Love In The Library (12 page)

"Certainly not novels such as those written by Walpole or Monk Lewis, but I do like Mr. Scott's historical novels."

She was smiling so frequently now, it was difficult to believe she had been melancholy just minutes before. "As do I, ever so much. I love to read about knights of yore."

"'Tis the same with me."

"See, we do have shared interests."

"What of Longford? Do you share many interests with him?"

She had the distinct feeling Mr. Steffington was glaring at her. What could she have said or done to cause his manner to change so abruptly? "I don't know Mr. Longford all that well. Have you forgotten I only recently came out of mourning?"

"I may be ignorant of
the Graces
, but is it not customary for one just coming out of mourning to wait for some time before embarking upon another marriage?"

"I believe that is customary—and certainly the proper way for a widow to conduct herself."

She was now certain of it. He was glaring at her. It was the kind of glare that might greet an
I'm-frightfully-sorry-I've-accidentally-shot-your-dog
statement. Oh, dear. What had she done to anger him?

Well, two could play that game. Her gaze flicked to his book and she spoke icily. "Pray, don’t let me keep you from reading about ancient Greek carnage." With that remark, she lifted away the curtain with a trembling hand and began to peer at the countryside under twilight's dim glow.

* * *

What had he done to raise her hackles? It was he who should have his hackles raised. After all, the woman had gone and gotten herself engaged to a man she could not pretend to be in love with. And this, after she had told Melvin he was the brightest star in her galaxy.

He hadn't thought her the sort of woman to idly ingratiate herself with every man who came into her sphere. He had actually liked her. In much the same way as he liked Annie and Lizzy.

But altogether different.

He supposed she was one of those practiced flirts who made each fellow she was with feel as if he were
the brightest star in her galaxy
. His brows lowered, and he stiffened as he moved away from her and practically ripped open his book. Though he made out as if he were reading, he wasn't even on the same page he'd been reading when she interrupted, nor could he have concentrated on it had he been.

This journey was nothing like their last had been. She and his brother had chatted like magpies. She was bound to be decidedly disappointed that Elvin hadn't come with them. Unlike himself, Elvin was possessed of
the Graces
.

He found himself wondering if Elvin fancied the lady. They had certainly gotten on well yesterday and earlier today. More than once she had commented on how very much Elvin reminded her of
dear Mr. Bexley
. He sighed. Yes indeed, the woman made a habit of praising men. Anyone who imparted praise and flattery so easily certainly could not be sincere.

Even though she had been the one to get snippy with him, he felt wretchedly rude. As a gentleman, he should be gallant to his companion, no matter how irritating she was.

 Or how often she doled out false flattery.

They rode on in silence beneath skies merging from daylight to night. With nightfall, the interior of the carriage became uncomfortably cold. He noted that she stuffed her hands into a huge fur muff. Ermine, was it not? Elvin would know.

His guilt over his rudeness gnawed at him until their coach was in complete darkness, and he closed his book. "How do you feel now? The motion is not making you sick?"

"Not as long as I'm facing forward."

"You mean if you were seated where I am, you would get ill?"

"Just thinking of it makes me queasy. Oh, Mr. Steffington, I don’t know what I was thinking when I inflicted myself upon you. I am the worst sort of traveling companion there could be."

"Now, now don't say that. You're perfectly. . . acceptable."

"I haven't told you another reason I wish to stop for the night."

"Go on."

"I'm frightfully afraid of travelling the main posting roads after dark."

"Why?"

"I'm terrified of highwaymen. My aunt and uncle were murdered by highwaymen when they didn't readily hand over their jewels."

He winced. "Does that mean you wish to stop at the next village that has an inn? It is not even five o'clock yet."

"Yes." Her voice sounded even younger than Lizzy's. The poor lady. She must be petrified.

At once he got the coachman's attention and told him to be in search of a coaching inn as soon as possible. Then he faced her. "You realize we will be wasting valuable hours?"

"I know." A moment later, her voice sounding incredibly frail and youthful, she added, "There's more."

