by Jane Goodger
Maggie gathered her writing materials with far more enthusiasm than she should have, telling herself it was perfectly acceptable to look forward to spending time with an old friend. An old friend she had kissed. Last summer in Newport seemed so long ago. Likely her memory had distorted every wonderful thing that had happened because life had become so difficult since. Elizabeth had been miserable, dreading her upcoming marriage to the duke, but Maggie had had the most thrilling summer of her life because that was the summer she’d fallen in love with Lord Hollings. What a wonderful, terrible time that had been, for she’d never thought she’d allow such a disastrous thing to happen. At least, it had been disastrous for her. Lord Hollings had gone home, without saying good-bye, without a note, with nothing but memories that were made all the more painful knowing that all that time, she’d meant nothing more to him than a pleasant distraction. She tried not to dwell on everything about that summer, particularly that kiss. It had only been once and thankfully she had pretended it meant nothing. “I am afraid if you continue on in this amorous way, you will be in danger of falling in love with me,” she’d said, pretending that kiss had been part of their game to keep any possible suitors away. “I do not wish to be a party to breaking your heart when you leave for England. I must ask, then, for the sake of us both, for you to never kiss me again.” And he hadn’t.
Not even once.
Oh, why was she thinking about such a thing when she was willingly closeting herself in a room with the man?
Maggie, who had lied to her mother about a grand desk in the library (she was finding that mendacity was becoming more and more easy), was shocked when she walked into the cavernous room. Squares of light streamed through the dust, giving the room a haziness that was out of place in such a well-run home. Crates were piled on the floor and upon sturdy tables, and books were stacked, seemingly without thought, nearly everywhere. In fact, at first look, Maggie not only couldn’t see a desk; she couldn’t see a clear spot upon which to work. Other than the dust, crates, and books, the room appeared to be empty until she heard a thump coming from one corner.
“Lord Hollings?”
He stood, appearing behind a stack of crates, and smiled. “I just found a complete Book of Hours. My God, it’s the Rothchilds.”
“Is that good?”
“It is arguably one of the most beautifully illustrated fifteenth-century books ever created. Though some could make an argument against that. I daresay I wouldn’t.”
Maggie couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. In all their dances together and walks, never had Lord Hollings shown this side of himself. It made him all the more attractive to her, that he should have such a serious passion. “What exactly is a Book of Hours?”
“A prayer book. Come, look at this.” Edward moved around the crate and hastily pushed a stack of books aside, wiped down the table with a pristine handkerchief, and laid it carefully upon the surface. Using yet another handkerchief, he opened the book, revealing an intricate illustration of the crucifixion with equally ornate letters alongside and beneath the picture.
“What does it say?”
“Who knows? It’s the art that is important. At least for these types of books. It’s Latin, though, and I’m afraid Latin was not my strongest subject.”
“Is it very old?” Maggie asked, becoming interested despite herself. The thought of someone hundreds of years ago gazing at this very same illustration when it had been newly made was fascinating. She went to touch the page, but Lord Hollings stopped her, deflecting her hand gently away from the page.
“The oils from your skin could be quite damaging,” he said. The shock of his touch nearly overwhelmed her senses, and she looked up, locking gazes with him for perhaps two breaths, before dragging her gaze back to the page. God, she’d forgotten how very blue his eyes were, how his mere touch made her instantly heat. “That’s why I put these on.” He took out a pair of pristine white gloves; then she looked dumbly down at her clean fingers expecting to see the oil.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said.
“No need,” he said cheerfully, then gingerly closed the book. “Not everyone is as careful as I am. But it is rather old, fifteenth century, and His Grace thought it gone forever. I don’t want to be the caretaker who led it to ruin.”
She moved away from him, wishing she hadn’t come, for it was clear her feelings hadn’t changed and neither had his. He was cheerfully going on and on about books, when she was finding it difficult to stand next to him without touching him. “Where did all these books come from? Were they in storage somewhere?” she asked, not really caring.
