Love In The Library (24 page)

“I think so too,” she said, her quivering voice sounding youthful.

He had best try to get her mind off her desperate situation. At least for now. He refilled their wine glasses and began to deal the cards,

“Does Sir Elvin know where we are?”

Guilt surged through him. “Yes, I left a note.” He’d intrinsically known that had he told his brother about the prospective journey, Elvin would not have approved so soon after Melvin had sustained his injury.

If his brother had an inkling about the threats, he would do everything in his power to keep Melvin in Bath.

During their play the next couple of hours, his chief concern was to see that her thoughts were happy ones. They laughed a lot. And he kept refilling their wine glasses.

“Could we have more?” she asked, her voice childlike.

He thought of the last time when she had drunk too much wine and had felt badly the next day. Most of all, he remembered the pleasure he’d felt when she’d snuggled against him. He found himself wishing she would do that again.

Good lord! What was he thinking? Melvin never entertained such thoughts about women. Perhaps he had drunk too much. He vowed that at the end of this hand, he would go to his own bedchamber.

He actually let her win the last hand because he liked to see a smile upon her face. Then he rose. “I do believe I’m getting tired.”

She rose too and walked with him to the door. When he reached the door he turned to her. Her sweet lavender scent wafted to him. There was delicacy about the petite blond, who was also remarkably pretty. A feeling like nothing he’d ever experienced flooded him with the force of a tidal wave. He wanted to kiss her. Her pretty little face was turned up to his. She was not even a foot away from him.

As if he were being controlled by an external force, he lowered his head and gently settled his lips over hers. To his surprise, she did not push him away. Her arms came fully around him, prolonging the kiss.

She was once again that sweet-smelling angel he had awakened to the previous day, and he felt as if he were being swept up into the heavens with her.

Then he realized what he was doing. He was in the lady’s bedchamber! And he was taking advantage of her sweetness. He pulled away. “Forgive me.” Then he swung open her door and stormed to his own bedchamber.

Chapter 18

She solemnly watched the door close. Nothing had ever been more difficult than suppressing her need to race after him and beg to lose herself in his embrace. Her back to the door, she slid all the way down until her bottom settled on the wooden floor, fissures of delight continuing to explode inside her.

She had no idea how long she sat on the smooth wooden planks, teary and smiling and happier than she had ever been. She tried to recall what might have precipitated Airy’s nearly debilitating kiss.

When he’d begun to take his leave of her, she had felt a strong compulsion to walk with him to the door. And when he’d turned to her, she may have moved close to him (because of her reluctance to have him go). If he had taken her nearness as an invitation to kiss, so be it. Perhaps unconsciously it was, though the idea of kissing him had not crossed her mind.

And now it was all she could think of.

Surely he would not have kissed her had there not been an attraction. Whether he knew it or not. She was eternally gratified that he must share some of the deep affection she held for him. That affection had grown by small increments. First, he had effortlessly commanded her respect with his intelligence, manliness, and humility. His character conveyed a nobility that was lacking in the other men of her acquaintance.

During the days that had followed—days in which they'd shared nearly every minute—she'd grown so comfortable with him that when a separation was necessary, she felt as if she were missing a vital appendage.

Then there was the laughter—more than she'd ever shared with another person. It was as if they were bound together by some mystical force.

She could not discount the physical attraction, either. The very sight of his tall, lean broad-shouldered body sent her pulses racing. She could never tire of his dark, handsome features, the masculine bone structure, the distinctive indentation in his square chin.

Of all the men in the world Airy was the only one for her.

Eventually her heartbeat returned to something close to normal and she managed to dress for bed and climb atop the big four poster. It would be another sleepless night. Thoughts of Airy wound through her brain like endlessly skeining varied colors of yarn.

Intrinsically, she knew tonight’s was most likely his first kiss. (Though it most certainly was
not
the kiss of a clumsy novice.) Her knowledge of him told her he would be exceedingly confused over this action of his. Being methodical, pragmatic, and logical, he would have to contemplate The Kiss for a considerable period of time before he could either renew such an action or—something he might never do—discuss it.

