Love In The Library (15 page)

As she directed a smile at him, his lashes lowered. She was certain his compliment now embarrassed him. He was not the smooth-talking, bed hopper she'd wager his twin brother was. She rather pitied the girl who married
that
twin. Reflecting over her own smooth-talking, bed-hopping late husband, she was now happy that he'd been possessed of those traits. Otherwise, his demise would have been too, too painful.

She sighed. Yes, the girl who married Mr. Steffington would be most fortunate.

"You must allow me to make your bed," she said. "I am ever so experienced. Whenever my little nephews visit me in Bath, I make them a pallet on the floor of my bedchamber." She set about to remove the quilt from the bed, fold it lengthwise, and place it on the floor beside her own bed, just as she had done with her nephews.

Then her gaze traveled over him from head to toe. "I fear you may be too tall."

"My feet won't mind hanging off."

She started to giggle.

He cracked a smile. "Allow me to guess. You are now imagining my feet talking."

Still giggling, she nodded.

"You are possessed of the silliest sense of humor." He eyed the pallet. "Perhaps you shouldn’t put it so close to your bed. What if I snore?"

"I am accustomed to men snoring." Her hand clapped around her mouth. "I didn’t mean to imply I've slept with multiple men. Only one, actually."

His dark eyes flashed with mirth.

And they both laughed.

He went to the pallet and moved it from its position parallel to her bed and placed it in front of the fire, parallel to the footboard of her bed.

"I'm not a bit sleepy." She eyed the room's little floral loveseat. "Should you like to talk for a bit? I promise I'm not inebriated tonight." She moved to the love seat, sat on it, and patted the cushion beside hers. "Please, sit beside me."

"I never said you were inebriated."

"Because you're too nice."

After he sat, she said, "Are you satisfied that the Chaucer is not in Lord Seacrest's possession?"

"I am. A man as proud of his library as he would not hide its crowning jewel."

"I suppose you are right, but did you not have the urge to look behind the library's various doors to see what was concealed?"

"I always wish to look behind the doors to see what treasures are to be found in libraries, but something as magnificent as a one-of-a-kind, illustrated
Canterbury Tales
would be proudly and prominently displayed."

"But what if Lord Seacrest knows it was stolen? He may even be the one who stole it. Or had someone steal it for him."

"While I did not exactly warm to the man, I don’t think he would be capable of criminal theft."

"Why did you not warm to him? I thought he was charming."

Mr. Steffington frowned. "You would. He shamelessly flirted with a married woman!"

"Well. . .I'm not actually a married woman."

"He doesn't know that!"

Mr. Steffington's deep sense of morality touched her. She gave him a puzzled look. "I hadn't noticed Lord Seacrest flirting. He was merely being friendly."

"Only to you. He was jealous of me."

"Why would he be jealous of you?"

"Because I had the good fortune to marry you." He shrugged. "At least, that's what the man thinks."

"Oh, Airy, that is so sweet that you think being married to me is a good thing."

"I didn't say that."

"Oh."

He stiffened and slid in the opposite direction from her. It was obvious he did not want any part of their bodies touching. He was such a proper gentleman.

"Allow me to change the subject," she said. "What did you think of his library?"

"I thought it an ostentatious display of wealth."

"But was it a good library?"

"It was a good library."

"But?"

"But I thought he was more concerned about the bindings on the
outside
of the books than the contents
inside
."

"You must own, it was a very attractive library."

"I prefer ones with upper galleries."

"Now see, you too are concerned with aesthetics."

"I'm not
concerned
with aesthetics, but since you asked my opinion, I voiced it."

"What criteria do you use to judge if a library is good or not?"

"I look at the collections, and I must say Seacrest's collections are good, and they cross all the important time periods in philosophical thought."

"You will lose me if you go into philosophical thought. I did note that there was a section in the library dedicated to poetry—which I adore."

