Love In The Library (8 page)

“You, my brilliant Mr. Steffington, gave yourself away."

He laughed too. "So I did." Then lifting a brow, he asked, "Did I not also tell you I disliked you referring to me as
brilliant
?”

“Even when the
brilliant
is in jest?”

“So madam enjoys poking fun at a humble scholar?”

“Madam finds it difficult to believe there’s anything humble in a confident scholar such as you.”

“There are many areas in which my confidence escapes me—dancing being the first to come to mind.”

She would not confirm his statement, even though he was not a natural dancer. While he knew all the steps, he was perhaps the most awkward dancer with whom she had ever stood up. Not at all like Mr. Bexley.

 
Thank goodness
.

Mr. Bexley had danced with the same elegance at which he interacted in society. Those types of pursuits were vastly important to him, especially the nocturnal pursuits, though Mr. Bexley did not confine those bedchamber activities strictly to nighttime.

He had been known to not-so-discreetly keep his carriage outside Mrs. Baddele's House of Cyprians in the morning as well as afternoons. Though he most certainly visited that establishment at night, he preferred giving up his nights to his other mistress, Faro.

Despite that they lived in the same house, she rarely came face to face with her husband.

Try as she might, Catherine could not imagine Mr. Melvin Steffington crossing the threshold at Mrs. Baddele's, nor could she see him wagering large amounts of money at the Faro tables.

There was something ever so solid about him. Not at all like Mr. Bexley.

"But, Mr. Steffington, of all the men in this chamber at present, I would rather be dancing with you."

"I assure you, my brother is a much better dancer."

His brother did remind her a great deal of Mr. Bexley. Not physically, but in their personalities. Sir Elvin was comfortable and confident in the presence of women, and he gave every indication that his other interests mirrored those of her late husband. "Your brother possesses many of the same qualities my dear Mr. Bexley possessed." It was a conscious effort on her part to always speak favorably of poor Mr. Bexley in some lame way of compensating for the inferno which he must be inhabiting at present.

"I didn't know him well."

"Mr. Bexley was fifteen years older than me, and I suspect that's one of the reasons you didn't know him well. You must be near my own age." She would not bring up the other reason the two men were not familiar to each other—that the men had no shared interests.

"I'm seven and twenty."

"As am I."

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, then he cleared his throat and said, "Thank you for what you said."

She found herself squeezing his hand. "About preferring you to all the others?"
What have I just said?
The meaning was vastly different than preferring to dance with him more than all the others. Oh, dear. Mr. Steffington was sure to think her flirting with him when that was not her intent at all.

He peered down at her, his black eyes smoldering with emotions she knew he could never express in words. And he nodded.

After that dance, she owed an explanation to the patient Mr. Longford. "Forgive me, Mr. Longford. I should have favored you with my first post-mourning dance. It was only today I decided to put the last vestiges of mourning behind me, and I lamentably forgot to tell you." She was mildly ashamed of herself for saying something she didn't mean, but her mother had always told her white lies were acceptable when used to spare someone's hurt feelings.

For once, someone else beat Longford's response. "I am most happy to hear that," Sir Elvin said. "Pray, Mrs. Bexley, I beg that you do me the honor of standing up with me."

What could a lady do? She placed her hand into Sir Elvin's as he led her onto the dance floor for a country set. Before they took their places, he said, "I was happy that your commission will keep Aristotle in Bath."

"Aristotle?" As soon as she repeated the name, she realized just who was referred to by the Greek scholar's name. Immediately, she thought she could latch onto it. It suited Mr. Steffington far better than Melvin. Of course, she would continue to call him Mr. Steffington.

"My brother."

The orchestra stuck up the tune, and there was no more opportunity for them to talk. Aristotle was right about his brother. Sir Elvin danced most elegantly. Because they were not conversing, she gazed upon him, realizing he looked exactly the same as his twin. She had come to appreciate their appearance. Of course, she was not in any way interested in men in a romantic way.

