Whispers in the Reading Room (5 page)

A sixth sense told him that her discomfort had little to do with the fact that he was disrobing her gloved hand in the middle of the Hartman Hotel. Instead, she was trembling from the shock of being publicly abused by Jason Avondale.

Sebastian was torn between wanting to continue what he was doing and leaving her to her own devices while he beat Avondale to a bloody pulp.

The latter choice did have much in its favor. But of course, if he did that, he would suffer the loss of her company.

She trembled under his attentions, and once again he was torn between wishing he could hold her on his lap and comfort her or pick her up and take her to the nearest physician.

Instead, he did neither, simply continued the painstaking exercise of removing one wet kid glove from a very delicate-looking hand.

When at last he pulled the offending item away, she moaned under her breath. And he attempted to control a temper he hadn’t tried to control in a very long time.

Her wrist was swollen and already black-and-blue from Avondale’s harsh treatment. Above it, on the other side, her knuckles were bright red from the scalding tea. Faint blisters were already starting to form.

As she stared down at her injuries, she paled even further.

“Bridget?” he barked, belatedly realizing that he was letting his worry over Lydia become noticeable. “Where is that water?”

“Right here, sir.”

He looked up to see his favorite employee standing at attention next to his side.

“I brought you a bowl of cool water, and towels, sir,” she said after she was sure she had his attention. “I got you some ice too. In case you would be needin’ it.”

“Yes. That was a good idea. Thank you.”

After flashing a pleased smile, Bridget set down the items, then stepped back. Once again, Sebastian was pleased that he’d hired Bridget to be his personal maid at the Hartman. He doubted even the experienced waitstaff in the restaurant could attend to him so well. He certainly didn’t trust anyone else like he did her.

And he didn’t need to wonder at her being in the lobby just when he needed her. It was her job to be available.

Turning back to Lydia, who was still sitting rather motionless, he gentled his voice. “Miss Bancroft, this should help. Give me your hand.”

When she merely stared at him wide eyed through her lenses, he held out his hand, silently willing for Lydia to place her palm on his so he could see to her injuries.

But of course she did nothing of the sort.

He lifted his head to meet those completely striking pale-blue eyes.

She didn’t move.

Growing concerned that she was suffering from shock, Sebastian leaned closer. “Let me help you bathe your hand, my dear. The cool water will ease your pain.”

It was his endearment, perhaps, that made her blink, then stare at him in surprise. “Thank you, but I can take care of this.”

“Not very well, I wouldn’t think. It’s hard to do almost anything with only one hand.”

“What?” After examining the shallow china bowl, cup of ice chips, and pair of towels, she blinked again. “Oh, perhaps you are right.”

“I know I am. Hand, please?” he asked again, employing a tone he didn’t even know he was capable of.

Without another moment’s hesitation, she rested her palm in his. After he placed some ice chips on the towel and rested her wrist on it, he dipped the second cloth into the cool water, then bathed her red knuckles with it.

“This should help, though I fear you will be in some pain for the next day or two,” he said.

“Yes.” She closed her eyes then. Seconds later, a lone tear traipsed down, sliding under her glasses, at last stilling on her cheekbone.

Even though until this day he’d only known her from a distance, the sight of her tears hit him hard. He hated to see her cry. Hated the thought of anyone bringing her to tears.

He picked up another ice chip and ran it across her delicate skin. She flinched.

“Forgive me. I’ll attempt to be gentler.”

Behind him, he felt rather than heard Bridget inhale. He ignored her. Dampening the cloth, he smoothed it over the burns marking Lydia’s blistered knuckles.

When she flinched again, he wished for the first time in his life that he could take someone else’s pain. “Easy now, Miss Bancroft,” he murmured. “This will help. I promise.”

She lifted those remarkable eyes up to his. “How did you happen to be here?”

“You’ve seen me leave your library a time or two. It just so happens I sometimes visit other places.”

Color splotched her cheeks. “I didn’t mean that.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, how did you happen to be here, at this hotel this afternoon? It feels quite coincidental.”

“Not really. I live here.”

“I wasn’t aware a person could live in a hotel.”