"Yes, he even had good translations of Virgil—including one of mine, though he didn't remember my name in that context. I get the feeling his librarian handles his acquisitions."

She was astonished. "I did not know you translated Virgil! I must have a copy."

"It will be my pleasure to present you with one. The ones I own are not bound in fine leather like Seacrest's."

"I don't care. I shall treasure it. I am so honored. I have never before shared a room with one who wrote books, and now I'm actually sharing a bedchamber with one! This is so exciting."

"Pray, Mrs. Bexley, don't tell anyone you and I have shared a bedchamber."

She nodded. He was so noble to be so concerned over her good name. "But you told me you didn't like poetry when you obviously like Virgil's."

"I do read poetry, but then I read everything. Except Byron. I never had any interest in reading about so hedonistic a central character."

"I do believe you're a prude. You judge Lord Byron's poetry by the man's low moral principles."

"I am not a prude." He glared.

She thought of the company he and his brothers kept in Bath and decided perhaps he was not a prude. Felicity's brother, Lord Sedgewick—before becoming a family man—had been quite the rake. In fact, the whole lot of them had led the life of privileged bloods. They gambled, went to race meetings, and frequented Mrs. Baddele's House with great regularity. Everybody knew.

Her entire demeanor brightened. "I have an idea."

"When you get that look in your eye it disturbs me."

He was getting to know her entirely too well. "What look?"

"The look that says I'm not going to like your idea."

He was likely right. "After the house quiets and everyone is asleep, we can stealthily make our way downstairs and look behind all those locked doors in Lord Seacrest's library."

"That is a ridiculous idea."

"Why?"

"Because it's a good way to get shot."

"Why would Lord Seacrest shoot us? You said yourself he fancied me."

"Then he'd have a good reason for killing me!"

Her brows lowered. "I shouldn't like that."

"I appreciate that." He looked at her with skepticism. "You realize, don't you, that a man who invests so heavily in his library is not likely to leave it unguarded?"

"Perhaps not. Remember, I had the most valuable book in all of England, and I did not have it guarded. I'm not even sure if our doors were ever properly locked."

He inclined his head. "I rest my case."

"So you think it's my fault the Chaucer was stolen?"

"Actually, I do. If it had been in my possession, the library would have been locked at all times, and the house would never be left unguarded."

Of course he was right, but she didn't like him acting like a scolding father. Her gaze narrowed, then swung away from him as she glared angrily at the flickering fire. "I happen to be a trusting person. I like to think the best of my fellow man. It never occurred to me that someone would steal the Chaucer from my home."

"I would be shocked if Seacrest were a trusting person. I noted the special locks he'd had installed on the windows."

"So you're saying you're not interested in a late-night excursion to the Seacrest library?"

"Under no circumstances would I do something so unethical. It's bad enough that I've already lied about my relationship with you."

Very well. She would wait until all of them—including Airy—went to sleep, then she would go herself.

She feigned a yawn. "I suppose I am rather tired."

His glance flicked to her valise, then to his beside it. He cleared his throat. She was coming to learn that he cleared his throat every time he was about to say something that he thought might be construed as too intimate. "Would you like me to leave the room whilst you dress for bed?" He was unable to meet her gaze.

"You don't have to leave the room."

His gaze absently lowered to her bodice, then whipped away. "Then I vow to turn my back and close and my eyes whilst you . . . ah, remove your. . . well, you know."

"You don't have to close your eyes."

Those dark eyes of his rounded. "Oh, but I must. You're a lady, and I'm a gentleman."

She stood. "That won't be necessary. I'll pull the curtains around my bed and then disrobe."

"Capital idea!" He looked exceedingly relieved.

She went to her valise, removed her night shift, then crossed the room and climbed on top the big bed.

"Here," he said. "I'll close the bed curtains for you."

It was much easier for him because of his height. He closed the ones to the right, then the ones at the foot of the bed, then when he closed the ones on the left she was in total darkness.