Just as Sir Elvin was handing her off in exchange with another partner, her gaze connected with Aristotle's as he stood at the far end of the chamber, broodingly handsome as he solemnly watched her dance with his brother.

Her breath hitched.

Chapter 6

Though he'd been a twin for seven and twenty years, Melvin had never before considered Elvin identical, but as he watched his brother dancing with Mrs. Bexley, the queer feeling that he was watching himself rushed over him. That she peered up at his twin with laughing eyes felt oddly disconcerting.

He was struck by how well the two of them went together. Mrs. Bexley and the elegant dancer. Mrs. Bexley and the personable brother. Elvin was just the sort to win her heart. Even she had remarked on how similar Sir Elvin was to her
dear Mr. Bexley
.

Melvin swallowed hard as he watched them. He suddenly became cognizant of his brother's many references to the widow over the past two days. Could it be Elvin was especially taken with her?

Though he was exceedingly fond of his brother, Melvin did not like to think of his brother courting Mrs. Bexley. He shouldn't at all like to see Mrs. Bexley hurt. She was so delicate. His twin was notoriously fickle with women: both ladies and demireps. He discarded women as some discarded old invitations, their usefulness spent.

A raging heat pored over him as he stood stone still behind the obnoxious Long
mouth
—a name the twins' friends had used for years to describe Longford. Not to his face, of course. The heat in the chamber was insufferable. There must be a thousand people or more crammed into this ballroom.

Why in the blazes had he come to this place he loathed so? His hands fisted.
Because of her
. He rued the day he had met Mrs. Bexley. He disliked what he had become since the morning he first knocked upon the door to Number 17 Royal Crescent.

She had the most mortifying effect upon him. He could refuse her nothing. Thank God she was respectable for if the lady requested that he strip naked and dash through the streets of Bath, he was apt to peel off every stitch of clothing and begin to sprint.

No sooner had Elvin restored her to the seat beside Long
mouth
than that tiresome man claimed the poor woman for the next set. Why could he not have given her a chance to cool off? Could The Nuisance not see how vigorously the unfortunate lady was fanning herself?

Even in school, Long
mouth's
perceptions had been as flawed as a blind man's paintings. Melvin glared at the couple. The sparkle he'd earlier detected in her remarkable eyes had vanished, and no smile lifted her face now.

She not only gave the appearance of being tired, she looked disinterested. Who could blame her? While Melvin was contemplating her change in demeanor, it occurred to him that her sweet smiles had only been meant for Elvin.

His hands fisted with resentment. How could she appear so happy with Elvin when just moments before she had told Melvin she would choose him over any man in the chamber?

His brother came to stand beside him. "She's lovely, is she not?"

Melvin ever so slowly met his brother's gaze with steely eyes. "To whom do you refer?"

"Mrs. Bexley!"

"You know I take no notice of such things."

"How fortunate you are to be able to spend so much time in her company."

"Were you in my shoes, I daresay you'd tire of her in a matter of days."

Elvin folded his arms across his chest and was incapable of removing his gaze from the widow. "Care to make a wager?"

Did this mean Elvin was falling victim to the lady's rather sweet ways—and not unpleasant appearance? "You know I dislike wagering."

His brother was far more quiet than was his nature. He seemed mesmerized by the vision of Mrs. Bexley gracefully gliding across the dance floor. Her shimmering silver dress stood out in the sea of black jackets and pastel gowns. "I believe my brother needs assistance in his current endeavors with the pretty widow."

Melvin disliked turning down his brother. When Elvin hurt, Melvin hurt. It had always been thus. As children, when Elvin cried because he wished to ride the pony Melvin sat upon, Melvin would relinquish the beast in order to bring a smile to his twin's face. When the lads were at Eton and Elvin was ravaged by fever, Melvin had to leave their chamber so his brother would not see him cry. Under normal circumstances, Melvin would always defer to his brother's wishes. But Mrs. Bexley had specifically asked that he not tell his twin about the stolen manuscript.

Melvin had given his word. "You would perish from boredom."

"I think not."

Once more, Melvin slowly and icily met his brother's gaze. "You're willing to rise before three in the afternoon?"