Lord Hollings frowned. “They were sold. His Grace’s father and brother, the late dukes, sold nearly everything from this house that had any value at all. Including nearly every book from this library. I’ve volunteered to track them down. At least the finest of them. It’s been extremely interesting.”
“If you say so,” Maggie said, streaming one finger through the thick dust on the table.
“I don’t want to bore you,” he said, sounding endearingly hesitant, and Maggie immediately felt contrite.
“You could talk about rocks and not be boring,” Maggie said, and was rewarded with a rather glorious smile. “My goodness, I didn’t know your ego needed such incessant stroking.”
He promptly frowned, but in a way that she knew he was joking. “I live for the tiny crumbs you throw me.”
There, they were firmly back on the easy-banter ground where Maggie felt safest, where nothing was serious, including their flirtations. “How did you get so interested in books?”
“My father was a bookworm, constantly reading. Much to my mother’s chagrin. She could have an entire conversation with him and he wouldn’t have the vaguest idea what she was saying if he was reading. I still remember the first book he gave me, All But Lost by G. A. Henty.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It was a great adventure. My father said I should be very careful with it, for books were magical things.” He shrugged. “I’ve been completely obsessed ever since.”
“Are all these crates filled with books? It will take a lifetime to sort out,” Maggie said, again taking in the complete chaos around her.
“It likely will take a rather long time,” he said, sounding quite happy.
“Don’t you have work to do at your estate?”
“Not trying to get rid of me, are you?” he said, removing more books and crates from the table. “Your desk, mademoiselle,” he said, sweeping a hand to indicate the now-empty, but still dusty space.
“Of course I’m not trying to get rid of you. Your sister and step-aunt are quite lovely and I enjoy their company immensely.”
“Their company alone? You have wounded me yet again.”
Maggie shot him a look of disbelief. “You are lovely as well,” she said. “But I am growing fond of your sister and aunt. They are both quite charming.”
Lord Hollings felt a bit sheepish. “I’m afraid they are leaving in a few weeks and I shall remain until right before Christmas. I have promised His Grace to work on this library and I never renege on a promise.”
“Very gallant.”
“Not really. I feel as if I’ve died and gone to heaven. My own library is depressingly complete. The fun of books is in finding them.”
“I thought it was in reading them,” she said, using her hand as a dust rag only to find his handkerchief thrust in front of her.
“Oh, I don’t want to ruin your handkerchief,” she said, eying the already-dusty, but finely monogrammed material.
“As you can see, the damage has been done.”
She studied the monogram for a moment. “EHH,” she read. “What does the other H stand for?”
“Horatio,” he admitted.
“Don’t feel too bad. My middle name is Zilfa.”
“It doesn’t suit you,” he said.
Maggie shrugged as she dusted, feeling far more like a Zilfa these days. The clot
h was completely covered with dust. “What shall I do with this?” she asked, and laughed when he simply stuffed it into his pocket. “Your valet will want to murder you.”
“He can join the line of people who do. Including the man who sold me half these books. I got them for half what they’re worth,” he said happily. “But for twice as much as they were sold for by the old duke.”
“I suppose I should start writing to my brothers,” Maggie said.
“And your fiancé.”
“Of course.” Maggie forced a smile, because she somehow knew he was saying that simply to be contrary. It was almost as if he already knew her engagement was a farce. She was not looking forward to the scene her mother envisioned, of her receiving a letter from Arthur breaking off the engagement. Should she cry? Act morose for days on end? She wasn’t certain whether she could pull off such a charade, especially beneath the watchful eye of Lord Hollings. He’d always had a way of seeing through her, and she’d felt him studying her more than once since her arrival, though that was likely her imagination. Maggie was quite certain that her gift of hiding her true feelings was diminishing.
