The shelves behind his desk were set high, permitting a table to be nestled below, cluttered with assorted ledgers and paperwork all neatly stacked and organized. The man was not the most interesting fellow—all proper and gentlemanly at every turn. It was shocking to think he’d actually acquired such an indecent thing and sheltered it within his home. The light from the hearth was barely enough to read the titles on the spines—the angle attaining more shadows due to the desk.
Sam had been told the set included ten thin volumes, their covers crafted from the softest leather, each only about six inches tall. None of the shelves before her held such books. Time was slipping by, and the men could decide to adjourn once more to the comfort of the study, a room their wives and other female guests would not venture into without an invitation from their host.
“Where are you hiding, you pesky things?” The fire crackled in response, calling for her to search harder—and faster—or she’d never locate them. She thought for only a brief moment she should have enlisted Jude’s help, but her twin had been more than clear with her. Her sister had put her thieving ways solidly behind her and would not jeopardize Lord Cartwright’s trust by embarking on another of Sam’s schemes.
This wasn’t a scheme, though. She had no plans to steal and sell the books, nor even keep them; she merely wished to peruse and return them before anyone was the wiser—more specifically, before Lord Cummings suspected anything was afoot. As the curator of the British Museum, his home was brimming with ancient artifacts. If someone sought to steal a piece, there were several rooms housing far more valuable items than his study. No, what Sam sought was not a thing of monetary value, though of educational value, certainly.
Namely, her education.
Cummings…she needed to see the room as he did, see his personal domain through his eyes.
Sam paused, closing her lids and channeling all she knew of men, which wasn’t much. She’d spent innumerable hours with Garrett, her brother; however, he’d spent so many years surrounded by four sisters that he certainly did not project an accurate portrayal of what men acted and thought like when not surrounded by the fairer sex.
Opening her eyes, Sam took in the room as a man arriving home after a long day of conducting business—whatever business a man with unlimited funds need handle—and appraised the room.
Yes, a drink would be welcome after a long day addressing museum business. Sam walked slowly to the sideboard, her strides long and exaggerated—mimicking the overconfident saunter she’d witnessed time and again from men who saw themselves as above those around them. She surveyed the decanters on display—three held liquids of varying shades of brown, one held a clear liquor, and one a deep burgundy. She itched to select the last as it likely held table wine, but that would not be Cummings’ selection, and she could not bring herself to sample the darker spirits. The compromise—the clear decanter.
A line of tumblers sat to her left. She poured a small portion into the closest one. There was no need for waste. Sam was attempting to get into Cummings’ mind, not fall deep into her cups. The night was only beginning, and she planned to use it wisely.
Sam sniffed the clear liquid—her nose filled with the smells of Christmastide. A distinct odor of juniper and pine reached her, similar to the holly branches they hung about Craven House.
Cautiously, she took a sip and swallowed quickly. While the least visibly harmful, it burned the entire way down her throat and warmed her stomach—her chill from earlier gone. Not an altogether horrible sensation, but not one she’d partake of on a regular basis. It was satisfying to know what Garrett sought when he poured himself a drink—even now, she felt her nerves flee, and she settled into her task once more.
Cummings was a single man—his mother long gone from this earth, no wife or children, no female relations in residence. He would have no need to hide the collection or place them high so little hands did not stumble upon their wickedness. Though, neither was he an overt man—arrogance of social standing did not lead him to disregard all propriety. No, he would not display them openly for viewing. Besides, they were of a very private nature.
Not close to the door or on the shelf behind his desk.
The shelves closest to the hearth were lined with baubles that were for visual effect, and the bank of windows left no room for the collection.
That only left a few areas.
Sam stared at the massive desk, moving her inspection to one side and then the other. She noticed a shelf lined with portraits—his father, mother, and several older charcoal images. The shelf was shrouded in shadows. Sam took each framed picture, careful to handle them with extreme care, and set them aside—revealing a row of thinly bound books.
Her breath hitched as she ran her finger down the spine of one. The leather was soft to her touch, though it should be hardened by age—brittle from years of explorers devouring them from cover to cover, examining each hand-drawn image. Maybe even pausing to try what the illustrator suggested as they moved from one page to the next. No, someone took great care with this collection, certain to oil each cover from time to time to prevent deterioration.
Examining the binding of each book was difficult in the dim light. She needs must remove one from its place and bring it closer to the hearth to make certain it was what she’d risked discovery to find. The way her pulse raced indicated there was little doubt what lay within these tiny books.
Sam stilled and listened. Even the voices from the salon had receded. Either everyone had retired, or the festivities had settled for the night. She must make her selection, replace the pictures, and hurry back to her room.
If she asked Lady Theodora, Cart’s little sister, she’d insist Sam take the first book—any book lover understood the importance of starting at the beginning of a story, not in the middle.
