Chapter Fifteen
An hour later, Roger could not stop thinking about Miss Adler, nor the odd sense of regret he felt walking away from her, even as he rose from his tub and patted down his body with a cloth.
What was the matter with him?
What did he want? Glancing down at his own body, he knew what it wanted, but that was out of the question.
Miss Adler was his guest.
And a terrible idea.
She was a completely improper companion for him in any respect—setting aside the lustful thoughts she elicited—whether colleague, friend, or even sparring partner.
And yet, she challenged him more than anyone who was considered his equal.
Madness.
Worse, despite all his control and practice, he required cold, not hot, water to fully settle himself. If he kept this up, his staff would notice, and worse, talk. Good gossip, regardless of commandments, was a temptation that even the strongest loyalties could overcome.
Not something he could risk. Especially on the eve of his betrothal to Miss Teres—the woman he should be thinking about. Would be thinking about, soon enough.
Tomorrow he’d go back to avoiding Miss Adler. Perhaps he could persuade his sister-in-law to visit. Nina was charming and bright enough to be decent company for the woman.
Nodding to himself, he slid into his bed and closed his eyes, ready for an easy, satisfying, ideally dreamless sleep.
However, after another hour of tossing and turning and crushing pillows, Roger pulled on trousers and a shirt, not bothering with the cuffs or buttons, grabbed a candle, and headed toward the library.
The room was, in his opinion, the most impressive in the house, and not merely because it was the only one he’d decorated.
It had been a present to himself for his thirtieth birthday.
He’d taken four rooms from the two floors directly above it, so it could be three stories high, with floor-to-ceiling shelves on every wall, an opening in the middle, and enough floor space on the second and third story to allow for a lip, furnished with a few key chairs and tables, as well as properly positioned ladders, each with its own independent entrance, staircase access within.
Rather spectacular if he said so himself.
His own bedroom was off the middle story, so that was where he housed most of his favorite fiction, less the few he’d gifted to Miss Adler.
If there was ever a night he needed a pleasurable distraction…
Setting down his candle, he thumbed through the shelves of the newest volumes, settling on one of his old favorites.
He carried it to the worn chair that molded best to his body and sank down to read, planning on just a few chapters, to allow his mind to be lulled into ease and permit him to sleep.
He’d just turned the page when the door creaked from below.
Roger froze, then glanced over the railing.
Through the dim light of his single candle, he watched a figure drift into the room and peruse the shelves, leaning so close their face almost touched the volumes.
A figure whose hair gleamed red even in the darkness.
Roger bit back a groan.
He should leave, or perhaps sit very still until she exited. One or the other. That was the most prudent course of action.
But somehow, against his better judgment, he found himself setting his book aside, retaking the candle, and moving down the internal staircase onto the main floor of the library.
He set the candle down again at the bottom of the staircase and crept toward the area she was searching, stopping just behind her.
“Looking for something, Miss Adler?” he asked, knowing full well he’d make her jump.
“I—” She did exactly as expected, whirling around. However, what he did not account for was the rug between them. She slipped on the edge, falling forward.
Reaching out, he caught her below the arms. “Careful,” he murmured, setting her upright.
His hands lingered around her waist, brushing the soft fabric of the dressing gown she was wearing.
Roses. She smelled like roses, fresh and light and—he glanced down.
She was staring at him, horror in her expression.
Mercy. He was making a fool of himself. The woman knew he was practically betrothed. Had met Miss Teres herself. If he touched her now, he’d appear to be a, well, cad. Not that she thought any better of him.
But he was supposed to be better. He was better, damn it.
Quick as he could, he pulled his hands back, raking one through his hair. “I apologize. I just wanted to make sure you were steady.”
“Thank you. My footing is quite sound now,” she told him, her tone clipped as she turned to the shelves, now frantically searching them in an oddly amusing manner. “I’m just not used to the room.”
“Reading titles in the dark isn’t easy,” he commented.
“I’m surprised you can read them at all,” she retorted.
“Truly?” Roger asked with a huff.
“No,” Miss Adler said quickly, ducking her head a little.
“Liar,” he whispered. He stared at her for a moment, searching for her expression. “You believe I’m a fool, don’t you?”
