She craned her head, admiring the library in all its glory. Though they’d taken their books when they’d moved from Scotland, her family’s collection remained meager: clearly, it took generations to build a collection like this. Wood paneled the ceiling, lending the room warmth.
The mezzanine seemed particularly tempting, and this library deserved to be seen from all angles. She ascended the narrow staircase to the mezzanine. The view met all her expectations: leather-bound tomes gleamed under the light spilling from the stained-glass windows, and their gold titles sparkled.
Margaret brushed her fingers tentatively over them. After perusing the collection, she selected three books, one for each day of her stay, and proceeded down the steps.
Three books might be an excessive number, but she wasn’t certain if she could sneak in here easily again. Her mother wouldn’t be exhausted from travel every day.
“Excuse me!” A voice startled her, and she jumped, remembering to tighten her grip around her books.
Unfortunately, she did not remember she was on a staircase, and her feet slid.
And slid.
And slid.
The world tilted, and though she’d admired the ceiling when she’d entered the library, she’d hardly required such a rapid view.
Her bottom crashed against the step, and she tumbled downward, her bottom slamming against each additional step in rapid motion.
Finally, her descent ended, and she stared at the ceiling.
It was coffered and sensational, just like everything else.
She felt exceptionally out of place.
Her sentiment was not eased by the sound of footsteps padding toward her at a quick speed.
“Miss? Miss?” a male voice asked.
Margaret sighed and braced herself for inspection by some passing footman, but when she lifted her head, she didn’t see a man in uniform. She saw a man who could not be much older than herself in a tweed coat. Leather pads covered his elbows, and he raised his eye monocle.
“Heavens,” the man said, and she noted approvingly the selection of a mild exclamation. “Are you quite well? That was a tumble.”
“Er—yes.” Margaret’s face heated.
“Let me—er—help you.” The man extended his hand, and she gripped cold skin.
She scrambled up quickly, managing to not drop the books.
“I’m afraid I startled you,” the man apologized.
“No, no.” She shook her head politely. “I shouldn’t have been startled. This is a library after all. It is bound to have people.”
Now that she was standing, she could properly scrutinize him.
“I am Mr. Octavius Owens. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“I am Miss Margaret Carberry.”
“Ah.” The man’s face did not flicker at recognition at her surname, but he dipped into a polite bow, flashing rounded cheeks and a fringe that seemed too long for his forehead. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced at her books. “You read.”
“Indeed.”
“A sensible occupation in a young woman like yourself. Though might I suggest you read some botany books?”
“You are fond of the subject?”
“Most. Learning about the natural world is important. After all, it is the world we live in.”
She nodded politely.
“Gulliver’s Travels is a work of fantasy. One might worry that a young lady like yourself might confuse it with reality. I am afraid these authors are most mischievous.”
“Mr. Owens, I am not under the impression that giants and flying islands exist.”
He lifted his brows. “It is not your first encounter with Swift?”
“Indeed not. Reading is one of my favorite occupations.”
“Ah. Most remarkable.” Mr. Owens gave her an approving smile and adjusted his eye monocle.
She beamed. She’d made this grumpy man smile.
Unlike the assortment of strapping dukes in the drawing room, this man was not intimidating. His height could not be likened to towers and mountains. In fact, his height mirrored hers. His cravat was tied simply, without the flourish of a man who’d delegated the task to his valet.
“What brings you to this manor house, Miss Carberry?” Mr. Owens asked.
“I am visiting the Duke of Jevington with my parents.”
“Ah. Then you are not related to a duke.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Few people are I suppose.”
“And what brings you here?” Margaret asked, remembering it was polite to carry a conversation, always pressing for new things.
“Ah.” The man beamed. “I am here with the Duke of Ainsworth. I work with him on scientific research. It’s all quite important.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “You mean you’re a scientist?”
He gave a lackadaisical shrug. “I’m doing my bit to advance knowledge.”
“How lovely,” Margaret said, still scrutinizing whether the man’s chest had been smaller before. He certainly hadn’t been grinning to quite that extent, though she supposed she was unfamiliar with the magnitude of the man’s accomplishments.
This man also adored books. After all, he’d found her in a library. Moreover, he’d dedicated his life to science.
Men had so many options in their lives, and yet he’d chosen a life of the mind. A life of the scientific mind.
She tilted her head. “Would you like to accompany me to the coast?”
Her heartbeat quickened, but it was too late to take the words back now.
“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “You require an escort.” He glanced at the clock. “I hadn’t anticipated that question.”
“Well, we’ve just met.” Her cheeks warmed. “It was just a thought.”
“A not entirely appropriate one.” He scrutinized her.
“Perhaps not,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks warm.
“But you do have a Scottish accent,” he said in an understanding tone.
She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.
“What does my accent have to do with it?” she asked finally.
“Ah, young lady. Everyone in England knows you Scots are all quite wild.”
She drew back.
He gave a lackadaisical shrug. “But you can’t help it. It’s in your nature.”