She set out her writing supplies, placing her pen and ink carefully in front of her, then her borrowed stationery from Elizabeth. The expensive paper had the Ducal crest on it, and it tickled Maggie to be writing upon such rich stuff. She could hear Lord Hollings moving books, muttering beneath his breath. She thought he’d forgotten all about her, for she was finished with one letter when he said, “Do tell how it is you fell in love with Arthur, when you used me all last summer as a pawn to avoid being with the man.”
Maggie pressed her lips together and stared at the blot of ink that just appeared on her paper, marring her otherwise perfect penmanship.
“You were not a pawn. You were a diversion,” she said.
“A diversion.”
“Yes. I did not know Arthur that well. If you remember, I was trying to avoid all the Wright brothers equally. And then after you left, Arthur came calling,” she said, telling precisely what had happened as she continued to write. “He was very pleased you left.”
“So your scheme worked.”
Maggie looked up. “What scheme are you referring to?”
“The scheme to make yourself more attractive to the Wright brothers,” he said rather darkly.
It dawned on Maggie that her quick engagement to Arthur bothered Lord Hollings, perhaps had even made him jealous, and she smiled to herself. She had no illusions that he cared for her, but rather that his ego was feeling a bit bruised. “That was not at all my intention,” she said with complete honesty. “As well you know. However, the end result was marvelous. Arthur, it turns out, had been hanging back for weeks last summer, nearly green with envy. In that our scheme worked. He thought you were courting me and my cachet increased dramatically. And then when you left, he came to call.”
“And you fell in love.”
“Yes, I did,” Maggie said, but in her heart she meant that she’d fallen in love not with Arthur, but with him.
“Hmmmm.”
For the next several minutes, they each silently worked, and Maggie thought he’d dropped the subject.
“I stopped by, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Before I left New York. I stopped by.”
Maggie vividly remembered that awful afternoon, when she’d gone out with her cousins only to find out that while she’d been gone Lord Hollings had stopped by their New York brownstone. Maggie had agonized for weeks about that missed visit, wondering if she’d been home, what would have happened. Would he merely have said good-bye, or would he have asked her to come to England with him? She’d hoped, ridiculously so, that he had fallen in love with her the way she had with him. But he’d left New York without seeing her, without leaving a note, without a word. If she hadn’t been invited to visit Elizabeth, she never would have seen Lord Hollings again, because obviously that was the way he wanted it. She’d come to the rather harsh conclusion that Lord Hollings was a flirt and was completely unaware of the affect he had on women, particularly her. It likely wasn’t even a conscious thing, but simply part of his charm.
She looked up and smiled, a curious smile. “Stopped by where?” Oh, she so enjoyed torturing him.
“Stopped by your home,” he ground out. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
“You didn’t leave a note,” she said, her tone not quite disbelieving, but certainly full of skepticism.
That seemed to fluster him a bit, which Maggie enjoyed immensely. He would never know how devastated she’d been, how completely heartbroken when he’d gone without saying good-bye.
“Didn’t your mother tell you?”
Maggie shrugged helplessly. “I don’t think so.” As if she’d forget.
“It’s no matter,” he said slowly, but it was clear that it did, indeed, matter.
He began working again, this time a bit more loudly than before. Books were unceremoniously dumped on the floor, and Maggie wasn’t certain whether it was because he was angry with her or with the fact he couldn’t find something he was looking for.
“Why didn’t you leave a note?” she asked.
He stopped working suddenly, and with great care put the book he was holding in front of him and stared at it as if the book would give him his answer.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that was a difficult question. It seems to me it was important that I knew you stopped by, and yet when you did apparently stop by, you didn’t leave a note. Just wondering.”
“Apparently? Are you saying you think I’m lying?” He turned to her, his blond hair disheveled, hands low on his hips, looking so completely handsome it was all Maggie could do not to openly stare at him.
“Not at all,” she said, all innocence.
“I didn’t leave a note—”
“Yes, I know.”
“I didn’t leave a note,” he said more forcefully, “because I didn’t know what I should write.”
She looked at him and slowly raised one eyebrow, silently challenging him to come up with a better answer.
