"You're playing games again, your grace," she said, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist. "I am a ruined gentleman's niece with no dowry, no standing, and calluses on my hands. You are a duke. Do not patronize me with veiled compliments."
Thomas stood up slowly. He didn't look angry. He looked determined. "Show me your hands, Jane."
"No."
He walked around the desk. Jane backed up until her shoulders hit the bookshelves. Thomas stopped a foot away. He reached out and gently but firmly took her right hand. She tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. He turned her hand over. He looked at the ink stains on her fingers, the red chafed knuckles from years of lye soap, the small pale scar on her palm from a broken teacup. He didn't sneer. He didn't look repulsed.
Slowly, deliberately, Thomas lowered his head and pressed his lips to the center of her rough, calloused palm. A jolt of pure electric shock shot up Jane's arm. Her entire body trembled.
"These hands," Thomas whispered against her skin, "have held my estate together when my own blood let it fall apart. They are the most beautiful things I have ever seen."
He released her hand and stepped back, leaving her completely paralyzed against the bookshelves.
"Dinner is at 8:00," he said smoothly, the aristocratic mask slipping flawlessly back into place. "Wear something warm. The dining room is drafty."
He walked out of the office, leaving Jane gasping for air in the quiet, dusty room.
By 8:00, Jane had managed to reconstruct her cynical armor. It was brittle, but it was in place. She wore her only formal gown, a dark, muted green velvet that had belonged to her mother. It was 10 years out of fashion, lacking the high waistlines and sheer overlays currently popular in London, but the fabric was rich and hid the frantic beating of her heart. She pinned her dark hair up severely, refusing to let a single curl escape. She would not be seduced by a kiss on the palm. She was a realist. Dukes did not marry housekeepers, and she would not be his mistress.
She walked into the grand dining room. It was transformed. The massive chandelier, dark for 5 years, was blazing with 50 wax candles. The long mahogany table gleamed under a crisp white damask cloth. The Fenwick silver, which Jane had polished until her hands bled just a week prior, was laid out flawlessly.
Thomas stood by the roaring fire at the end of the room. He was dressed in formal evening attire, a black tailcoat that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, a stark white waistcoat, and a masterfully tied cravat. He looked magnificent. He looked entirely out of her reach. He turned as she entered. His eyes swept over the dark green velvet, lingering for a fraction of a second on the curve of her neck.
"Miss Fielding," he said, offering his arm.
Jane ignored the arm. She walked past him and took her seat near the middle of the table. "Your grace," a footman pulled out the chair at the head of the table for Thomas.
The meal began in tense silence. Course after course was served with choreographed precision by the London staff. The food was exquisite: consommé, roasted pheasant, glazed carrots. But it tasted like ash in Jane's mouth. She felt the silent judging eyes of the footmen on her. They knew who she was. The woman who used to scrub the floors was now dining with the master. The whispered gossip in the servants' hall must be vicious.
Thomas, however, seemed entirely unfazed. He drank his wine and watched her. "You haven't touched your pheasant," he noted.
"I am unaccustomed to such rich food," Jane replied, staring at her plate. "Usually at this hour, I am eating cold porridge in the kitchen."
"Those days are over, are they?"
Jane looked up, her dark eyes flashing. "Because I sit at this table in a dress I cannot afford to replace? Eating food I did not pay for? This is a temporary illusion, your grace. When you return to London, the porridge will still be waiting for me."
Thomas set his wine glass down. The crystal clinked sharply against the quiet room. He signaled the footmen with a brief nod. "Leave us," he commanded.
The servants filed out instantly, closing the heavy double doors behind them. The room suddenly felt cavernous and terribly intimate. The fire cracked loudly in the grate.
"I am not returning to London," Thomas said.
Jane frowned, confused. "The season begins in a month. Your seat in the House of Lords can wait—"
Thomas interrupted, "I have spent the last 2 years wading through the shallow toxic waters of London society. I am suffocating there. Every conversation is a transaction. Every smile is a calculation. I came to Yorkshire to liquidate this estate and cut my ties to the past."
"And now?" Jane asked cautiously.