impression of the outside of this rather large stone town house was one of amazement that a person could fairly âhideâ a home of this size and elegant beauty in the middle of a busy city street. Granted, whoever owned the property lived in a very goodneighborhood, but its deceptive appearance was no doubt caused by the manner in which the house stood back, well shaded by trees and sculpted shrubs that lined the cobblestone walkway from the edge of the drive, where sheâd stepped from the cushioned coach heâd sent for her, to the gas-lighted entryway. The scents of spring were in the air, insects buzzing at the coming twilight, and she breathed deeply of the gentle fragrance of a wide variety of roses mixed with juniper and a tinge of leftover rainfall. Such intoxicating and refreshing scents would normally instill a moment of calmâif not for her extreme nervousness at seeing him again.
The door opened at that precise moment, startling her from her attempt at relaxing thoughts. She straightened her spine instinctively to acknowledge the butler, dressed formally in black on white, but before she could utter a sound or offer him her invitation, the man gave her a slight bow.
âLady Olivia,â he said with wide, thick lips that hardly moved. âHis grace is waiting for you in the dining room.â
âThank you,â she replied, walking into the town house as he stepped aside for her.
She wore no shawl, as the day had been quite warm, and so she handed him only her bonnet, then smoothed wayward strands of hair into the uptwisted curls loosely piled atop her head.
âThis way, if you please,â directed the butler, who still offered her no name of his own, as he turned and began to lead her down a dimly lit corridor.
Olivia didnât hesitate; she wasnât afraid in the least. Beside herself with nerves, perhaps, but definitely notafraid. She raised her chin, straightened her shoulders, and walked with confidence across a dark marble floor, expensive and covered with forest green and burgundy colored Persian rugs. The inside of the house awed her even more than the outside, decorated in various hues of gold, red, and bronze and containing a wealth, it seemed, of imported furniture and accessories, its style distinctively masculine. If thereâs one thing she knew already about the Duke of Durham, it was that he had exquisite taste and plenty of moneyâor his friends did. He smelled good, too, even without cologne, something sheâd never considered about a man before. Every man sheâd ever known had worn cologne, including Edmund.
She shook herself of such ridiculous thoughts. Why on earth she thought of the way he smelled at a time like this was beyond her imagination. Tonight she needed, above all things, to remain focused.
With her stolen company funds and the precarious future of Nivan front and center in her mind, Olivia immediately forced herself to concentrate on the meeting ahead as she walked into the dining room. The aroma of oranges and roasted game struck her at once, as did the pleasing atmosphere of thick burgundy carpet, painted walls of teal and brown, polished furniture in dark cherrywood, and the warmth of a slow burning fire.
Then she noticed him, and her heart actually skipped a beat or twoâbefore it began to race with a tinge of discomfiture and a flair of uncertainty.
Focus, focus, focus.
The Duke of Durham stood next to the grate, oneelbow of his very tall frame resting on the thick, oak mantel, holding a half-filled glass of amber liquid between his long fingers, the other hand in the pocket of his trousers, which managed to push his frock coat away from his body. Her gaze naturally fell there first, to his expensive, white silk shirt pulled tautly over a strong, broad chest. His clothesâblack over whiteâwere expertly tailored to fit his unusually large body, his cravat the only piece of color to adorn him in a shade of
The door opened at that precise moment, startling her from her attempt at relaxing thoughts. She straightened her spine instinctively to acknowledge the butler, dressed formally in black on white, but before she could utter a sound or offer him her invitation, the man gave her a slight bow.
âLady Olivia,â he said with wide, thick lips that hardly moved. âHis grace is waiting for you in the dining room.â
âThank you,â she replied, walking into the town house as he stepped aside for her.
She wore no shawl, as the day had been quite warm, and so she handed him only her bonnet, then smoothed wayward strands of hair into the uptwisted curls loosely piled atop her head.
âThis way, if you please,â directed the butler, who still offered her no name of his own, as he turned and began to lead her down a dimly lit corridor.
Olivia didnât hesitate; she wasnât afraid in the least. Beside herself with nerves, perhaps, but definitely notafraid. She raised her chin, straightened her shoulders, and walked with confidence across a dark marble floor, expensive and covered with forest green and burgundy colored Persian rugs. The inside of the house awed her even more than the outside, decorated in various hues of gold, red, and bronze and containing a wealth, it seemed, of imported furniture and accessories, its style distinctively masculine. If thereâs one thing she knew already about the Duke of Durham, it was that he had exquisite taste and plenty of moneyâor his friends did. He smelled good, too, even without cologne, something sheâd never considered about a man before. Every man sheâd ever known had worn cologne, including Edmund.
She shook herself of such ridiculous thoughts. Why on earth she thought of the way he smelled at a time like this was beyond her imagination. Tonight she needed, above all things, to remain focused.
With her stolen company funds and the precarious future of Nivan front and center in her mind, Olivia immediately forced herself to concentrate on the meeting ahead as she walked into the dining room. The aroma of oranges and roasted game struck her at once, as did the pleasing atmosphere of thick burgundy carpet, painted walls of teal and brown, polished furniture in dark cherrywood, and the warmth of a slow burning fire.
Then she noticed him, and her heart actually skipped a beat or twoâbefore it began to race with a tinge of discomfiture and a flair of uncertainty.
Focus, focus, focus.
The Duke of Durham stood next to the grate, oneelbow of his very tall frame resting on the thick, oak mantel, holding a half-filled glass of amber liquid between his long fingers, the other hand in the pocket of his trousers, which managed to push his frock coat away from his body. Her gaze naturally fell there first, to his expensive, white silk shirt pulled tautly over a strong, broad chest. His clothesâblack over whiteâwere expertly tailored to fit his unusually large body, his cravat the only piece of color to adorn him in a shade of
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