“Letter writing is your forte,” he said with an irritated nod toward her half-finished letter.
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said, though she was not sorry at all. “I can imagine how difficult it would be to come up with the proper words. ‘Sorry I missed you. I’m leaving for England tonight.’ Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I can certainly understand your dilemma.”
He let out a sound of irritation, a cross between a growl and the word “bah” before returning to his books. A long silence grew interrupted only by the soft sound of books being placed on shelves and the scratching of her pen.
“I suppose Mr. Wright is a prolific writer.”
Maggie smiled down to her paper. He was so wonderfully annoyed. “I wouldn’t know,” she said rather mournfully. “You see, we’ve never been apart for more than a day. I do expect a letter from him any time now. Actually, letters. He promised to write every day and I’m sure that he will.”
“Smitten, is he?”
“Apparently.” She smiled up at him, fully happy with her teasing, and he jerked back, as if revolted by her joy.
“I suppose he would be,” he said softly.
And Maggie, just to be ornery, pretended not to hear. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I suppose he is smitten,” he said loudly. “The fool obviously proposed.”
Maggie’s smile instantly disappeared. “And what makes you think Arthur is a fool?”
“He’s getting married, isn’t he?”
“Is it marriage in particular you object to, or me?”
The muscle in his jaw contracted. “Of course I meant no insult to you,” he said rather formally.
“Of course.”
Edward clenched his jaw again. This was not at all what he had planned when he’d invited her to spend time in the library. He’d just wanted to be close to her, alone with her. He’d, perhaps, thought he might get her to kiss
him as he was dying to do. Even though, with her being engaged, that would be so, so wrong. It was pure agony being with her and seeing her eyes alight with happiness at the mere mention of her fiancé. What kind of idiot brings up a woman’s fiancé when he’s in love with her himself? It was almost as if he wanted to punish himself for being imprudent enough to fall in love with her.
He hadn’t meant to insult her. Or perhaps he had. He was suffering and she was, well, disgustingly happy. It wasn’t fair.
And then, while he went back to blindly placing books on shelves, it hit him like a blow. He had become one of them. One of those ridiculous lovesick idiots that he’d made fun of since he was in short pants. He was literally feeling ill at the thought of her marrying another man. It wasn’t the altar and flowers that passed through his fevered brain, but nightmarish images of her beneath a faceless man thrusting into her, her face in thrall, her body arched in ecstasy. He wanted to shake her. No. He wanted to love her. But most of all, he wanted her to love him.
Oh, Lord, how in hell had he allowed himself to go this far over the edge? Keeping her letters had been pathetic enough, but at least he could rationalize it in his ever-rational mind. But this…feeling. This sick, wonderful, horrible, weak feeling was absolutely untenable. He dared look at her and she was lovely. She was smiling down at her paper the way she would no doubt look down into her Arthur’s eyes when he was making love to her. She paused in her letter writing and gazed up at the ceiling, and his eyes moved from her perfect mouth to her neck, soft, slim, and enticing, and he nearly groaned aloud.
Goddamn her. Goddamn Arthur Wright. But most of all, goddamn him for being foolish enough for falling in love.
Chapter 9
Elizabeth laughed aloud at the face Maggie was making as she squeezed into another of her old gowns.
“My goodness, Elizabeth, I had no idea you were quite so…”
“Diminutive?” she suggested.
“Scrawny,” Maggie said, looking down at the two quivering mounds of flesh that were nearly bursting from her neckline.
Elizabeth waved away her complaint. “Take it out a tad and it will be a perfect fit,” she said. “Other than the bosom, it’s quite lovely.” Maggie was more than lovely, Elizabeth thought, looking at her friend fondly. Maggie might have gone through a sad time, but she was the same girl she remembered, the bubbly, happy, ever-optimistic person she’d known nearly her entire life. Despite what must have been a horrific time, she was still Maggie, still lovely with her huge brown eyes and dark curling hair, still Maggie with her carefree smile.