"What would you like to do now, your grace?" Fiona asked the Duchess who was reclining on her bed after taking her luncheon. "Shall I fetch the new books? Maybe I can read to you from one of them?"

"I want to rest my eyes for a bit."

"Oh alright," Fiona replied, unable to hide the disappointment from her face.

"You go on. Find me something you think I'd enjoy and bring it up. You can read to me once I've risen."

Fiona opened her mouth to add something but then shut her mouth.

"You can read while I sleep."

Fiona resisted the urge to squeal her delight and curtseyed quickly before rushing out of the bed chamber.

She skipped her way down the stairs before running in the direction of the library.

She only had to look for a few minutes before she spotted the new leather bound books.

Only, they were placed on the high shelf, impossible for her to reach.

That was odd.

Fiona dragged the ladder to the shelf and climbed up without further ado. She'd piled about six novels in her arms when she heard the Duke's enraged voice.

"What in God's name are you doing, woman?"

"Picking out some novels," she replied cheerfully.

"I can see that," he ground out. "I'm asking you why you're ten feet above the ground when you can trip on your skirts, fall and break your neck."

"I'm fine, your grace. You worry needlessly. I climb ladders like these in my skirts all the time," she said distractedly as she picked out another book.

The Duke muttered something under his breath.

Fiona paid him no mind. She was too excited right now to let his surliness bother her.

He moved across the room and stood next to her ladder, hands on his hips.

Fiona looked down at him.

He looked like a worried mother hen. She stifled a giggle.

"Hand me the books."

Fiona obeyed.

"Now get down. Carefully."

She huffed.

Did the man think he was God?!

She began to descend one step at a time, muttering her displeasure all the while. And then she tripped.

Of course she tripped—the Duke had willed it after all.

And of course the Duke caught her, being the gentleman that he was.

Fiona closed her eyes, humiliated.

When Miss Butterworth finally opened her eyes, Nate found himself at a loss of words.

He meant to berate her, to scold her for being so careless. He opened his mouth to form the words, but he discovered that talking was difficult when one couldn't breathe.

And that was what he felt—as if the breath had whooshed out of him. Not because she was heavy, she was light as a feather—such a tiny thing.

Her eyes were wide and her lips had parted in the most delightful way. Her body was warm and supple in his arms. And her hands clutched the front of his coat trustingly.

Nate wanted to bend down and capture her lush lips in a kiss. He wanted to taste her sweetness—the need to do so too great.

What the hell was he thinking?!

Nate dropped her without thought, as if she'd burnt him.

She fell to the carpeted floor with an ooff and looked up at him accusingly.

"What did you catch me when you had to drop me again anyway?" she muttered, struggling to get on her feet.

Nate felt a smile tug at his mouth but he kept it in a firm line.

"I told you to be careful."

"Yes, well...you were just standing there and I got nervous! And the books were placed so high," she replied, her brown hair falling from her simple bun.

Nate didn't know what devil had prompted him to order Winterbottom to put the books as high as possible but he'd eat his hessians before he admitted as much to her.

"So it was my fault then..." the statement rhetorical but she chose to reply with an indignant "Yes."

Nate was too surprised by her audacity to say anything.

She bent and picked up all the books that he'd dropped in his haste to catch her.

She turned about and left then without saying anything to him.

Nate sat on a chair placed there with a thud.

Again, he felt exhausted. Drained.

He needed some whiskey. Badly.

He couldn't believe he'd almost kissed that Butterworth woman. He couldn't believe that he wanted to hold her to him, that he'd wanted her closer to him than she'd been.

She was bewitching him. Yes. The woman was a witch—that had to be it.

Because this morning, when she'd smiled at him in his receiving chamber, he'd been similarly lost. He'd not heard what she'd said and neither had he remembered that she was his mother's companion.

He'd thought that she was lovely—a breath of fresh air.

But he hadn't read too much into it. He'd ignored his momentary lapse. Nate couldn't very well ignore what had transpired just now.

Especially because he knew that it hadn't been one sided. He'd seen the spark of awareness in her eyes—mirroring his.

The woman was his mother's companion, beneath him in rank and breeding. And he was betrothed, god damnit.

He was just over wrought, Nate told himself. He took a deep breath.

Why was he overreacting?

So he'd discovered that Miss Butterworth was a lovely young woman. So he'd wanted her for that brief moment.

That didn't mean he was suddenly taken with her.

The thought of the improper, loud and highly opinionated Miss Butterworth as anything more than his mother's companion made him balk.

That was a good sign, wasn't it?