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The corridor to the ducal library appeared to stretch into eternity.

Her boots clicked on the polished floor, her dress occasionally brushing against his legs.

He swallowed, taking care to move slightly away, but either the corridor was shrinking or there was an invisible force pulling him to her, because within a few steps it was happening again.

As they walked, he could smell the perfume she wore, an intoxicating blend of something floral that made him want to pull her close and bury his face in her hair.

This was bad, so very, very bad and yet he wasn’t calling a servant and asking them to escort her to the library instead of him; he wasn’t giving her directions and letting her continue alone either.

He wanted to carry on in her company and Freddie was all about following where his desire led him and so he continued. He would pay the consequences later.

The silence between them became a living, breathing thing.

Goading Emily so that she sniped back at him was not appropriate, not when she had done them such a favour with Charlotte and not when they were actually doing something pleasant together for the first time in their acquaintance.

He could talk to anyone, he was known for it, and yet he could think of nothing to say, not when he was battling with far baser impulses.

‘What type of book do you enjoy?’ he blurted out when it seemed the library door was getting further and further away from them no matter how many steps they took in its direction .

He wasn’t sure why he was asking. If she told him she had a passion for Gothic horrors, he would not be able to locate that part of the library.

The only section of the vast room with which he was vaguely familiar was the shelving that housed the giant tomes about the design of stately gardens.

He couldn’t focus on what the author had written; like all other books the words would swim and dance in front of his eyes.

The pictures and the diagrams though, they were another matter.

For some reason, which he couldn’t understand, those remained exactly where they should be, and it wasn’t as if he could discuss the problem with anyone else.

His inability to read was a deep, secret shame that he kept buried so far within himself that he would rather die than reveal it to someone else.

‘There are no books I dislike.’ The exact opposite to him then. Books were a special kind of torture as far as he was concerned. ‘But I do love to read about historical events.’

There was no book she could have picked that would have illustrated their differences more.

Freddie loathed history with an intense passion.

At Eton the history teacher had taken delight in Freddie’s inadequacies, mocking and taunting him before the other boys.

Even at that age, Freddie recognised that this degradation could destroy him unless he found a way to fight back.

To the delight of his classmates, he’d chosen to retaliate.

History lessons had become Freddie’s battleground, his personality forged as he’d dodged barbs and lobbed back his own quips.

He’d earned the reputation as easy-going man and he’d done nothing to show anyone that this wasn’t quite him.

Of course, he enjoyed humour as much as the next man, but that wasn’t what he was all about.

Contrary to popular belief, he did enjoy thinking.

He had very definite ideas about his future, albeit in his head.

He knew what he needed to do in order to reach his objectives.

In short, he was not always the frivolous man about town that everyone saw him as, but opinion of him was fixed now and he didn’t care enough to change it.

‘What about history appeals to you so much?’ he asked. He was truly curious. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would care about the subject and that was only partly to do with his past. ‘Why do you want to read about people who are long dead?’

She laughed and the sound shot straight to his stomach. ‘Well… when you put it like that, it does sound a bit strange.’ Wait… was that the first time she had ever agreed with him about something? ‘I suppose I enjoy it because it makes me feel insignificant.’

‘That does not sound like a good thing.’ And also untrue; Emily was far from inconsequential. Not that he was going to admit that out loud.

She laughed again and the knowledge that he had done that, that he had caused her amusement, was heady, far headier than it should have been.

‘I see what you mean.’ She paused, tilting her head to the right, exposing the long column of her neck.

He wrenched his gaze away; no good could come of the direction of his thoughts.

‘I like to remember that many people have come before me and many will come after.’ She shot him a smile.

‘That might sound depressing but I find it reassuring. It means it does not truly matter if my mother thinks I did not say the right thing during a long and boring dinner or that I did not dance with the right person. When I am being berated for not being good enough, I find it comforting.’

Freddie came to an abrupt stop. ‘How can anyone say you are not good enough? You are perfect.’

