here, any more than Belle or Eudora do. So the sooner we do this, the sooner I can get back to discovering who I am. And the sooner I can get out of here, before I affect their chances in the marriage market. Because, correct me if I'm wrong, but we did agree with 'mistress' for the duration of the search? But maybe you'd rather wait till tonight? Provided I don't find anything in the meantime. You tell me."
As he thought what if she did, she reached down for the hem of her chemise and tugged it over her head. What emerged-she wasn't wearing a corset, or a petticoat-made his heart buck in his chest.
Jesus Christ, but he'd have to close that door, or get her to put some clothes on before Tilly, or one of the servants, came past and saw her standing like that, stark naked in the middle of the library floor, without the least trace of shame about it.
Tilly was drunk half the time. In all probability, she would think she was hallucinating. But Eudora now, Eudora was an innocent. Not like this hussy.