“It’s possible. It’s amazing what money allows a person to do,” he said, joking.

But she didn’t catch the jest. Instead, she continued to stare at him curiously. So much so that he was inclined to tell her his whole history. Almost.

Of how he’d grown up knowing his mother was forced to work as a prostitute to feed him. And how he’d been lucky to at least have a mattress on the floor to sleep on.

How he’d always yearned for a clean place to lay his head at night. How only the hotel enabled him to have that cleanliness but allowed him to keep his distance from most.

“Do you like living here?” She appeared to be grasping their conversation like a lifeline.

Against his better judgment, he let her. “I do.”

She would never know it, but he usually took great pains to keep his unusual residence something of a secret. He slept better knowing that the majority of Chicago’s citizens didn’t realize the owner of the Silver Grotto lived at the top of the most fashionable hotel in the city.

“So Jason was wrong, of course,” Lydia said. “You weren’t here for me.”

“He was indeed wrong.” Because his living arrangements were taking her mind from her injuries, he continued. “Every once in a while, I loiter in the lobby.” He shrugged. “It’s a bad habit.”

Again, he felt Bridget’s amusement behind him.

He supposed it couldn’t be helped. His life was a study in contrasts, of haves and have-nots. And though he’d tried his best to keep himself from getting to know Lydia Bancroft, it seemed inevitable. He wanted to know her. Just as important, he wanted her to know him.

At least the good parts.

Seeking to put Lydia more at ease, he said, “Now, if I had known you were going to be taking tea in the lobby, I would have taken great pains to be here just so our paths would cross again.”

As he’d hoped, appreciation for his quip lit her eyes. “And here I was beginning to wonder if you even spoke.”

“It’s common knowledge that one should stay quiet in the reading room.”

“I’ve always believed you took that to extremes. Conversation is allowed, of course—though primarily in whispers.”

“I have had no need for conversation there. I visit for the books.”

“Oh, I know, Mr. Marks. It’s obvious that you are a bibliophile.”

Suddenly, he felt curiously stripped bare. He’d held his efforts to learn close to his vest. From the time one of his mother’s men spent an afternoon teaching him the basics of reading, Sebastian had devoured the written word the way he imagined other children devoured porridge.

And, little by little, he’d indeed worked on making himself into the person he wished to be. Austen and Brontë and Wilde taught him to speak. Dickens taught him about ills . . . and about what he had a hope of being.

Even the Bible had been utilized. He’d been a student of Jacob and Isaiah and Peter and Christ. The Bible with the God he occasionally thought to thank for any good that came his way.

In short, he’d read everything he could get from the library and attempted to glean as much as he could from the best of it.

But his self-taught education was never a thing of beauty or pride, for he now knew it contrasted sharply alongside the life that benefited real gentlemen.

That education was also his closely guarded secret. So much so, he knew he’d rather be stripped bare in this hotel lobby than be forced to admit how all of his learning had come from a poor boy’s desire to become something he’d only witnessed in printed pages.

It wasn’t his naked body that he feared showing—Lord knew, living on the streets, a man lost any hope or thought of modesty. Instead, it was his soul that he dare not reveal. That was something he feared could be far more easily shattered.

And even more easily ruined.

As if she sensed his dark thoughts, Lydia cleared her throat. “Mr. Marks, I believe my hand feels better now.”

Looking down, he realized that he’d been unconsciously skimming his rough fingers along the delicate skin of her hand. “Are you sure?”

She looked down at the small bowl.

He raised his voice. “Bridget, did you think to bring a dry cloth?”

“Of course, sir.” She handed him a neatly folded square of white linen.

With care, Sebastian lifted Lydia’s hand from the bowl and patted it dry. Then he held her hand between the two of his and examined it carefully. “I think the swelling has eased, but you’re going to need to keep your glove off the rest of today.”

“Yes.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps as I go home, I’ll be able to keep it covered by my cloak and scarf. Then no one will notice I am not dressed properly.”

He wanted to bark at her, say that it didn’t matter one lick how people perceived her, but he refrained. It wasn’t his place. Instead, he merely released her hand when she lightly tugged.

Immediately, he felt a loss.