Her breath vanished.
“You mustn’t worry about it,” he said in an unctuous voice. “I can accompany you, if you would like.”
“I-I think I’ll go on my own,” she squeaked.
He nodded gravely, clasping his eye monocle. “I look forward to seeing you again. You bring much amusement.”
Well.
That was almost a compliment.
She nodded farewell rapidly and sped from the library, then hesitated.
Perhaps the man hadn’t said precisely the correct thing, but wasn’t everyone always saying she was saying the wrong thing? Had she unwittingly insulted people here when she’d first arrived in London?
She chewed on her bottom lip.
Perhaps.
She couldn’t be certain she had not done so.
At any rate, he was a scientist and he was a far more appropriate match than anyone else at the castle. Unlike the Duke of Jevington, who had seemed cold when she’d last seen him, as if forcing himself to be unfriendly, even though unfriendliness was not a trait he commonly practiced, this man had made continuous eye contact.
Besides, Margaret tended to be proper herself. A man who was also proper, who was perhaps even more proper, could hardly be undesirable.
She rounded the corner, traversed the foyer and exited the castle, still musing on this fact.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JASPER FOUND HIS FRIENDS and strode toward them. He pulled his hat down to shield himself from the sunbeams that danced about him. This was the best sort of day in England.
It was almost magical.
“When are the other guests arriving?” Brightling asked.
“Oh, they’ve all arrived,” Jasper said easily.
Brightling’s eyebrows rose sharply.
“Do you find something surprising?” Jasper asked.
“I merely expected more guests,” Brightling said.
“I’ve selected the very best ones,” Jasper said.
Brightling nodded, no doubt conscious of the compliment. “You’ve never invited the Carberrys here before.”
“Hence the urgency with which to schedule a gathering,” Jasper said.
“Er—yes.”
Brightling, despite his considerable capabilities in botany, had not developed an equal expertise in all subjects. Jasper was certain the man had not even hosted a party before. Miss Carberry’s distaste for such events was no doubt something with which Brightling and she might exclaim over, in the peculiar mating ritual in which couples determined the most trivial similarities and exclaimed over them with an excitement best suited for other occasions.
In Jasper’s opinion, a shared love for chocolate and croquembouches hardly sufficed in creating a happy marriage. Since Jasper did not suffer from shyness, he’d immersed himself in balls and house parties when not fulfilling his parliamentary and estate overseeing duties. He was accustomed to seeing hopeful expressions of debutantes transform to pride as they secured marriages, then transform to a less heartwarming sourness as they resigned themselves to unhappiness. Though everyone was eager to encourage people to marry, they were less prone to encourage appropriate diligence.
Brightling’s lips veered into an uncharacteristic downward position.
“You’re frowning,” Jasper said.
“I had a thought,” Brightling said.
“I can see why you’re so reluctant to think, given your reaction,” Ainsworth said, and the others chuckled.
Brightling pouted. “I merely thought Jasper might have invited Miss Carberry in the hopes of marrying her off to one of us.”
Though Jasper believed in the virtues of veracity and had never considered himself a truth evader before, he hesitated to confirm Brightling’s suspicions.
Ainsworth laughed. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard all day. And I spent the morning peer reviewing scientific articles.” He shook his head, with the air of a man whose day had overflowed with ridiculousness, and yet had still not been sufficiently prepared for more.
“There’s nothing to laugh about,” Jasper said shortly.
“But Jasper...” Ainsworth protested. “Surely I needn’t explain the inappropriateness of a match with her? And the hilarity of you, head rogue among rogues, to take on matchmaking duties with the zeal of a matchmaking mama... Why, it would be incredible. Utterly impossible.”
“Any of you would be lucky to wed Miss Carberry.” Jasper’s face heated, and he rounded his hands into fists. “She is a woman of the utmost integrity.”
Love was unlikely to come to these stalwart friends of his if they felt it planned. These men considered themselves leaders, as any man might do who regularly met with royals, and who commanded ducal estates. These men were wary of the prospect of manipulation. Despite their obvious respect for Jasper, a man was unlikely to leave his marital happiness to a man he’d first met clothed in a skeleton suit and carrying a hobbyhorse.
No, this was not the time for Jasper to confess everything. Even the most cursory supposition indicated that any confession would lead to mockery. Though Jasper would not mind being called Cupid, even if the word were accompanied by chuckles that would not serve to get anyone married.
And Miss Carberry needed to marry.
He’d promised her.
“Naturally I do not harbor any desires to be confused with an arrow-wielding baby,” Jasper said stiffly. “Even if we do share similarly cherubic curls. I have no desire to marry off Miss Carberry.”
“Of course.” Ainsworth shot an irritated glance at Brightling. “It is obvious that was an absurd suggestion.”
“A man might be fortunate to marry Miss Carberry,” Jasper said staunchly, “but the process of marrying her off is a task for her parents.”