The decision was made—and she agreed. Any education must start at the very beginning or one might miss something important. And how utterly embarrassing if Sam ever gained the chance to use her forthcoming education and missed something of great import because she’d started in the middle. Sam had three days to study all ten books. Certainly, that was ample time to make her way through each in proper order.
She took the first leather-bound book from its place. A thin layer of dust coated the exposed top edge, the only portion accessible to the elements of the room. No one had removed the books in many years—which meant the chance of someone noticing one missing was slim, especially if she only took one at a time and replaced the portraits carefully in their exact places.
The hearth was only a few paces away, and Sam hurried to its welcome light to delicately open the volume.
In Physica Educationem in Caritate: Volumen Unum.
An Education in Physical Love: Volume One.
No author listed. But why?
Sam had studied Latin enough to translate the title—exactly what she’d come searching for.
A shiver ran through her. Was it anticipation? Trepidation? Shock?
It was certainly a tremor of eagerness, a foreboding of what was to come.
Leaving London for the wilds of Derbyshire would not be as dreadfully dull as she’d suspected. She could barely still her hand long enough to hurry back and replace the portraits. She itched to turn another page—and begin her education in matters of the flesh. Jude would be well versed within a matter of days. Garrett was a man, and had therefore likely partaken of the nude female form on far more occasions than Sam was willing to ponder. And Marce—their eldest sister, she was cultured in the art; the way her hips moved, her knowing smile, and the way she turned her neck at just the right angle to afford the best view. All things Sam had witnessed during their outings in London. Her sister was aware of the pleasure a man could give to a woman, she was certain of it.
That left only Sam and Payton—who, at seventeen and unmarried, should be too young to know or even suspect what happened between a man and woman within their marriage chambers. She could not push from her mind all
she’d learned about her youngest sibling—namely her tendency for games of chance and the mounting debt Marce had been required to settle on her behalf. Could the young woman—truly past the age of being merely a girl—know more than Sam?
Sam moved back into the shadows and replaced the portraits—curbing her need to open the book to the first image.
Everything as it should be, she paused once more and listened for any movement in the hall outside the study. Nothing. Silence. Deep, resounding quiet.
A few more moments would not hurt, especially if the entire household had retired for the evening—it was more likely she’d encounter another guest on the floor above as she navigated the endless corridors back to her room. But once inside, she’d be free to examine the book at great length for, unlike Craven House, Sam had been given her own bedchambers.
She sat on the edge of the chair closest to the hearth, affording her enough light to inspect the volume. It was almost weightless in her hands—an object so small could not possibly hold an education so vast.
Her hand shook as she ran her finger over the title, stitched into the soft leather by hand.
Sam wet her lips as one foot tapped the floor in anticipation.
She would not wait until she reached her chambers to explore the treasures within, she could not. Every inch of her trembled as she flipped the book open to the first drawing—and her mouth fell open.
The image should be terrifying to an innocent woman with no intimate knowledge of the nude male form. The glaring picture staring back at her was…it was…shocking, to say the least.
The male sex organ was certainly not compatible with her own passageway.
Certainly, this could not be drawn to size—the organ extended from the man’s nether region, standing proud. Erect. Was that the term?
Fully engorged. It was a drawing; however, the member appeared to throb on the page.
A sheen of moisture broke out across her forehead and on the back of her neck.
Sam glanced toward the door, fearing someone had entered with her unaware.
No one had invaded her privacy, so Sam turned back to the page before her. The man’s face was etched with ecstasy, his head thrown back, and his eyes clenched shut. Even his hands were in tight fists, and his mouth set in a compressed line. Had the illustrator enlisted the aid of a true naked male?
At the thought, a spark of damp heat settled between her legs as if her body knew exactly how his member would fit within her. Sam was not ignorant of the fundamentals of animal reproduction—they’d once had several horses in their stables.
She set her finger upon the photo of the man, tracing his exquisite form from head to toe. It was inconceivable that every nude male was as impressive as the illustrator had made this one. Closing her eyes, Sam conjured up her own image—committing the drawing to memory for later pondering; however, her imagination would not allow her to disregard her new understanding so quickly.
Her eyes popped open when she realized the man had taken on a very familiar appearance in her mind’s eye, right down to a certain dimple.
Sam’s gaze skipped to the open door of the study—to see the exact face her mind had conjured without her permission.
Lord Ridgefeld—Elijah—stood silently in the doorway.
He cleared his throat and stepped over the threshold. “My apologies, Miss Samantha. My intent was not to startle you; however, I also was not in favor of interrupting your concentration.”
“My lord!” Sam glanced down at the open tome on her lap and slammed it closed with a bit more force than was proper or necessary, only causing his attention to be drawn to the book she held. “Lord Ridgefeld,” she stammered. “I was unaware anyone was still about the lower floor.”
His gaze fell to the book she attempted to hide within her skirts as her face blossomed with heat to match that between her thighs.
