How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

“That’s one word for it.”

“I am envious of those who visit Egypt, though,” she admitted. “How wonderful to dig through the sands. I shall have to content myself with the festival exhibits. Have you been?”

He inclined his head, strangely reluctant.

“Tell me everything,” she insisted.

“It was hot.”

She stared at him, before huffing a sigh. Devilish kiss or not, that would not do. “Conall, really.”

There was a telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You want to hear that the Berber nomads wear indigo headwraps, that yogurt tastes better with cinnamon, and that sandstorms are as elegant as they are deadly.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Camels spit.”

She rolled her eyes. “With such a streak of romance, clearly, you weren’t down here looking for novels. You’ll make me quiver with jealousy over your adventures.”

“I could make you quiver.”

She felt the hoarseness of his voice like his hands on her skin. She swallowed. He leaned back against the shelves as if he’d never spoken. He looked faintly bored. She was on fire, and he looked bored. She suddenly longed to hit him with a shovel.

“The deserts did smell like sunshine,” he admitted. “You smell like roses. And incense?”

“Frankincense,” she explained. “With cardamom and cinnamon. All ingredients used in Ancient Egyptian perfume.”

“You are thorough.”

“History isn’t only objects found in the mud. And they say Cleopatra washed the sails of her ship with so much perfume that Marc Antony could smell her from the shore.” She bit her tongue. “Sorry, I do go on.”

“As you smell delicious, why should I complain?”

Heat moved through her at the compliment and the knowledge that he was standing close enough that he could smell her perfume, close enough that she could see the way his hair brushed over his collar even in the dim light. She realized then that he wasn’t wearing a waistcoat, or even a cravat. His throat was the exact colour of honey. “You’re cold,” he said, misreading her tiny shiver. “Come by the fire.”

She knew better. She shouldn’t be alone with him, not at night, and certainly not in her nightrail and bare feet. And yet she let herself be drawn closer to the hearth, like a moth about to burn her wings. In the uncertain light, his eyes were like barrow shadows, full of stories and the glint of treasure. He looked down at her. “You’re staring.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not like the others, are you?”

She sighed. Not only was snorting not generally considered ladylike, but she was so accustomed to bones and skulls, she could barely carry on a proper conversation, even without the improper setting. “I’m afraid not.”

He leaned closer, his gaze catching on her lips. Warmth trickled through her until even her knees were tingling and he wasn’t even touching her. “I wasn’t complaining,” he said softly.

This was the new Conall she had heard so much about. Flirtatious, delicious. Tempting as chocolate truffles. She was certain he was going to kiss her again. She started to meet him halfway, but he drew back sharply, suddenly.

“Excuse me. I must bid you goodnight, Lady Persephone.”

The air drafted in the unexpected space between them. He offered her a simple, severe bow. And then just like that, the charming rake was gone. He was all hard lines and serious eyes.

Even more appealing.

And marching away, the library door swinging shut behind him.

She most definitely wanted to hit him with a shovel.

It wouldn’t beright to kiss her again.