by Anne Mallory
“Wise.”
Something about the way he said it made her cross her arms. “You don’t agree.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“By saying it was wise? Doesn’t that imply that I approved?”
“It was how you said it.”
“For someone who says she prefers to read books instead of determine the meaning in someone’s spoken words, you seem awfully determined to do the latter.”
“For someone who says he has no wish to organize his library, you seem awfully keen to.”
“I’m not.”
She pointedly stared at him, spread out in the chair, verbally nipping at her. The threads of heightened irritation, amusement, and awareness combined once more.
“I never said I didn’t want to watch you do it.”
“I see.” She didn’t see in the slightest.
He tapped the cover of a volume on top of a short stack near him. “Where will you bury this?”
She leaned over to check the title. “All things religious, ecclesiastical, or mystical go to the stacks on the right. It is the largest section in our store, most printed books fall into that category, but I have a feeling from these first stacks that it will be dwarfed by your—or your benefactor’s—taste for other things. So I will keep it to the right for the moment.”
He kept swinging his infernal leg, a hook of his brow saying more than any words.
She walked over and took the book from him. “I don’t buy your line, by the way. I can see you frown or nod approvingly depending on where I put things.”
“Nodding? I haven’t moved.”
She waved her hand. “It’s in the very air around you.”
“I’m delighted you are paying attention enough to me to notice.”
“Hard not to,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
She cleared her throat. “You are paying me to do a good job, I assume. I am only aiming to please.”
“I’m happy to hear it.” He nearly purred.
She hid behind a nice tall stack until she had reasonable command of her color. She poked her head out.
“You want to be in control of what goes on your shelves, even if you won’t admit it. Why bring me inside and let me loose as I please—irritating quips and outrageous challenges from you notwithstanding?”
He cocked his head so it was resting against his shoulder, lazily regarding her. “Because I want to trap you here and it seemed a flawless way to do so.”
She stilled, then wiped her free, sweaty palm against her skirt. “I’d say you’ve succeeded in your trap.”
Even her uncle would force her to stay, with the promise of the book. She was truly trapped.
She narrowed her eyes. But that was a weak way of thinking. The voice of Mr. Pitts’s pen echoed in her head that she shouldn’t need an excuse to stay or feel without recourse. She should make the decision herself to flirt with the trap and say to hell with anyone who disagreed.
The viscount watched her as if trying to discern what she was thinking. “What will you do?”
And hadn’t she decided to come anyway without speaking with her uncle? Made the decision herself?
She picked up a few volumes in the conduct, deportment, and etiquette stack and walked to the right, putting them on a shelf that would be easy to reach once everything was cleared away but was harder at the moment, surrounded by all the confusion. “I will continue as I have started,” she said without looking at him.
She turned around to see him standing directly behind her, soundlessly moving, a stack in his hand. “Then so will I.” He held them out to her, and she took them wordlessly. She watched him a moment longer, trying to read whatever was written there in his dark, mysterious eyes.
Those eyes haunted her dreams all night long. The shadowy figure of her dreams taking on depth. His motions as he hovered above her, clasped her to him, touched her in all sorts of sinful ways.
And then his lips touched hers with a reverence that caused her to wake. To pant in bed and not return to sleep for a long, long time.
The echo of real lips that promised everything.
The next day she was still wondering what she had gotten into, but in a much more intense way. Her blood thrummed. The dreams bleeding into day.
“Molière is hardly a good fit there,” he said, leaning against the wall as she ascended the stepladder. “Closer to Swift.”
She put one hand against the shelf wall to steady herself, the book in her other hand pressed against the edge of the shelf. She pursed her lips down at him.
He smiled lazily. “I’m simply availing you of my knowledge. It’s extensive.”
“It’s annoying.”
A part of her had long been frozen mute in abject horror that she was speaking to a viscount this way. Her tongue kept forgetting that he was a lord and kept reverting to the ease with which she corresponded. And as he needled her further, something in his eyes seemed all the more satisfied with each exchange.
Georgette would be gleeful.
“I think you just don’t like to admit that I am right. It’s acceptable to give in to it, Miranda.” His voice took on a deeper tone and curled around the space. “I promise to take good care of everything.”
She jerked at the echo of her dream. At his lips promising that he would take good care of her wants. Her needs. Her desires.
Her everything.
The images from the illumination rose again, and she could nearly feel his fingers caressing her scalp, his lips on hers.
The book buckled against the shelf, and she pitched forward, then overcorrected and lost her footing. She made a mad grab for a piece of protruding wood, but only caught the edges of the spines already placed there. The books teetered on the ledge, then fell as she slipped. She watched them as if they’d somehow fallen into a vat of half-solid lard, sinking slowly through the air above her.
Stupid books. Stupid dreams. Stupid viscount.
Two warm arms caught her and pressed her back into a solid chest. She could feel the heat of his breath in her hair. Feel the strength of his enveloping arms. Hear the thump of her own heartbeat as it echoed the books falling to the ground.