Chapter 4
Elijah had escaped her notice for several moments, affording him the luxury of taking in her appearance without giving her the same opportunity. His grandfather had always stood by his claim that a true person could only be witnessed when they weren’t aware they were being watched. That was certainly true of Miss Samantha—he’d noticed her smile, but the coy upturn of her lips hadn’t only been bestowed upon him. No, her mouth had had that enthralling smile when he’d walked into the room—her eyes closed tightly. It was the reason he hadn’t announced his presence sooner.
They’d shared a secret, however brief the moment had been.
“…I was invited by Lord Cartwright to join him after I settled in.” Eli removed his stare from the book previously in her lap, which was now clenched to her chest—pushing her breasts higher. It was highly improper to notice a woman’s attributes—and utterly unsuitable to dwell on them while conversation came to a halt. “I can see he is not here, so I will bid you good evening.”
Eli nodded, forcing his gaze to her face, but it was more captivating than the sight of her bosom straining against the material of her gown. He should turn away now, flee the room and return to his chambers—or better still, depart the house altogether and allow the falling rain to chill his rising temperature.
Every instinct told him to leave—but something deep within urged him to stay.
“The men departed over an hour ago, my lord.” Sam’s breathy words made her voice raspier than normal—not that he was aware what was normal for her. “I believe if you hurry, they may be in the billiard’s room.”
He’d explored a bit of the main floor after he’d descended the stairs. There was no one about, and he’d feared he’d taken too long with his meal and assisting Mathers with his unpacking.
“I will leave you to your evening.” Elijah gave Sam a curt bow before turning to depart.
“My lord?” He halted mid-step. “You were not at dinner. Is everything as it should be?”
She’d noticed his absence? Eli wanted to close his eyes, and burn this moment into his memory—to appreciate it later. It had been years since anyone had worried thus. His grandfather had taken a parental step back after Eli left for Eton, his grandson on his way to becoming a man and not in need of a nursemaid.
It had escaped Elijah how much he missed having another person think of him, ask after his well-being, and notice when he was not about.
Eli slowly turned back toward Samantha, noting she’d slipped the book behind her and settled her hands in her lap.
“It was a long journey.” Elijah would not comment on his hesitancy to be surrounded by so many strangers—each seeking to know him and where he’d come from, the only guest unknown to everyone in residence. But that was not completely accurate. He’d made Miss Samantha’s acquaintance, however briefly. “I took my meal in my room.” He glanced to the floor in contrition—unsure why he sensed his absence had displeased her.
She’d brushed her long locks and tied them back with a green ribbon that matched the sash of her gown—and highlighted her auburn hair. The glow from the hearth behind her illuminated her long tresses. He could almost envision her in a nightshift, sitting before the warmth of a fire and reading a tale of adventure. Maybe even a story similar to the adventures his grandfather had taken him on. Would she sit, rapt, as he recounted his tales of their exploits?
“What were you reading?” He strode farther into the room, uncertain why he wished to stay and learn more of Miss Samantha. It wasn’t decent to be in a room alone—after dark—with a woman one was not wedded to; still, he could not resist the need to be close to her. “May I see it?”
She stood quickly, holding the book behind her back. “I…well…I was about to depart for my room.”
“I will not keep you, then,” he said, moving to a shelf, appearing to inspect the row of books. He hadn’t any intention of selecting one, but her interest alone was enough to have him seriously scrutinizing the titles.
“I was only seeking a book to keep me occupied while here.” She glanced over her shoulder to a corner shelf. “But
I found something interesting.”
She made to slip past him, but he spoke before she could depart. “Since you are vaguely familiar with Cummings’ study, might you offer any suggestions for a book for me?”
He would not dwell on her reasons for being in Cummings’ private study looking for a book and not the library.
She turned slowly, careful to keep her book hidden from sight. His interests were piqued. And the resulting curiosity was hard to hide.
“What type of story do you find to your liking, my lord?” Her voice trembled. “While I am not overly familiar with Lord Cummings’ collection, many are organized in a similar fashion.”
“You assume I enjoy stories of flights of fancy and tales of fiction?” He raised his brow in question, hoping she’d take to the conversation and remain. When he found the time to read for pleasure, he almost always secured a tale of exploration and adventure.
He kept his focus on the shelf closest to him, avoiding her wide-eyed stare and the corner he’d caught her inspecting moments ago.
“However, I do enjoy tales of adventurers, pirates, and even the occasional spy.” He ran his hand along the books on the shelf, spotting several authors he’d never heard of. Even with his grandfather’s impressive collection of books, there were still writers who’d escaped his notice. “Tell me, Miss Samantha, if you were to select a book—which I see you have—what would it be about?”
Eli turned to her then. Her face had turned scarlet, and her eyes did not exactly meet his, instead focusing on his shoulder.
Surely, the woman was hiding something—and he intended to find out what.
Sam tightened her hold on the book behind her back as her face flared red, no doubt. Thankfully, the flames in the hearth had diminished enough to hide her blush. Had he seen the book in her lap before she was aware of his presence?
The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis Page 4