"Pray, madam, are you afraid of dragons?"

She started to giggle again.

What was there about her giggle that whenever he heard it, he was powerless not to laugh with her? In fact, he had laughed more the past week than he had in the past two months. "What do you find so amusing?" he asked.

"The notion of dragons. A learned man such as yourself knows there's no such thing as dragons."

"While they might be as mythical as a minotaur, they are readily referenced in English literature." His voice sombered. "Forgive my levity, Mrs. Bexley. What else is there that frightens you?"

She hesitated a moment before answering. "I am terrified of sleeping alone at a posting inn."

"Now see here, madam, I cannot share your bed!"

She started giggling again. "I didn't mean for you to share my bed. Surely you know I'm not that sort of woman. But can you please demand to have the chamber next to mine? Then I wouldn’t be so afraid."

"Certainly." He had already planned to do that. He did not like the notion of a defenseless woman being alone in a strange inn.

"And I thought perhaps you and I could sit before the fire in the private parlor and chat until one of us gets sleepy."

His presence would keep her from being frightened. "As you wish. I think to protect your good name- - -"

"We should use false names."

"Exactly."

Chapter 9

He had thought this night would bring him nothing but remorse over the precious hours lost, but nothing could have been farther from the truth. He could not remember when he had more enjoyed an evening. He and Mrs. Bexley—who were at present answering to the name Mr. and Miss Smith—were ensconced in the cozy parlor adjacent to her bedchamber, a good wood fire burning at the stone hearth. While sooty coal fires always brought to mind the teeming Capital, the smell of wood burning always brought to mind fresh country skies.

Because the night had become inky black with an icy sting in the air, and angry winds howled beyond these windows, the warm little chamber cocooned them most happily.

He and Mrs. Bexley had long discussions over Mr. Scott’s historical novels and Mr. Burke’s political—and atheist—beliefs while leisurely eating an excellent country dinner of roasted pork and potatoes. The innkeeper even procured for them a bottle of claret.

After dinner, they carried their wine goblets to the little chintz sofa near the fire and continued their discussion. Since the sofa was really more the size of a settee, they were very close. Physically. Her upper arm kept brushing up against his. It only then occurred to him how improper this was. Mrs. Bexley’s good name would be ruined if anyone ever learned that they had traveled together with not even a lady’s maid to lend propriety. And if it were ever learned they had actually slept at an inn under false names, she would never again be welcome in the homes of respectable people.

No one must ever know. He would protect her reputation in the same way he served as her protector in other respects. The poor lady had no man to take care of her.

“Really, Airy,” she said, “could you not have come up with a more convincing name than Smith?”

“Did you just call me Airy?”

She gazed at him with laughing eyes, her cheeks dimpling—and making her look incredibly young. She fluttered her lashes as she nodded.

“A derivative of Aristotle! Who told you?”

“Do not all of your friends refer to you by that name?”

That was true. “I dislike being called Aristotle.”

“It suits you far better than Melvin.” She scrunched up her nose. “Not just because you’re veddy, veddy smart.”

Good lord! The lady was foxed!

She set down her goblet and eyed him. “But I prefer Airy.”

“That is without a doubt the silliest name I’ve ever heard.”

Placing her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “You dare to say my father’s name is silly? My father was the most intelligent man I’ve ever known. Until I met you.”

“Your father’s name was Aristotle?” He found that incredible.

“No, you silly man. My father’s name was Harold.”

“I thought you said—no, implied—that his name was Airy.”

“It was. Almost. Everyone called him Harry. Do you not think that a remarkably masculine name?”

“Yes, it is.”

She stared at him, her lips pursed. “Melvin just doesn’t suit you.”

He actually found himself agreeing with her. He hated their twinly names. But he wasn’t about to call himself Aristotle. How arrogant would that be? Besides, this was Georgian England, not ancient Greece. “Since only my siblings ever refer to me by my Christian name, it’s hardly worth worrying your pretty head over.”