“Vanilla soap?” The husky edge of his voice was ten times more potent at this close range, whispered right below the lobe of her ear. “It suits you deliciously.”
Take a bite. Have a taste. Her neck tilted just an inch in an unconscious invitation.
The heat of him drew closer. His lips brushed the edge of her throat beneath her ear, and she could feel his lips curve as a satisfied, husky laugh of a sound tickled and cleared the path.
A connection of lips to skin that would make any imaginings pale. Imaginings that went far deeper than the differences between them socially and financially.
It was hard to think as his mouth stole the very air touching her skin. The difference between a viscount and a girl who worked in a dusty bookshop. Or between a man bent on world domination, one seduction at a time according to the papers, and a woman who couldn’t discover the nerve to leave the path of least resistance.
A challenge to see if he could seduce her? It hardly seemed an even minor contest at the moment.
She tried to push away from him, from her own lusty thoughts, and ended up half-turned in his arms. His arms loosened fractionally to let her pull away.
She completed the spin, her breast sliding against the inside of his elbow, crooked perfectly. She panicked again, her jerky motion causing her to slip on one of the fallen volumes. His arms immediately tightened again to save her a second fall.
Unfortunately, he took a step back, and along with her frantic movements, he too slipped on a triangled spine. He swore as he fell back, his arms taking her with him, catching another two stacks with a violent clatter.
She fell atop him with a whoosh of breath, their faces in perfect alignment for a fraction of a second, her legs straddling his, her skirts cloaking the co
nnections beneath from view but not from the skin on the inside of her calves as they hugged his expensive trousers and long, powerful legs. His eyes darkened, his arm tightened.
And he rolled on top of her, the blood pumping in her ears turned into a crashing avalanche of sound.
Something heavy clipped both ankles and her outstretched wrists, pinning her in place, the weight of him on top of her. Everything seemed to jolt and freeze as she could feel every place on her body where his connected, her entire body spread and chained for him.
His eyes held hers, dark and hot.
Nothing for it but to succumb. A lazy, languid feeling stole down her limbs, mixing with the anxiety and anticipation.
Movement caught her gaze, and she watched a book teetering on his head slip from its perch and fall to the floor, just missing her shoulder.
“Organizing books is a much more perilous diversion than I’d thought,” he said in his husky, edged voice, warm and dangerous. He moved slightly, shaking off another volume that had rained down upon his back—a consequence of upsetting the stacks. The movements sent shocks of energy through her as their connections pushed and pulled against each other.
“But equally rife with opportunity.” He gazed at her lips. “Do you surrender?”
“Surrender to what?” It was as if she couldn’t catch her breath.
“To whom.”
“To whom?” The words barely formed on her tongue, heavy and low.
He smiled, a long slow pull of lips, and leaned down. A hint of bergamot combined with the smell of the books surrounding them, spines triangled, pages fanned apart, allowing the scent of fresh bindings and musty parchment to linger.
She licked suddenly dry lips, only an inch from his. “What are you doing, my lord?” A rational question surfacing from somewhere amidst the chaos.
His gaze traveled her face. “I’m embracing the beauty around me. Or under me, as it is. No need to go to the Serpentine if you have that lovely breeze already in your sights.”
That he remembered their conversation so well from the first day was almost as alarming as the way her body automatically responded to the meaning of his words.
“I think you are taking me too literally.” Was that her voice breaking on a low breath?
He shifted, and she heard another book slide from his hips. “First, I am not enjoying the underlying meaning of things, and now I’m being too literal? I think it a good thing I’ve challenged you to show me what I should be doing.”
His face was so close. His lips mere breaths away. She could see each eyelash like a long spike waiting to spear her.
“I have no expertise to do so.” But the temptation curled. Like a living, trapped thing that sought outlet.
And still he didn’t move away. “You are one of the most vibrant women I’ve ever come across. And locked away behind your books—it just makes you that much more of a masterpiece waiting to be unlocked.”
She swallowed, but the swelling of her veins would not recede. “You know nothing about me.”
“Don’t I?” His eyes caressed her face, unreadable, but hot. “I have wanted to know everything about you since the moment I saw you.”
The heat rushing around her body filled her face as well. “I don’t know why.”
And she didn’t. What sort of mad dream was this that he had noticed her? Was flirting with her? Ready to inhale her. That he had even taken notice of her enough to do so made the rest even more unbelievable. There wasn’t a sane connection between it all.
Her thoughts felt as caged as her wrists and ankles beneath their paper and leather bindings. She shifted, trying to unpin her limbs.
“No?” He loosened his position, rising to his hands and knees, still looming over her like a hunter, still holding her in some sort of thrall. “I will work diligently to change that.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.” He cocked his head. “And I do as I wish.”
She needed to get away, to breathe and think. “So I’ve read.”
His smile became humorless. “So devoted to the written word.” He touched a book pinning her wrist. “Foolhardy to put your trust where it is easy to create falsehood. Don’t believe all you read.”