Not that he should be insulted. After all, her opinion was of no consequence. Yet… somehow the idea that she truly thought he was, well, simple rankled him to no end.
“No. I am confident that you can read,” she told him rather stiffly.
“But not much more,” he surmised. Oh, the woman had no idea. None. Not very many people did—for a variety of reasons.
Yet somehow he wanted—no, needed—this woman to know. He needed to show her, to prove her wrong, at least in this calculation—whether her opinion mattered or not. For some odd reason, he wanted her to understand who he truly was and acknowledge the sacrifices he made for their collective benefit.
“Well, well, well,” he murmured, half to himself.
Miss Adler wrinkled her nose. “What?”
“You’ll see,” he found himself saying. An urge rose in his gut. Not his usual one. He walked back to the stairs and fetched the candle. Before she could protest, he proceeded to light the sconces, because if she was in his space, she was going to see it, damn it. In all its glory.
Yes, after tonight she would not be making any of those snide remarks about his literacy again. He was going to show her something she’d not forget.
Why did the man have to own the most gorgeous library ever built?
It was more than gorgeous and exactly what she would have designed, if she dared to dream of such a thing.
The room was long and wide, with shelves of ornate polished walnut floors covered in warm, patterned rugs, dotted by strategically grouped plush chairs.
It was bright, despite its lack of windows.
In short, it was the most inviting place she’d ever seen.
But what was truly magical was the sheer number of volumes it contained. Every inch of wall held a book. She leaned back to view the ceiling and nearly swooned. The room was not merely on one level, but extended upward, higher than the Liras’ ballroom even. And it was all covered in books.
“It’s more impressive in full light,” Berab said, his expression and voice smug as he leaned against a ladder while she gaped.
“How high does it go?” she asked, noting the spiral staircases on either side.
“You’re on the first floor of three,” he told her.
“Magnificent,” she admitted, unable to stop staring. She moved toward a shelf, reaching out to touch the volumes.
“I like to think so.” He pushed off the wall and strolled to her side. “I designed it. Birthday gift to myself.”
“That’s quite the gift,” she told him.
“It was quite the birthday. It’s not every day when one turns thirty.” His handsome lips tipped into a grin, making her traitorous body thrum, which was the last thing she needed. What was wrong with her?
Neither had use for the other.
At least not appropriate uses, and those were the uses that counted.
She reached for a copy of Fortin’s Atlas Céleste de Flamstéed. “I accomplished that feat last June.”
“When?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder to view her selection. “I mean what day?”
“The twenty-third,” she said, opening the volume and staring at the pages.
“Truly?” he asked, surprise in his voice.
“Yes, I know the date of my own birth,” she said, rather bemused. “Why?”
“It’s not merely the anniversary of your birth,” he said, emphasizing the “your.”
Lifting her chin, she blinked at him. “Truly?”
“Yes.” His smile widened. “It appears that we two were born on the same day.”
Naturally. Because why wouldn’t she now be forced to think of the man on that day every year going forward?
“Six years apart,” she couldn’t help reminding him, shutting the book and sliding it back on the shelf, continuing her perusal.
“Yes,” he said from behind her, making her swallow from his nearness. “I’ve been properly aged like a…”
“Moldy loaf of bread,” she suggested, raising her brows a little.
“Something like that,” he said with a bemused wink.
“Do you prefer some sort of cheese?” she asked, making the mistake of turning around. Oy, he was close. She backed herself against the shelf, the wood digging into her spine.
He paused, as if he was considering the same. “There are worse comparisons,” he said. “People do like cheese.”
“Some varieties,” she admitted.
“I’d been thinking of wine. We’re both quite full bodied after all,” he whispered so close to her ear that if she leaned backward she’d knock into that rather full body.
And, naturally, as she’d clearly lost her mind, her own body tightened at the mere concept. Oy. She gritted her teeth, as she searched for a decent quip to push them into more comfortable territory, as one of them needed to behave properly.
“You’re definitely full of…” She leaned over and squinted at another title, then slid the book out, turning it over in her hand. “This is…”
He leaned over her shoulder once more. “The Way of Mathematics by Anthrakites,” he told her, then reciting the title once more. In Greek.
All she could do was stare. “You read Greek?”