“I never meant to show anyone my library, so, no, I am not so lowly a creature as that. However, I haven’t laid eyes on my books in well over three years, and I couldn’t begin to tell you what I might have thought worth perusing at that time. Essays on irrigation methods? Travel journals? French poetry? I imagine there’s a few of everything upon those shelves.”
She hesitated, clearly tempted. “I recognize this as a blatant attempt to avoid other outlets for amusement.”
“And yet you cannot resist.” He turned her toward the door and offered his arm once more. “What if the snow should melt by noontime? You might never get another chance to discover the hidden secrets of a captain’s library.”
She slapped her hand onto the crook of his arm in resignation. “You don’t fight fair.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he said quietly. He hoped she never would.
She released his arm when they reached the library and preceded him into the room. He followed close behind. As soon as he entered, she pulled the door closed behind them.
He arched a sardonic brow. “Was the empty cottage not private enough, madam?”
She arched a brow right back. “Have you met my cat?”
His gaze jerked to his shelves in horror. It was one thing for his books to be dusty… and quite another for them to be a pulpy, fur-sodden mess.
Fortunately, all seemed to be in order. Perhaps too much in order. All the titles were upright and even, with nary a cobweb to be found.
Curse his competent staff.
Miss Downing began a slow examination of the room. Xavier lit a small fire with his flint and then settled onto the chaise longue to watch.
She wasn’t just beautiful. Everything about her was bewitching and larger than life. Her huge brown eyes. Her mane of wild, curly hair. Her pouty lips and curvaceous figure. Her literate, clever mind. The sheer force of her will. Her single-minded intensity. How seductively she walked. How sweetly she kissed.
He gritted his teeth. This was Operation Platonic Friendship. He was not to think about the taste of her mouth or the sway of her hips.
They needed to spend the entirety of the day discussing Wordsworth and Voltaire. Or rather, something less… provocative. He didn’t want to make a good impression. Perhaps he ought to engage her in a lively debate on whether library books were best catalogued by size or color.
“What do you think of my collection?” he found himself asking instead.
“Well…” She poked her head from around a corner. “The topics are varied enough, but at least half have never been read. The pages aren’t even sliced.”
“You can do the honors, if you’ve found something you’d like to read.” He adjusted a small pillow and stretched out upon the chaise longue. He didn’t much care who sliced the pages, but if offering her the privilege made him seem like a good friend, he’d be happy to lend his knife.
Eyes sparkling, she bounced in place. “I can read anything that I want?”
“As long as it isn’t…” He hesitated. What had she mentioned earlier? Sugar? Shogun? “…shunga scrolls.”
The corners of her mouth quirked. “Nobody reads shunga scrolls. They just look at the pictures.”
He cut her a flat look.
She gave an innocent flutter of eyelashes and selected a book from the shelves. “Lie back down. I’ll read something to you. How about the Odyssey in original Greek?”
He couldn’t even remember purchasing it. “Do you mind if I snore?”
“I hope you do. But I’ll translate aloud in case you manage to stay awake.” Rather than take another chair, she perched at the foot of the chaise longue with her back toward him. “Ahem. Page the first. ‘Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero…’”
There. Xavier relaxed his head against the cushion. Nothing could be more respectable.
Or less stimulating. He hadn’t actually intended to snore, but neither had he anticipated the level of mortal dullness in which Miss Downing read aloud. She could not have infused less life into her tone had she merely been counting sheep.
He might have told her not to bother translating since it wasn’t doing either of them any favors, except he saw no advantage to being rude. His goal was to be perceived as a friend, not the enemy. Enemies could incite passion.
Miss Downing’s monotone could only incite slumber.
After a while, he let his eyelids drift closed. It had been a long, cold night filled with nothing but vivid waking dreams. He had been exhausted from the moment he rolled out of bed. Her tone was pacifying in its relentless uniformity, the words forgettable and relaxing.
He almost didn’t notice when she skipped from Calypso to Circe in the space of a breath. Her low words droned on without hitch. His eyes flew open. How could she have turned thirty pages at once without noticing? How could she have skipped the Trojan horse without noticing?
Sleep forgotten, he propped himself up on one elbow to glance over her shoulder at the text.
And roared. “What the devil are you reading, woman?”
She jumped, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink. “You said I might read whatever I wished.”
“You said you were reading the Odyssey!”
“I said I would read you the Odyssey.” She motioned him back to his pillow. “I’m reading something else.”
“That’s not ‘something else.’” Heart galloping, he reached for the book.
She held it aloft with her other hand. “You can’t have it. I’m right in the middle.”
“Absolutely not,” he ground out. “That’s The Memoirs of Fanny Hill, and it’s not fit for human eyes.”
Her brows arched. “Then why do you have it?”
“Because I’m inhuman! Give me the damn book or I’ll—”
“Oh, lie back down. You were almost asleep. I’ve already read most of what you’re afraid of, so there’s not much harm in reading the rest.”
He collapsed back against the chaise and covered his face with his hands. No wonder the woman’s storytelling abilities had been execrable. She’d been quoting from memory whilst reading an entirely different story. One in which an innocent country miss was procured by a bawdyhouse madam and then descended into a life of erotic abandon.