She stopped a few steps in front of him, turning slowly as alarm bells began ringing extremely loudly in his head. Her lips were a perfect circle and his stomach dropped. Why the hell had he said such a thing? ‘In an irritating way, of course,’ he added .

She giggled, the sound young and joyful and he couldn’t help but smile back even as his skin burned.

He had turned into a bumbling buffoon. He knew how to compliment a woman, damn it.

And what he’d just done was something very, very far removed from that.

He’d sounded like a schoolboy who had spoken to a girl for the first time and not someone with a reputation for charming women.

‘I think that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,’ she said quietly.

And now a different emotion was swelling within him, something that felt an awful lot like protectiveness.

How was it possible that what he’d said to this vibrant, intelligent woman was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her?

He shifted on his feet, desperate to move on from the moment but completely at a loss at how to do so.

‘I suppose I should not get used to it,’ she said, her eyes twinkling. ‘I am sure we will be back to normal in the blink of an eye.’ She turned back and gestured to the grand doors nearby. ‘Is this it?’

Freddie didn’t think he would ever be back to normal. Something had shifted within him, something he couldn’t identify and did not want to look at too closely. ‘If by “it”, you mean the library, then yes, we have arrived. Here, allow me.’

He stepped in front of her, opening up the heavy doors. He was glad he had because he was able to catch sight of her face as she took in the vastness of Tobias’ library.

‘Oh, my,’ she whispered, her eyes large and luminous. ‘This is…’ Her words trailed off, her gaze taking in the rows and rows of books that lined the deep shelves. ‘There’s even a second storey. I cannot even begin to…’

While Emily took in the magnificence, or horror as Freddie thought of it, of the duke’s library, he watched her. He’d always thought her attractive, in a burr in his existence sort of way, but with her eyes alight with joy and her lips parted in wonder, she was knee-weakeningly beautiful.

‘Oh, Freddie, this is the most wonderful place on Earth.’

He froze. This time, he was sure she had said his name.

Last time, he thought she might have whispered it in a teasing manner, but this time she’d said it in an almost breathless reverence.

It didn’t mean anything. She’d said it without thinking.

Even knowing that didn’t stop a strange fizzing sensation running through his veins.

Her gaze was still riveted on the rows and rows of leather-bound spines that spiralled around them.

She probably wasn’t even aware that she’d said it and yet the shock of it reverberated around his body.

He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling that some sort of comment from him should be forthcoming but finding nothing.

‘I hope His Grace was serious when he said I would be welcome to use this room whenever I wanted, because I never want to leave.’

‘Glanmore never says anything he doesn’t mean. He hardly ever says anything at all.’ Freddie didn’t want to talk about Tobias, not now, not when he could still hear his name whispered on her lips.

Emily turned to him, the joy in her eyes slightly dimmed. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Dashworth?’

So, he was back to his formal title once more.

He couldn’t blame her; his comment about his older brother had been churlish, born from unnecessary jealousy.

He was being a madman. He didn’t want to marry Emily himself so why shouldn’t she become a duchess?

He’d been led to believe, by what he had always been told and from what he had witnessed, that marrying a duke was somehow the pinnacle of what every woman wanted for themselves or for their daughters.

Emily was a good person who needed to get away from her dreadful mother; marrying Tobias would be a good thing for her.

He realised Emily was still looking at him waiting for a reply.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Hawkins, my brain wandered off for a moment, so staggered was I by the potential for boredom within these four walls.

’ As soon as he said it, he wished he could stuff the words back into his mouth.

Her body appeared to fold in on itself, the joy slowly ebbing from her as if he had pierced her with a knife.

His mind blanked as he searched for something to say to rectify his gaucheness, but there was nothing.

He gestured to the walls lined with books.

‘Please take as long as you want. I will be over here not reading.’ He was making it worse, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop, so instead, he bowed and took himself away before he did something extremely foolish, like fall to his knees and apologise for every bad word he’d ever said to her.