He had called her pretty. Melvin had never in his seven and twenty years told a female who was not his sister that she was pretty. He hoped she hadn’t noticed, or she was apt to think he was trying to seduce her.

“Oh, Airy, do you really find me pretty?”

He found himself staring at her. The flames sparkled in her golden hair, and the heat tinged her cheeks pink. He had always been acutely aware of the unusual color of those magnificent eyes, but he had not noticed how long her lashes were. But then, he'd never been so close to her. Her faint lavender scent had become as much a part of her as her trilling laughter.

This was entirely too intimate. “Of course you’re pretty,” he snapped. “But really, you shouldn’t address me by my first name.”

“Silly, I’m not. I refuse to call you Melvin.”

What a sad situation he was in when an inebriated woman made more sense than him. “For the sake of making my point, madam, let’s say my first name was Harry. You are not to address me as such without drawing censure. Why, you don’t even refer to your late husband by his Christian name!”

“It didn’t suit him. Only Mr. Bexley would do.”

“May I suggest you only call me Mr. Steffington?”

She lowered her voice in an effort to mimic him. “You may suggest anything you like, but on this journey I shall only refer to you as Airy. Are we not pretending to be brother and sister?”

“Well, yes. . .”

“Then I shall call you Airy for the duration of this journey.” She yawned and folded her head against his shoulder. “Have you heard anything about Lord Seacrest’s library?”

Should he ignore that her head was quite intimately resting upon his shoulder? If he said something, she might remove it. He wouldn’t like that. Even though he knew it was wrong, he felt as comfortable as when he was as a lad in his Grandmama’s big, curtained four-poster. “Actually, after I thought about it, I realized he must have been the earl Dr. Mather had visited in Warwickshire. That peer was keenly interested in Shakespeare’s folios and was determined to use his fortune to acquire one for each play.”

“So he’s very wealthy?”

He nodded. “In addition to owning a huge piece of Warwickshire, he also owns coal mines in Wales and a sugar plantation in the West Indies.”

She held up her hand. “Say no more! One who owns coal mines controls the world.”

“I learned one more interesting thing about him.”

"What?"

"He is a recluse."

"Then there will be no possibility he will recognize me!"

She was quick witted. She neither read Latin nor Greek nor had an interest in those two ancient civilizations that thrilled him, but she was possessed of uncommon good sense, and she displayed good understanding of the books she had read.

Altogether, he thought her intelligence superior to that of his sisters, but that was no great compliment, owing to the fact his sisters were far more interested in reading Ackermann's than the
Edinburgh Review
. Still, it was enlightening to him that women were not as dull as he’d once thought them.

All of a sudden he realized this woman whose head had softly rested upon his chest was affianced to another. He stiffened, took two firm hands and removed her from his person, then angrily rose.

All the nice feelings he’d had for her vanished with the realization this woman was nothing more than a flirt and even worse—a fortune hunter. Both were abhorrent to him. “You are tired, and we must rise early. I bid you goodnight, madam.” With that, he grabbed what was left of the wine bottle and stormed from the chamber. He had a very good mind to get thoroughly foxed himself!

“Night, night, Airy. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

* * *

A steady tapping upon her chamber door awakened her the following morning. It took her a moment to remember where she was. There was no sign of the green silk bed curtains she was accustomed to seeing the first thing each morning. She rose on her elbows and gazed around the austere cream-colored chamber with its huge wooden ceiling beams. Her fire had died out, but the room still held its warmth.

“Who is it?”

“Melvin Steffington. I’ve brought you breakfast.”

As soon as she heard his name, a flood of memories from the previous night embarrassed her. She had insulted him by saying she disliked his name. Worse yet, she had called him Airy! She had a lamentable habit of saying the most stupid things when she consumed wine. What must he think of her?

It was bad enough that he would think her ill-mannered, but now he was apt to also think her a lush. She was sure, though, that there was wine left when Mr. Steffington left the chamber, and since he too was drinking, she could not have drunk more than two glasses—which was one more than what was customary for Catherine.