After meeting his gaze again, color flooded her cheeks. “Well, thank you for your, um, care. However, I should be on my way now.”

His reply was interrupted by her stomach growling. Behind him Bridget chuckled.

Lydia looked as if she’d just committed a mortal sin. “Please forgive me. I’m usually not so rude.”

“Perhaps you’re usually not so hungry? Miss Bancroft, please don’t leave just yet. I believe Mr. Avondale never fed you. Allow me to see to your tea.”

She turned to her old table. But of course the trays, soiled tablecloth, and cart were long gone. The Hartman Hotel’s regular staff was nothing if not efficient. “I’m afraid the tea service is gone. I’ll be fine. I’ll eat something at home.”

“Nonsense. It’s no trouble to bring it out again.” At least, it wouldn’t be for him. “Bridget, remove these items and please bring Miss Bancroft a plate of tea sandwiches.”

“Of course, Mr. Marks.”

After picking up the bowl, cup, and towels, Bridget slipped out of sight.

Lydia shifted and placed her injured hand over her left one in her lap. “I honestly can’t believe everything that happened here this afternoon. It’s been very irregular.”

He took care to keep his voice low and even. Desultory, as if they were discussing the weather. “Does Avondale treat you that way often?”

“What way?”

“Roughly manhandling you.”

She averted her eyes. “That? Oh, no.”

“You’re sure?” Something in her voice didn’t ring true.

“Oh, yes. Of course, I suppose we haven’t found ourselves in many different situations yet. And this, um, was our first engagement without a chaperone,” she said, practically tripping over her words. “But never before has he acted so, well, autocratic. I’m not sure what brought it on.”

“I was under the impression that you were affianced.”

“Ah, yes. We are. I mean, we were.” She bit her lip. “Actually, I’m not sure if we are currently engaged or not.”

“Forgive me for my bluntness, but I must say that it is better to find out now that he would hurt you.” When she stilled, staring at him through her spectacles like a frightened deer, he continued.
“Before you give him your heart,” he said gently, then wondered who in Sam Hill he had become. Men didn’t speak of such things.

He
, without a doubt, had never even entertained such fanciful thoughts before.

He knew nothing of hearts or breaking them. He certainly had no experience with tending to delicate fiancées. No, all he knew was from what he had read.

“I suppose that is true.” She paused as Bridget set a silver tray filled with éclairs, cookies, scones, and tiny sandwiches in front of them. Another servant poured a cup of tea and carefully set it on Lydia’s right.

“Tea, sir?” Bridget asked.

Sebastian shook his head at the offering. He did not drink tea.

He hid a smile as Lydia stared at the tray of offerings with something that could only be described as pure bliss and anticipation. “Don’t wait for me, Miss Bancroft. Please begin.”

“Will you not have any?”

“No. I have recently eaten.”

“I see.”

“I often eat early. It’s a bad habit, I’m afraid,” he murmured, and then fell silent before he started talking about his meals and his private life and his club. Before he started talking about everything that was his life and everything she should never know about.

“Oh.” She smiled, then after pointing to a few of the sandwiches and one plump currant-filled scone, which Bridget placed on her china plate, she picked up the sandwich and took a rather unladylike bite.

John, one of the Hartman’s longtime waiters, brought Sebastian a glass of what had to be lemonade. He studied it for a moment before raising it to his lips. The cold, sour-sweet mixture curled his tongue. Setting it down, he glared at the man-servant, who shrugged in an apologetic way.

It seemed even John was trying to help Sebastian look like a regular gentleman instead of the whiskey-drinking club owner he actually was.

“I see you enjoy cold beverages,” Lydia said, as she picked up her second sandwich.

Gin and bourbon could be served cold. “I do.”

“I suppose most men do.”

Most men he knew did, indeed, enjoy spirits served cold. “Yes,” he murmured as he watched her finish off a second delicate sandwich, then move to a thin watercress and turkey with gusto.

When she paused for breath, she said, “So, what book has taken your interest of late?”

He leaned back, far more comfortable talking about books than about anything of a personal nature. “I’m finding
The Wrecker
to be fascinating.”