So she would wait for him to do one of those things.

At present he was likely admonishing himself. Being the gentleman that he was, he would believe his conduct most unbecoming. If only she could assure him such conduct was as welcome and natural as sunshine.

But she must wait.

Her thoughts flitted ahead to the next morning and how she should greet him. Above all, she must not be stiff for he would think her repulsed by his wondrous kiss. She most decidedly could not very well use any of the wide range of endearments he brought to mind.
My love. My darling
.
Sweetheart.
She sighed.

She must convey to him through her conduct that she was not displeased with him. A pity she could not convey more. The fact was that even if both of them admitted to falling in love, neither of them was in a position to act upon it since neither of them had the means to set up a home together.

Which made it more imperative than ever that they find the Chaucer.

* * *

What must Mrs. Bexley think of him? Not even someone as ill mannered as Long
mouth
would have forced a kiss upon a lady. What had gotten into him? Melvin Steffington never acted rashly. Melvin Steffington never acted less than a gentleman. And Melvin Steffington had never before kissed a lady—nor had he ever before desired to kiss a lady.

He must blame it on the wine.

He peeled off his clothing, doused the light, and climbed upon his bed, but he was far too exhilarated to sleep. Would Mrs. Bexley think him a depraved sex lunatic? It
was
just a kiss, he consoled himself. His brother frequently stole kisses from ladies of good birth. And Elvin most certainly was
not
a sex lunatic. (Though he most heartily endorsed the conjugal union.)

It was as if the brothers’ traits had somehow gotten mixed up. Melvin found himself more and more acting like his twin. As he lay there in the darkness, the only light coming from the fire in his warm chamber, his thoughts went to that other night when he had entertained such uncharacteristic thoughts.

That last night at Granfield Manor—the night she had been so out of charity with him she had thrown a cushion at him—he had lain on the floor pallet picturing Mrs. Bexley undressing. He’d been shocked over and ashamed of his errant thoughts.

Now he was shocked and ashamed of his errant actions.

Would she throw something at him in the morning? Would she be so angry she’d call off their quest and sever all ties to him? He couldn’t allow that to happen. A compulsion to restore the Chaucer to her would guide all of his actions for the next four days—when Coutts planned to take ownership of her home.

His concern for her extended beyond his desire to find the Chaucer. He feared for her life. Those harsh words uttered by his attacker in Bath made him sick for her. Melvin knew that whoever sought the stolen manuscript was marked for death.

He had to protect her these next four days.

After that—if they were not successful—she would be under the protection of her brother in the North Country.

Why did the notion of her absence make him so low? He shouldn’t like not to ever see her again. He’d meant it when he’d told her he was closer to her than he’d ever been to a woman. He would even go so far as to acknowledge that he cared for her as a friend. Like Blanks. Or Appleton. Of course, it was entirely different. He certainly didn't want to kiss Blanks or Appleton.

Because of his deep concern for her, he decided to do everything in his power to keep her from turning him out. At least until the Coutts deadline had passed. He would start in the morning by acting as if the kiss had never occurred.

A pity his body could not act as if nothing had happened. While he lay there thinking of her, he was powerless not to remember the kiss and how much he had enjoyed it. When her arms had come around him, he’d actually groaned with a needy pleasure. Feeling her in his arms was every bit as thrilling as the kiss. The very memory caused his breath to grow short.

Now Melvin better understood his twin’s strong attraction to females.

Lying in the dark, listening to the brutal winds outside his windows, he could not purge from his mind thoughts of The Kiss. He had never expected kissing to be so pleasurable. And even though he knew it was not the gentlemanly thing to do, he thought he would like to kiss her again.

