Chapter 4 #2
Keen to see the library, she dressed in haste.
The corridors proved harder to navigate than Mrs Boswell had claimed, each one a near reflection of the last. She stopped a footman to ask the way to the east wing, for she had passed the same grumpy-faced man in a portrait twice, and he looked no more welcoming the second time.
She found the drawing room from last night. The footman had said the library was the last door on the right. With a quick breath, she tapped lightly and slipped inside.
Excitement fluttered in her stomach, for this was no ordinary room.
Narrow yet impressive, it rose from floor to cornice with shelves of leather-bound books, a sanctuary of secrets waiting to be uncovered.
A fresco ceiling of cherubs in gold and blue arched overhead, and a tall sash window cast pale light over the solitary chair.
“This is marvellous.” She trailed a finger along the spines. “Pope’s Essay on Man,” she whispered. “Goldsmith’s The Deserted Village. Byron’s Childe Harold.”
The last name lingered on her tongue, conjuring the image of a dark, restless wanderer. Yet Lord Rothley reminded her more of Byron’s Corsair. Formidable, untamed, and bound by his own relentless code.
“It’s an impossible choice,” she murmured, her hand trailing over the carved panel as her eyes wandered the spines. A haven of words where she could lose herself for hours.
That’s when she noticed the bookcase set askew, behind it the faint, steady trickle of water. Could it be a secret door?
Curiosity tugged her closer. She pressed, and the panel yielded, releasing a draught laced with the marquess’ scent, warm spice threaded with musk, worldly yet unmistakably his. The very air declared this was a gentleman’s domain. One man’s in particular.
Through the half-open door, she glimpsed him at the washstand. Bare-chested. A towel fastened around his lean hips. Water slid over the ridges of his torso as he reached for a cloth.
Her breath caught. She ought to turn away, yet her gaze lingered. No wonder they said he kept a harem of women. A man of his size and strength must have a hunger that never waned.
Broad shoulders caught the morning light, every line of muscle a testament to his power and command. His back, straight as a blade, belonged to a man who bent to neither fortune nor fear. Even the ease of his movements revealed control and an unyielding resolve.
She had come upon a private moment, yet it was impossible not to look, impossible not to feel his allure. She could smell his cologne on her clothes, as consuming as his presence now.
“Miss Woolf?” His low voice broke the hush, as if he had known she was there all along. “Admiring the view?”
Merciful Lord.
She fought the urge to bolt. “Forgive me. I thought you were out walking. I heard water and feared a leak. It would be a tragedy if the books were damaged.”
He turned to her, amusement flickering in his obsidian eyes, though her gaze kept straying to his chest. “A leak? On the ground floor?”
“Someone with your wealth might have modern plumbing.”
“No pipes, Miss Woolf. Only water, steam, and a man with nothing to hide.”
Why wasn’t he reaching for a robe?
Why wasn’t she leaving?
Because their battle of wills left her as breathless as any embrace.
“That’s not entirely true, my lord. A towel still guards your modesty.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Modesty is a fragile thing. One careless tug, and the towel is gone.” He raised a challenging brow. “Tell me, Miss Woolf. Are you afraid? Would you hide your eyes or hold your ground?”
She stepped into his room, squaring her shoulders, determined to prove a point. He was a master of intimidation, but she would not yield. “I was almost strangled in a graveyard. I believe I can endure your scandalous behaviour.”
“Scandalous? Says the woman bold enough to appear in a dress without a corset.”
“You forgot to pack one.”
“How careless of me.”
“I confess I was surprised, for a man so astute.”
“Call it an oversight. I’ve not undressed a woman in years. I’ll endeavour to be more attentive in future. Shall I send a maid to town? I would hate to think you lacked … support.”
“On the contrary. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt free.”
His gaze dipped to her breasts. A flicker of triumph warmed her chest, followed by a heat that burned deeper, coiling low. For all his intelligence and distinguished drawl, he was dangerous.
She arched a brow. “If you’re done teasing me, my lord, perhaps you’ll put on a shirt so I may concentrate on our conversation.”
A light twinkled in eyes of black satin. “I’m a gentleman, Miss Woolf, and this situation has far exceeded the bounds of propriety. Wait for me in my study, and we’ll continue this thrilling conversation there.”
It was entirely the right thing to do.
So she inclined her head, her composure intact, though her pulse raced like she’d won a private battle. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
“Would you prefer if we spoke at the dining table?”