Brightling gritted his teeth, and Jasper decided to halt his protestations. No need for the other dukes to mock Brightling. After all, Brightling’s intuitive prowess had been correct.
Jasper cleared his throat. “I simply invited her because I found her intriguing. And I—er—wanted to learn about Mr. Carberry’s business.”
“You find trade intriguing?” Ainsworth asked.
“I find everything intriguing,” Jasper said. “Now, who wants to play tennis?”
The others nodded, and Jasper beamed. None of his friends could best him in that sport. A man is bound to be wounded after being beaten while playing tennis, and in that state, a man is certain to take interest in a lovely, concerned female.
Jasper wouldn’t need to tell Miss Carberry to be concerned: she would be, naturally. Miss Carberry had the air of a woman who wouldn’t be disappointed in a man by his inability to strike a tennis ball with consistency.
Indeed, her presence could be described as soothing.
Jasper’s heart soared, no doubt buoyed by renewed thought of his continued singledom. Obviously, his spirits were not lifted by the sheer thought of Miss Carberry. That would be ridiculous, and Jasper was not fond of the ridiculous.
When he’d spent a house party with her, he hadn’t, in truth, paid much attention to her. But he’d certainly noticed she was no creator of negative attention. She did not mock others, and when her mother had tied her to his bed, she’d not sought to take advantage of the situation and trap him into marriage. On the contrary, she’d risked her life.
His friends could do much worse than Miss Carberry.
After he changed into his sport gear, he strode toward the tennis court. Birds chirped pleasingly, butterflies danced, and even slugs slid over the ground, attempting long journeys across the grass, undaunted by their limited exterior protection.
When he joined his friends, inhaling the scent of roses that wafted through the air, his thoughts did not drift far from contemplation of Miss Carberry. He remembered the brave manner in which she’d visited him so she could merely suggest they dance together, when the next season began. He remembered her kindness to her grandmother and dog. He also remembered something else, something he’d attempted to forget.
He remembered discovering her on his bed, and the manner in which her alabaster skin had glowed underneath the candlelight. He remembered the curve of her collar bone. He also remembered the manner in which her dress had been torn, revealing scandalously bare skin. And he remembered a deliciously curved body.
He craved to touch her, to trace the curve of her bosom, the curve of her hips with his fingers, with his lips.
His heart thudded, and he blinked into the sunlight, attempting to banish the sudden thought away.
A flash of dark hair shot in the distance before him, accompanied by a sliver of navy.
Miss Carberry had been wearing a navy dress. It had been the practical sort suited for travel that women embraced.
He scrunched his forehead.
No doubt he’d made a mistake. Miss Carberry was going to visit the library, not run about his estate. Miss Carberry seemed an unlikely candidate to be overtaken by athletic impulses. He’d had the impression she was more sensible.
After all, she was quiet.
Perhaps he’d simply conjured her in his mind. He wasn’t in the habit of imagining people, and he would have suspected he’d be more likely to begin envisioning things in his mind by starting with something less complex: a lake, for instance.
Laughter sounded at some comment one of his friends had said.
He should be chatting with his friends, and not musing about Miss Margaret Carberry. After all, he was simply trying to find a husband for her: not fill his mind with thoughts of her. It was a simple ta
sk, one enjoyed by generations of matchmaking mamas, and one which Jasper intended to master.
And yet...
Miss Carberry had gazed toward the ocean. And she had seemed knowledgeable about this region. Was it possible she’d gone to the coast to hunt for fossils herself?
He frowned.
He hadn’t thought she’d abandon the comforts of the library. If she wanted to explore the coast on her own, she could do so. This was hardly Seven Dials, and he trusted her not to get swept into the ocean.
Still, his stomach tightened as it always did when considering bodies of water. Jasper may have visited the continent on multiple occasions, but he never enjoyed the sea crossing. Imagining other people doing the crossing was worse.
“Coming?” Brightling tossed the ball in the air. “Time to play!”
Jasper stared at the ball.
Normally he didn’t require any enticement to play.
And yet, even under this delightful sunshine, even with his dear friends, playing didn’t seem sufficiently appealing. His mind lingered on Miss Carberry. What was she doing now? Was she wandering over the sand? Scurrying from cave to cave? Basking in sunbeams? Had she removed her shoes and was strolling through the water? He imagined her raising her dress, so her ankles were visible. He imagined water rushing over them, lapping against her body.
The air suddenly seemed devoid of moisture.
Perhaps, since she was new, the gentlemanly thing to do would simply be to show her around. Orient her.
She probably could find the ocean easily enough. The sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore was the type of thing one was bound to notice. But she was still his guest, and perhaps he could point out other things.
He found himself nodding, and Brightling shot him a curious look.
“Are you quite fine?” Brightling furrowed his brow.
“Er—yes,” Jasper said hoarsely. “All’s well with me. I just realize I have something else to do.”
Brightling raised his eyebrows.
“So, I’m just going to go,” Jasper blurted, before Brightling asked more questions.
“But what about the game?”
All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1) Page 10