She sat on that left side of the bed and listened to his footsteps move away. "Thank you, Airy. Good night, sleep tight- - -"

"And don't let the bedbugs bite," he finished.

"I doubt Lord Seacrest has to worry about bedbugs."

"You're likely right."

While she was removing her clothing, she unintentionally pictured Airy standing in front of the fire removing his shirt, the firelight glistening along the length of his bare torso. Her mouth went suddenly dry, and she fought the urge to peek through the curtain at him.

What a magnificent sight he must be. She found herself wondering if he slept nude but realized even if that were his custom, he would never do so in the same room with a lady of good birth. He was more noble of character than any man she had ever known. Except her father.

Once she had changed into her night shift and got beneath the covers she called out to him. "I'm decent now, but I find I don't like the dark. If you weren't in the chamber with me, I would be terrified."

"Should you like for me to crack open your bed curtains?"

"Please."

"I, ah, shall need to restore my shirt first."

How she would love to see him without his shirt. "Don't bother. I'll close my eyes."

"Are you sure?"

He needn't know if she peeked. After all, it was quite dark within the cubicle of her bed. "Certainly!"

"Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply. . ."

"Of course you wouldn’t."

He quietly moved across the carpet. "Where should you like the sliver of light?"

"The foot of the bed will do nicely, thank you." And would afford a glimpse of him.

Seconds later, a buttery vertical light striped the foot of her bed, and she stealthily watched as he moved back to his pallet with the powerful majesty of a panther. Firelight glanced from the tawny length of his long, lean—and wonderfully bare—torso.

Yes, she thought to herself, her breath a bit ragged, the girl who snared dear Mr. Steffington would indeed be fortunate.

One side of her face smashed against the pillow, she listened for the change of breathing that would tell her he'd gone to sleep.

He must have been very tired for less than five minutes after he laid on the pallet, he started softly snoring. How long should she wait to assure herself Lord Seacrest and his servants were soundly asleep?

She remembered Mama's lamentations that women's cares settled on them in bed each night, but that men fell asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow. That had certainly been the case with the late Mr. Bexley.

She forced herself to wait a considerable period of time before she crept from her bed, took an unlighted candle from the side of her bed, and tiptoed to the door where she unlatched the lock and quietly opened the door. It squeaked; she stiffened and turned toward Airy's pallet. He still slept soundly.

Easing the door closed behind her, she stood still in the darkened second-story corridor and listened. The house was eerily quiet. Her heartbeat accelerated. Her fingers coiled around the wax candle as if it were her lifeline. After a few moments, she stole to the stairway and stood statue still for several minutes, listening for any noise.

There was none.

Her pulses pounded as she began to descend the stairs, her bare feet as quiet as a cat's soft paws. By the time she reached the ground floor, she was relatively confident she was home free. Still, she moved slowly and with quiet movements.

Before the library's closed door, she paused and—remembering the late nights when Mr. Bexley had stayed in his library—listened. She heard nothing. But what kind of sounds could she expect to hear if a lone man were reading there? The very thought of strolling into his lordship's library in her night shift caused her no end of mortification.

Several minutes passed before she took a deep breath and opened the door. When she saw that no one was there, she let out a huge sigh and strolled into the chamber. To her relief, the fire had not gone out and still faintly illuminated the room. She went to the fire and stuck her unlighted candle into the flame until it lit.

Then she set about opening every closed cupboard or door within Lord Seacrest's prized library. The first cabinet was much deeper than she'd expected and contained tall stacks of various newspapers but mostly copies of the
Edinburgh Review
.

She moved on, opening each door along the west side of the chamber, then moved to the right and started examining each of the closed cupboards there.

The library door swung open so violently, it slammed against a wall.

Her gaze arrowed to the doorway. There stood Lord Seacrest. Even from the distance of twenty-five feet, she could see the anger singe his face. "May I help you, Mrs. Steffington? Or is that your real name?"