“What part are you at now?” he rasped, his throat dry.
“Mmm. Fanny is peering through closet curtains at the proprietress’s boudoir. This is after she spent the night in the same bed as Phoebe. How that girl failed to guess Phoebe’s trade as a whore after the woman kissed her and stroked her and brought her almost to the edge of relief is completely beyond all credulity.”
Xavier kept his hands over his eyes and groaned. He, too, could recite a few literary passages from memory. Not one of them was appropriate for platonic friendships.
“I’m now at the part where Fanny espies an erect male member for the very first time.” Miss Downing’s voice turned conspiratorial. “I can certainly understand her excitement and curiosity, as I haven’t had the pleasure myself.”
Lord save him. He moaned into his hands. Things had somehow got even worse. His mission hadn’t failed after all. Instead, he had accidentally become the-friend-to-which-she-shared-all-erotic-secrets. Platonic was worse than lovers. Platonic was hell.
“Here, I’ll read the next part. See if you remember it.” The chaise creaked as she straightened her spine and took a deep breath. This time, her voice was low and throaty, as rich and seductive as wine.
“‘The madam’s sturdy stallion had now unbuttoned, and produced naked, stiff and erect, that wonderful machine, which I had never seen before, and which, for the interest my own seat of pleasure began to take furiously in it, I stared at with all the eyes I had…’”
He sprang upright, snatched the novel from her fingers, and hurled it across the room.
His bluestocking glared at him in high fury. “Must you be so vexing, Captain Crotchety? I was just getting to the good part.”
“You want to know the good parts?�
�� he exploded. “Fanny watches them rut, is aroused, brings herself to pleasure, spies on yet another trysting couple, becomes overset with lust, and throws herself at the first lone male she comes across. There. It’s spoiled. There’s no point in reading it.” He leaped to his feet and yanked her to hers. “No more library. I might have a chess set somewhere. We’re going to play a nice respectable game of chess even if we’re missing a few pieces. I’ll whittle new ones if I have to.”
“You don’t have to be so disagreeable,” she muttered, shaking her arm free from his grip.
Oh, yes, he did. It was either disagreeable or naked, and he was perilously close to choosing the latter.
He locked the library door securely behind them and turned his back on the maddening, stimulating, delectable Miss Downing. His blood raced just from looking at her. He wasn’t abstaining from seduction for his sake, but for hers.
It was the only thread of decency he had left.
Chapter 11
Xavier managed to avoid all conversation with Miss Downing until late that afternoon when his stomach growled its displeasure. If he was hungry, she must be hungry. And the snow had yet to cease.
He sighed. They would have to share another meal. Anything else would be impractical. He might as well start cooking.
It was bad enough that his army-honed culinary skills were better suited for a dungeon. Now they’d have to nibble sliced cheese and roasted vegetables while phrases like stiff and erect and she pleasured herself still hung between them.
He ran a hand over his face. He’d thought that his primary attraction to the unstoppable Miss Downing was the very fact of her untouched innocence. Of her managing to be something good and true and pure in a world of war and deception and hate.
Over and over, she’d proven him wrong. Yes, she was both a virgin and good-natured, as expected. She was also clever, confident, and unapologetically sensual. In other words… the perfect woman. For someone else. He swallowed hard.
If only he could stop wanting her so bloody much.
He attacked the cheese with a knife as the vegetables roasted over a fire. Supper wouldn’t be much, but it would be edible.
Three years of hell had taught Xavier never to rely on anyone else’s assistance. Even without his cook present, Xavier’s larder was stocked with enough provisions to keep a non-finicky bachelor fed through springtime. Including a hidden stash of the sweets he’d missed so much while he’d been away.
A young lady like Miss Downing, however, would keep to a higher standard. The back of his neck heated as he realized she might be disappointed in his meager offerings. She must be used to more. Deserved more. But until the snow stopped falling, all she got was him.
To her credit, she voiced no complaints. They even made it through most of the meal without a single mention of inappropriate topics. But as his sultry houseguest popped the last of the after-dinner sweetmeats into her mouth, she fixed her gaze on his with a slow smile.
For the first time in his life, he wished he were a candied pear.
She licked her lips and reached for her glass of wine. “Is the library still restricted?”
“Absolutely.” Every single part of him was feeling restricted, just from watching her tongue moisten those plump red lips. He ground his teeth. Perhaps he ought to open the library back up and lock her inside until morning. “Also forbidden are bed play, strong spirits, cheroots, gambling, and eighteenth-century erotica.”
“Everything fun, you mean.” She gave him a teasing pout.
He willed his body not to respond.
“If we’re to entertain ourselves without any physical activities,” she continued, “then we’ll have to make do with conversation. Since we’re snowbound at the moment, surely you cannot object to getting to know each other a little better over another glass of wine?”
God’s teeth. “One glass was enough.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “A cup of milk, then. We can even sit on opposite sides of the parlor.”