* * *

Once they were seated in the coach the following morning and heading for Stipley Hall, she congratulated herself on how smoothly breakfast had gone. She had knocked upon his door and invited him to her parlor for the day’s first meal. By so doing, their first contact (since The Kiss) had not been face to face, eye to eye. She’d felt that would have been uncomfortable for him. Her ploy also served to allow him to know she was neither angry with him nor desirous of terminating their relationship because of The Kiss.

Throughout breakfast they had conversed in a normal fashion—mostly upon the weather.
Beastly cold. Wicked winds. Thank goodness no rain.

Now she was wrapped in the rug, wearing her heavy merino cloak, warmest gloves, furry muff, and she was still chilled. But she did not have a care. For sitting there with Airy was where she wanted to be more than anywhere. Especially since The Kiss.

Just peering at his brooding good looks gave her a heady sense of possession. He had desired to kiss her. That knowledge allowed her to believe she possessed at least a piece of his heart.

Whether he knew it or not.

Her happiness was tinged with melancholy. She knew neither he nor she could ever act upon a mutual attraction until they found the Chaucer. And if they did not. . . all her hopes and dreams would be destroyed.

“I have decided what I shall do when Mr. Whitebread wishes to speak to you about the position,” she said.

He raised a brow in query.

“I shall ask for his housekeeper to give me a tour of Stipley Hall.”

“I should think that would be most agreeable to you.”

“You know me too well, Airy.”

So intimate a comment obviously made him uncomfortable. His attention turned to the view from his coach window.

In three-quarters of an hour, they reached Stipley. Airy had been right. She found grand country homes very agreeable and never tired of touring them. As their coach came down the long drive to Stipley, she observed it from her window.

They drove through the fine deer park in front of Stipley. Evenly spaced rows of beech trees lined the drive, and off in the distance, rolling hills outlined against the gray horizon. Stipley must encompass many hundreds of acres.

 “I must say, though Mr. Whitebread is no aristocrat, this house looks as if it was built for a grand old titled family,” she said.

“I believe you’re right. I think it was Appleton’s secretary who told me one of the early, extremely wealthy Whitebreads purchased the house from the estate of Lord Something or Other.”

She smiled. “Come, Mr. Steffington. I am sure you will be able to retrieve from that brain of yours the name of the peers who formerly owned the house.” His memory was, after all, quite remarkable.

A lopsided grin on his face, he regarded her. “Very well. I believe it was built by the Lords of Penwick, the last of whom died without issue and whose title went extinct.”

“To the satisfaction of the Whitebreads, I should say.”

Though it dated to the same era as Burghley House, Stipley wasn’t as large or as grand as that great Elizabethan palace. Stipley was constructed of gray stone, and had a bit of the look of a fortress about it, owing to its corner towers. She suspected it featured a central open courtyard which so many houses of the era had.

He peered at the house as they drew close to its entry. “It’s very fine.”

She hated to think that this might become Airy’s new home.

The coach stopped, and a moment later, their coachman was assisting them from the carriage. The poor fellow’s face was bright red from the stinging winds.

A footman in purple livery swung open the huge, iron-hinged timber door.

“Please announce Dr. Steffington and his sister have arrived,” Airy said to the tall, youthful servant.

He nodded. “If ye will just 'ave a seat on the bench, I’ll tell me master.” He began climbing the stairs, his long legs taking two steps at a time.

She was ever so glad he had not offered to take her cloak, for the massive entry hall was only slightly warmer than it was outside on this blustery day.

Her first impression was that she was sitting in an old country church. It must be the ecclesiastical-looking, stained-glass windows pointing to gothic arches that evoked a religious sanctuary. The scenes depicted on them—armored men on horseback—were in no way religious.

Her gaze elevated to the wide staircase. Its wood—oak, she thought—had turned nearly black from age. The lower stairs terminated at stone floors, many of the squares smoothly indented from centuries of footsteps.

Furnishings in the entry hall were minimal: the long, armed wooden bench upon which they sat and a chunky wooden sideboard. She suspected the sideboard had reposed on that same spot since the house was built.