“That depends on what secret you mean to tell me. I’d rather not choke on kippers and coddled eggs.”
She shifted uncomfortably, and not because he had a physique to rival a Greek god. It was the weight of his gaze, the unspoken expectation. He would demand the truth, and once spoken there would be no turning back.
“Then I shall ask Mrs Boswell to prepare a basket so we might eat on the road. There’s an important item we must recover.”
His gaze sharpened. “Am I permitted to know where we’re going?”
“Back to World’s End.”
He gave a low hum. “You have a talent for leading me in circles, Miss Woolf.” The smile that touched his lips held a spark of amusement. “Very well. I shall meet you in the mews in half an hour.”
“Shall I ask Mrs Boswell to summon your coachman?”
“No. You will inform her of our arrangements.” His mouth quirked as his gaze ventured over her dull grey dress. “A marchioness in training never asks. It unsettles the staff.” His voice dropped, smooth as velvet over steel. “Remember that, should you choose to be my bride.”
A marriage of friendship had been a fool’s notion. He’d been a greater fool to voice it. Perhaps the encounter with Miss Bourne had unsettled him, yet his thoughts strayed to the woman in his carriage and the fact she had seen him near naked.
Passion unravelled men and made rakes of them. Miss Woolf had spent one night beneath his roof, and already he had behaved like a libertine.
She could never know how close he’d come to letting the towel fall, how often he had tempered his desire when her gaze lingered and her lips parted. That curious look in her blue eyes would haunt his dreams.
“Are we to spend the journey admiring the hedgerows from opposite corners of the carriage?” he said, keen to put all amorous thoughts far from his mind. “Or will you explain why I failed to collect this important item when I rescued the parrots last night?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly last night.”
He hadn’t thought clearly since she clung to him as Hector thundered along the dark lane, her hands hot on his back, her body pressed so close he memorised every forbidden curve.
And now, in the morning light, the sun caught her copper hair, unshielded by a bonnet he had neglected to pack, its brilliance seared into his mind.
He forced his gaze away. “Be honest. You weren’t ready to make a confession.”
“You’re right. I have everything to lose, and the thought of sharing secrets makes me nervous.” She licked a trace of butter from her lip, and he almost groaned aloud. “Besides, such things are best tackled during daylight hours.”
Yet she seemed cloaked in shadow.
“Strange. You put me in mind of Geraldine in Christabel. So much of you is shrouded in mystery. Will it always be that way, I wonder?”
Any man who got too close to Geraldine found himself undone. After this morning’s encounter, he was already losing ground.
“You fear you’ll repeat past mistakes?” she asked.
He gave a derisive snort. He feared nothing but looking like a fool. Yet here he was, striving to trust a woman when he had every cause not to. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Sometimes we suffer for other people’s mistakes and are fooled into thinking they’re our own. That is certainly true in your case. The sin was not yours to bear.”
Ignorance was no excuse. He should have seen the signs.
“A man cannot live without faith in someone.” She delved into the basket, took a cold sausage roll wrapped in a napkin and cut it in two, offering him the larger half with a quiet smile. “To lose faith entirely would be tragic.”
He took the roll, sat back and studied her. “You mean I’m a stronger man for putting my faith in you, Miss Woolf?”
“We both have much to lose.”
“Yet you intend to keep me in the dark to some degree.”
“Only if I feel it’s in your best interest.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
She fell silent, long enough for him to think she would say nothing at all. “I shouldn’t admit it, but I’m afraid. Afraid for myself. Afraid for you. I don’t want to be the reason you spend another decade believing women can’t be trusted.”
He was in danger of that regardless. “Then let’s make a pact to share information when necessary.” Trust was a commodity he had never bartered for—until now.
She gave a thoughtful nod. “I can do that.”
It felt like a minor victory, though victories seldom lasted. Friendship demanded honesty. “Let’s begin with something simple. What are we hoping to retrieve from the cottage?”
“Nothing. What we need is in the graveyard.”
Hell. This woman piqued his interest at every turn. “Something you buried deep in hallowed ground?” He was confident his coachman had a spade and they wouldn’t need to claw at the earth with bare hands.
“No, in the mausoleum.”
Why the devil had she hidden it there?
“Something stolen, perhaps?” Why else was the villain stalking her? Whatever she had taken, he was willing to kill to reclaim it.
“No. Something my father left me for safekeeping.”
“Is your father alive?”