“Fine.” Milk sounded good. Milk sounded innocent. “Go sit. I’ll join you as soon as I clear the table.”
“I can help with the—”
“Go pick your side of the parlor.”
She laughed under her breath, but she rose to her feet with good grace and sashayed away.
He gathered the dishes and deposited them in a bucket of clean water in the kitchen. The current supply of fresh water would barely cover scullery duties and separate baths for him and the lady. The next time he took the cat out for a walk, he’d have to remember to bring in more snow.
Good. He could use a nice long tromp outside in the cold to help him forget about the nice warm woman he’d left inside.
She was seated in one of two wingback chairs when he entered the parlor. Both chairs were positioned at complementary angles such that they somewhat faced the fire, and somewhat faced each other—without either occupant being forced to stare in either direction. Not precisely opposite sides of the parlor, but at least they wouldn’t be sharing the sofa.
“So.” He dropped onto the unoccupied chair and stretched out his feet. “Sagittarius?”
Her mouth fell open. “You cannot possibly follow astrology.”
“I cannot possibly,” he agreed. At least they wouldn’t be discussing the stars. “Have you a better jumping off point for making light conversation under awkward conditions?”
“I do.” The sugary sweetness in her tone raised the hair on the back of his neck. She tapped the tips of her fingers together and smiled. “I thought we might play Boon or Bare.”
His muscles tensed. “Boon or what?”
Her brown eyes laughed at him from beneath their curled lashes. “I presume you’ve never been a twelve-year-old girl?”
He arched his brows at her in silence.
She winked back. “It’s a game of twenty questions, goose. To which you bare your soul, not your derrière, in case that’s what has you all bothered. Should you choose to not answer a question, you owe the asker the boon of their choice.” She relaxed against her chair, her gaze sparkling with challenge. “I cannot credit that a big strong captain would be afraid of a game little girls play when they spend the night with their cousins.”
Famous. He glared at her sourly. He could see where this was going.
If she earned a boon, she was going to ask for another kiss... or she’d head straight for the fireworks. But since the only other activities in his snowbound bachelor home were worse than this silly game, he was out of better options for entertainment.
He rolled the kinks out of his shoulders. Exhausted as he was, he would have to stay en garde. He wanted to keep her out of trouble. She wanted a glimpse inside his brain. Or his breeches. He shifted his weight as a shiver slid down his back. The easiest way to avoid owing boons would be to just answer her questions.
Somehow, that was more frightening.
“Five,” he bit out. “You get five questions, not twenty.”
“We get five questions,” she corrected. Victory lit her from within, making her even more beautiful. “Do you wish to start, or shall I?”
Perhaps he should’ve allowed twenty. The longer he could string out idle conversation, the less trouble they’d get into. He waved his fingers with as much careless disdain as he could muster. “Ladies first.”
As she leaned forward, her eyes turned serious. “If we’re both attracted to each other, why do you refuse to act on it?” Her pulse fluttered at her throat. “I’m not looking for forever. Just lovemaking. No one will even know.”
“Because you should be looking for forever.” He ran jerky fingers through his hair. So much for idle conversation. One question was too many. Well, if she wasn’t going to let the topic drop, the best thing to do was tell the truth. Perhaps that would shake some sense into her. “It’s never ‘just lovemaking.’ When you do choose a man, your relationship should be something you’re both proud of. Seek commitment, not secrecy. Promise me you’ll never se
ttle for someone unwilling to proclaim his love for you from every rooftop in London.”
She frowned. “But I’m not looking for love.”
“Aren’t you?”
Her mouth tightened. “Is that your first question?”
He lifted his brows. “It’s one you should be asking yourself.”
She stabbed a finger in his direction. “You haven’t answered mine. You’ve informed me why I shouldn’t have my viewpoint, but what I asked for is yours.”
His muscles tightened. He hated this game already. If it had ever been just a game. He drummed his fingers on his armrests. Now that he’d agreed to play, he intended to keep his word. Even if he’d rather take her cat for long walks in the snow than struggle to put feelings into words.
“Separating what I should do from what you should do isn’t as simple as you seem to think,” he said at last. “You are a marriageable young lady. You are still a virgin. You are good at heart. By taking your innocence, I would rob you of the opportunity to find someone who is worthy of you.”
She leaned forward. “But I—”
“You asked what I thought.” He took a deep breath and let the words come as they may. This was the time for truth, not eloquence. “Your maidenhead isn’t something you can get back once you’ve lost it. No matter what terms you think you’re offering, accepting those terms would be taking advantage of your innocence. I won’t rob you of your future. I ruined more than enough lives in Belgium. Don’t ask me to be a monster in the sanctuary of my own home.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she made no further interruption.
Not that it mattered. He was done talking. Every word he’d spoken was true. There was nothing left to say.
She lowered her eyes and lifted her fingers in his direction. “Your question, Captain.”
There was only one worth asking. His hands curled into fists. “Your brother is a shite guardian. How the devil did you get here without anyone noticing?”
A flush crept over her cheeks. She didn’t like the question? Good. He hoped she regretted tricking him into this farce. If he had to answer questions, so did she.
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 135