The baronet twin shrugged. "I am certain I could manage to be out of bed by noon. If I had such an incentive." He could not remove his eyes from Mrs. Bexley.

Melvin gave a bitter laugh. "Do you realize I rise at eight each morning and arrive at Mrs. Bexley's at nine?"

"Dear lord!" Elvin's face screwed up. "A baronet's son does not rise with the chickens."

"Tomorrow I rise at five in order to perform a particular commission for the lady." If he meant to travel to and from Cheddar in the same day, he could leave no later than half past five.

Elvin's eyes widened, his mouth gaped open. "Then I daresay I don't wish to see Mrs. Bexley that badly."

This time when the lady returned, she dropped onto the settee next to Felicity, exhausted. It was at this time Melvin did something he had never before done. He moved to her and offered to procure for her refreshment.

She gazed up at him, her eyes once again smiling. "That would be ever so kind of you, Mr. Steffington."

She had not called him Sir Elvin, which he had half expected. How in the blazes was this woman able to distinguish between him and his twin?

Feeling as if he were charged with a commission of great importance, he went to the stifling tearoom and waited patiently in line to avail himself of two cups of tea. When he returned, Felicity had moved to the dance floor, and Elvin had confiscated her seat on the other side of Mrs. Bexley.

That lady was at present favoring his twin with the exact same smile she had so recently bestowed upon him. Melvin moved to her and cleared his throat loudly, not really expecting that he could be heard over the throngs.

He was mildly surprised that she looked up at him. "How very kind of you, Mr. Steffington," she said, taking the cup. "My throat is ever so parched."

"It is exceedingly hot in here," Elvin said.

"And the lady has not been allowed to rest." Longford glared at the twins.

She quickly drank the liquid. "I shall, indeed, be allowed to rest for I plan to take myself home at present."

"The poor woman is not accustomed to such strenuous activity." Longford narrowed his gaze at the two men he perceived as his rivals. "I shall be happy to send round for my carriage to convey you back to the Royal Crescent."

Longford was one of a handful of men in Bath who was rich enough to have his own chaise and four—and the man never missed an opportunity to make sure everyone knew it.

The lady sighed. "I would be most grateful. I declare, I do not think I have the strength to walk home."

* * *

At half past five the following morning, Melvin donned his oilskins and beneath still-dark skies went to the livery stable to hire a horse for the long ride to Cheddar. He dared not risk one of his family's beasts for so grueling a mission. As it was, he would have to change horses two or three times.

He had asked that his servant deliver a note to Mrs. Bexley after nine o'clock. The note merely reminded her that he was headed to Cheddar to investigate Mrs. Higgins.
I will apprise you of what I learn at the earliest opportunity
, he had concluded, before signing himself
Yours ever truly, M. Steffington
. She had provided him with Mrs. Higgins' address at Pleasant View Cottage.

It was a pity they had to race against the clock—and Coutts Bank—because Melvin would have liked the luxury of waiting until the rainy skies cleared. Instead, he mounted the gray filly and began to charge into the southeasterly winds and the steady drizzle, hoping like the devil the storm would not gather any more strength.

The first half hour was the hardest. The piercing winds cut through him like frozen steel. His face stung from the harsh, cold wind, and his ears became numb. His fine leather gloves did little to protect his chilled fingers, and even his ribcage—like his teeth—quivered from the brutal cold. He could not remember the last time he had been this miserable.

As the murky light of dawn stole over the distant horizon, the cold was less palpable. The second hour of the journey he grew accustomed to the misery. Accustomed, but not accepting. He kept asking himself why he was doing this, why he had encouraged the widow to put her trust in him.

He was so out of his expertise, he wished to God he'd never responded to her initial note. Just a few days earlier, his life had been far less complicated. Far less exasperating.

It was difficult to believe that just a few days previously they had been favored by blue skies and mild temperatures. Which reminded him that Mrs. Bexley had gone with Long
mouth
to Sydney Gardens that day while he stayed in her library searching yellowing newspapers for something that wasn't to be found.