She smiled back tightly, unable to let the statement go. “I don’t. But sometimes it is just the opposite. It can be far easier to spill the truth in an article or letter where you can be free.”
“Oh? Those correspondents of yours—they spill their darkest secrets, do they? You believe everything they tell you?”
That partially answered her question as to how long he had been listening to her conversation with Georgette in the shop.
“I have no reason to doubt them yet.”
“Lies from those closest to you are often the most numerous and paralyzing.”
She narrowed her eyes and stayed silent.
“And your Eleutherios, hanging on word from him, aren’t you? The rattle-pate old lecher.”
She pushed at his chest suddenly and began extricating her legs from the books pinning them.
“Better to leave dreams behind and go forward with purpose.” His voice was strangely intense. He moved to the side, shifting the settled avalanche of paper behind him.
She said nothing, pulling her legs out from under the fallen stacks. She had just gained purchase when her heel slipped on a binding. She again collapsed on her back, legs curled under his, looking up at him, skirts tangled in paper.
Damn books.
“I admire your capitulation.” His smile was lazy again, the dark intensity replaced by a languidness that did odd things to her stomach.
“Lord Downing?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you might help me stand?”
“My back is quite sore from saving you from all of those heavy tomes. I’m not sure I should be doing hard labor. Maybe you’d better continue lying there, at ease. The view is quite lovely.”
Her skin turned unwillingly warm again, her mind actively chalking up the entire situation to a lack of consciousness that must have taken her when they fell. Or perhaps she had fallen days ago, and this was all some strange imagining, an elaborate fantasy.
His eyes turned more amused, and he leaned over her again, his elbow propping him up at her side. “Yes, diligent work ahead indeed. Or perhaps you might just capitulate fully now, and we can move to more comfortable surroundings.”
Her mouth opened, but nothing emerged.
The first two fingers of his hand formed an L at his cheek and chin above his propped elbow as he gazed upon her. “You have but to say the word. One small concession to any lingering inhibitions. A simple surrender.” His eyes caressed her face.
Men just didn’t look at her like that. She didn’t know if her heart could survive if they did.
Or perhaps it was just this man.
“Lord Downing?”
“Yes?”
“Get off me.”
“I’m unfortunately not on you.” He waved a hand to her free side. “You can move anytime. I’m merely serving as an umbrella should more papered bricks plot to bring about your doom.”
“And I am saving you from my coshing you with one as soon as I am free.”
“Very well.” He looked falsely beleaguered as he rose. He held a hand to her, and she warily took it, popping up and becoming free from the papers as he pulled her perfectly to her feet.
“Tomorrow then,” he said, not releasing her hand. “Perhaps in the gardens in back of the house? I’ve heard they are full of weeds and sprouting things. You can tell me all about the wonders of them. Perhaps let me discover for myself the path of a rose whispering down your bare flesh?”
Flutters, promising and alarming, beat against her midsection. “That is unnecessary.”
He smiled slowly, gazing down at her from his greater height. “Oh, it is very, very necessary. One simple concession on your part, and we can even begin tonight.”
She was saved from answering by
a cleared throat. “Lord Downing?”
The viscount’s hand tightened around hers, but his eyes didn’t stray. Miranda looked over to see the butler in the doorway. She wondered how long he had been standing there, waiting.
Creases appeared around the viscount’s eyes for a second before smoothing away. He replied without turning. Without taking his hand away from hers. “Tell them I will be there momentarily.”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler disappeared.
“Well, Miss Chase.” He gave her a lazy smile. “I’ll look forward to convincing you to surrender tomorrow then.”
His fingers slid from hers, lingering at the tips before breaking free. “And I am quite confident in my ability to succeed.”
Miranda chewed on a chapped nail, her gloves hanging on the rack upstairs, somehow the feel of his fingers permanently embedded within them, driving her mad. “Uncle, I can’t return.”
His head was buried in an open ledger, glasses perched perilously upon the end of his nose. “Return where?”
“To Viscount Downing’s library.”
He looked over the edge of his glasses. “Oh, right. That’s where you were yesterday and today. Forgot you were starting.” He looked to the window. “Must have told you about it in a less lucid moment, because I thought I’d gone and forgotten completely.”
Miranda waved a hand, happy that she could sidestep entirely how she’d discovered it. “I can’t return.”
His eyes swung back. “Why not? I thought you’d like it. I’d do the task myself if I had the time.”
She continued chewing, unable to stop herself. Her mother would have been completely appalled. “It’s not proper.” What had escaped the box first? Greed? Sorrow? Surely it had been pure temptation. How had Pandora even managed to keep it closed as long as she had?
No, the answer was simply to bury the box and never return.
Her uncle blinked. “What’s not proper about it? Not getting the promised payment for each week’s work—that’s not proper. The store coffers will be flush. Not getting the books he chooses to toss—that’s not proper. Hinted that I’d get an original copy of The Bengal.” His eyes glazed and moved to the right. “Not getting that—that would be improper.”