Chapter Twelve #3
“I’m quite familiar with the library,” she said, as he led her by the hand.
“So you believe.” He positioned himself in front of the correct bookcase, pushed back the correct book and turned back to his wife, his finger on the lever. “You, my dear, are about to become the first lady to ever learn Harbury Hall’s best kept secret.”
She leaned in and lowered her voice. “How secret?”
“So secret, even Sarah doesn’t know.” He squeezed the lever and a section of the bookcase swung open.
“A hidden room?”
“Not just any hidden room. An entire vault.” He drew her into the space, then closed the panel behind them. “Not vault in the sense of crypt, mind you, but vault as in a place where valuables are stored.”
Unlike the other walls which had been built of wood and then covered with whitewashed plaster, the walls within this chamber were bare stone. Three bookcases lined the room, one on each wall. A single chair and table stood in its center.
“Sarah knows nothing of this?”
“No. In fact, to my knowledge, no lady has ever entered the room.”
“Let me guess?” She said, wandering. “The libertine grandfather?”
“Yes. Although, if even a quarter of the stories told about him are true, less than reputable women might have been welcomed here. In his bachelor days.” He paused. “And I’m not sure I’d go as far as to call him a libertine. On the other hand, I do suspect he was a member of the Hellfire Club, so…”
“Harbury—no!”
He shrugged. “Even in his dotage, he was a good deal more fun than my father.”
“From the way you’ve spoken about your father, I imagine he would have been.”
He cocked his head. “Have I spoken poorly of my father?”
“Perhaps not poorly, but neither with a great deal of warmth.”
He lifted his brows. “He wasn’t a warm man.”
“Unlike his son.”
With that small comment, she’d given him a colossal gift.
Completely unaware, she wandered over to a set of shelves. “Are these books stored here because they are valuable?”
“Some are, some aren’t.” He came to stand behind her.
“Most aren’t books at all, only texts. Several languages are represented.
French, Italian, a few notable works in English.
They are all, however, very rare.” He encircled her waist with his arms and pressed his cheek against her cap, leaving his mouth just above her ear. “And all very forbidden.”
A blush spread pleasingly across her decolletage.
“This one might interest you.” He reached over around her and slid out a copy of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, better known as Fanny Hill.
She opened the book to a page she’d chosen at random. The passage described a young man’s anatomy, “…that storebag of nature’s prime sweets, which is so pleasingly attached to its conduit pipe from which we receive them along.”
She slammed the book shut, shoved it back on the shelf, and then clamped her hand over her mouth.
Uh-oh.
Perhaps the vault had been too much for her sensibilities. Perhaps bringing her here had been foolish. She was trembling.
“N-n-nature’s p-p-prime s-s-sweets.” She broke out into a fit of giggles. “Not just prime, but p-p-pleasingly attached!”
He closed his eyes and exhaled. Laughter was much better than mortification. And a welcome change from both the tension in their earlier confrontation and his rumination over his mistakes.
Then he chuckled, too. “Don’t forget the pipe.”
“The conduit pipe.” She turned in his arms and placed her head against his shoulder. “Oh, Harbury. That had to have been written by a man.”
“What’s this?” He drew back in mock shock. “You don’t find my sweets pleasing?”
Her giggles erupted anew, causing him to wrap her close.
“I thought,” he said wryly, “only adolescent boys found exaggerated anatomical descriptions amusing.”
“I apologize.” She wiped beneath her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Apology accepted.” He approximated a solemn expression. “That is, as long as you take the state of my pipe into serious consideration.”
“Oh,” she said with mock solemnity, “I promise I will.”
That the same lady who had been mortified on their first night together could laugh and tease him now deepened his affection. She was open. She was brave. And, apparently, underneath her prim exterior, she had a rollicking sense of humor.
His grandfather would have loved her.
She retrieved another book. This one had pictures. She held the book at arm’s length, twisted it sideways, and then upside down. “Is this…pleasurable?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he answered honestly.
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“We could try it, however,” he added suggestively.
