“My father was Sir Henry Goodnight. He was a scholar and historian, but he was most well-known as a writer.”
“Then that explains why I don’t know him. I am not a reader.”
Izzy looked to the arched windows. The afternoon was darkening. The lengthening shadows worried her, as did the fact that she’d yet to make out the entirety of her host’s face. She was growing anxious to see him, look into his eyes. She needed to know just what sort of man held her at his mercy.
“It seems Lord Archer might be some time yet,” she ventured. “Might we have a candle or two while we wait?”
After a grudging pause, he took a straw, lit it in the fire, and, carefully cupping the flame with one palm, moved it to a taper fixed atop the mantel.
The task seemed to cause him inordinate difficulty. The candlewick caught, but he held the straw in place until it burned down to his fingertips. He cursed under his breath and whipped it with his hand, shaking out the flame.
“I hate to be a bother. It’s just that I’m . . .” She didn’t know why she was admitting it, except that she felt sorry he’d burned himself to increase her comfort. “I’m not fond of the dark.”
He turned to her, bearing the candle. One side of his wide mouth tipped, like a scale weighted with irony. “I haven’t made my peace with it either.”
The new flame cast golden light on his face. Izzy startled. His sculpted, aristocratic features did much to bolster his claim of being a duke. But something else about his face told a different story.
A dramatic, uneven scar sliced from his brow to his temple, ending on the crest of his right cheekbone. Though the candle flame flickered and sparked, his eyes didn’t narrow or focus.
Of course.
The realization flared within her. At last, something about this day made sense.
It all made sense.
The darkened room, his refusal to read her letter, his manual assessment of her health. His repeated mentions of Izzy’s beauty despite what should have been ample evidence to the contrary.
He was blind.
Chapter Two
Ransom remained still, letting the candle illuminate the mangled side of his face. He’d been keeping his distance to spare her this, but she’d requested the light.
So he waited, allowing her a good, long look.
No shrieks, gasps of horror, or soft thuds as she hit the floor. Not this time. She exuded nothing but that same teasing fragrance of rosemary.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the candle.”
Her voice was even more alluring than her scent. She had the accent of a sheltered English miss—but with an undeniably husky, sensual undertone.
“Has it been a long time since your injury?” she asked. “Were you wounded in battle? A duel? An accident?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m fond of long stories.”
He plunked the candlestick on the table with finality. “Not this one.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s terribly forward of me to ask. I had decided against it. But then I thought, surely you must know that I’m wondering. If I pretended sudden interest in the ceiling or the weather, that would be an insult of sorts, too. And you seem the sort of man who’d prefer honesty—even the uncomfortable kind—to insincerity, so I just”—her voice dropped a half octave—“decided to ask.”
She went quiet. At last.
He was irritated with his body’s response to her presence. Her femininity was like a lacy blanket taking up his favorite chair. Not something he would have brought into the room, but since she was there . . . he couldn’t deny that a scarred, neglected part of him craved that softness.
Hell, he ached for it, straight to his bones.
“Very well, I won’t press you for the story behind it,” she said lightly, “but be forewarned. I shall probably make one up.”
“Make up as many stories as you wish. Just don’t make me the hero in them.”