She put her hands on her hips “Is this why you brought me here?”
“No,” he said sincerely. Not that he’d mind a little joint research. “I wanted to show you something special. Something…private.”
“Private indeed.” She turned the page. “Oh!” she gasped. “Ohhh. What’s this…?”
“Mmm,” he hummed as he observed. “Looks interesting.”
“Would you be willing to try this one, too?”
He groaned. “Most certainly.”
“Now?” she suggested.
The books, the pictures, the confined space, the scent of her obvious arousal—they worked together, weaving an erotic spell that replaced his anxious thoughts.
He led her over to the chair, and she sat down. He knelt between her knees, placed a hand on her thigh, and then proceeded to do things with his mouth he’d not only never done, but never thought he’d wish to do.
Her reluctant groans were sweeter than music. The taste of her like nothing he could have imagined. Soon enough, he was drunk.
Drunk on her and near giddy with happiness. When she, at last, was shuddering, he felt almost as satisfied by her release as he would have been by his own.
Almost.
Her legs were splayed, her body, limp. He rested his head against her knee and wiped his mouth.
“My stars, Harbury.”
Edward, he corrected in his thoughts. She should call me Edward.
Why had he never asked her to do so?
The answer was simple—because after his father died, he’d insisted everyone, including Adrian, call him Harbury. He’d thought, if he heard the title enough, he’d feel like he had a right to take his father’s place.
He wanted something very different from Cassandra. However, the request she use his Christian name caught in his throat. He’d wait until after he told her everything there was to know about his past.
She peeked over her skirts. “Had you never done that before, either?”
He shook his head no.
She grinned. “Would you be willing to do it again?”
He couldn’t help himself. He chuckled.
“Harbury!” She sat up. “Are you laughing at me?”
“Not in the least!” He pressed his fingertips to his brow. “My blood…it’s collected elsewhere.”
“I see.” She nodded sympathetically. “Problems with your piping…?”
“You know, I do have problems”—he slid onto his back and worked the buttons of his falls—“But they aren’t anything you can’t attend.”
“Oh, my.” She giggled again. “Your sweets are definitely prime, now.”
“Straddle me,” he urged. “Check page 57, I believe…if you need instruction.”
She held his gaze and her skirts as she knelt over him, one leg on either side. She leaned down over him, and he caught her tightly in his arms. Their exchange had been light, playful, but this—this joining, this special connection to her, could never be anything but sublime.
He savored every second of her expression as she sheathed him. He was so aroused, only a few, upward thrusts brought him to quivering release.
As the pounding in his ears softened, he realized her cheek was still pressed up against his still rapidly beating heart. He pulled off her cap and stroked her hair, content to feel her weight and listen to her breathe.
“I like page 57,” she sighed.
“I made up the exact page,” he confessed. “It’s in there somewhere, though.”
She propped her head on her elbow. “Are there any other books you specifically remember?”
She was teasing again but her teasing struck an unexpected chord. He craned his neck, looking for the book she had inadvertently made him recall. He rested his hand in the vacant space where the book should have been and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“On our wedding night, I remembered a woodcut I’d seen in a book that should be right here.”
“Our wedding night?”
He smiled sheepishly. “The woodcut depicting a noble couple’s wedding night. Several people standing around the marriage bed.”
“No!” Her eyes widened in horror. “The first time is awkward enough without witnesses! I’m exceedingly glad that custom fell out of favor.”
“So am I,” he replied. “The book wasn’t otherwise salacious, but, after he found Adrian and me sniggering over the picture, my father had the book moved to the vault.”
“Now it is missing?”
“Yes. And the manuscript was an original copy in French. Quite valuable, I think.” He returned his gaze to the vacant space. “But it’s gone.”
“Do you think your father moved the book back to the wider collection?”
“Possibly,” he replied.
“Well, then. There it must be,” she said, twining her fingers into his hair and becoming suddenly very interested in his lips.
“Yes,” he agreed. “A perfectly reasonable explanation.”
And then he gave himself up to her kiss.