Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  He followed the boy. “Billy, I take it?” He kept his voice quiet but adopted his haughtiest tone.

  “Aye, Billy Miller, and ye must be his lordship.”

  Dom sketched him a mocking bow, but the boy wouldn’t be intimidated.

  “I saw ye watchin’ her,” Billy spat out. “I know what ye were thinkin’.”

  “Clairvoyant, are you?” Dom drawled.

  “I may not know all yer big words,” the boy sneered, “but I do know Miss H. is not one to be trifled with. And she’s not for the likes of ye, m’lord.”

  He felt himself bristling to have his measure taken so easily by this urchin. “And who are you, to be making such pronouncements?”

  “I work for Miss H. She saved my life and now I help her with things. She’s probably the smartest lady in the world. Do you know she speaks six languages?” Billy’s voice cracked.

  “A most admirable accomplishment.”

  “Aye, but there be some things she don’t know much about, if ye take my meanin’. Miss H.’s a proper lady.”

  “I would never have presumed otherwise.” The woman exuded straitlaced propriety. As he’d noted, not at all his type.

  “Ye be presumin’, all right,” the boy said. “I could see it on yer face when ye were spyin’ on her.”

  “I was certainly not spying on Miss Higginbotham,” Dom answered hotly before remembering he was defending himself to a footboy. He took a deep breath. “I came in here to discuss a matter of business with your mistress.”

  “Then let’s keep it businesslike, shall we, m’lord? Miss H.’s got those that care to look out for her.”

  “You protect her honor, lad?” He was amazed at the boy’s gall yet found he couldn’t help but admire him.

  “If need be, aye.” Billy glared up at him, hands fisted at his sides on long, gangly arms.

  Dom supposed he should cuff the boy for his insolence but actually had to fight to keep a smile off his face. Miss Higginbotham gave the impression of being rather alone in the world, with burdens on her slim shoulders, but she clearly wasn’t without friends, at least of a sort.

  He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I respect your position.”

  The boy held his gaze for a long moment and then nodded. “As long as we understand each other.”

  Their voices must have reached Callista, for she began to stir. “Billy?”

  Upon seeing them, she gasped and sat up so quickly her book fell to the floor.

  “My lord, you startled me!” She picked up the volume and put it on the chair’s arm as she sat there, blinking and bemused. “I’m sorry, I must have dozed off.”

  He smiled and sketched her a small bow. “My apologies for waking you.” This was better, with her cheeks pink and hair loosened from her nap.

  She looked to the ornate gilt clock on the mantel. “Goodness, how long did I sleep?” The worried little frown he’d thought permanently etched on her forehead was already starting to return.

  Billy rushed to defend her. “It’s not Miss H.’s fault! No one works harder than her! She just don’t get much sleep lately, what with worryin’ about us and all.”

  “Billy!” She flushed. “His lordship does not need to hear any of this.”

  Dom turned to her young protector. “Lad, go find the footman in the hall and request coffee in the library for Miss Higginbotham and myself. And then head around back to the stables and tell them I said the carriage should be brought out front for your mistress within half an hour. You can wait there until the horses are ready.”

  The boy looked at his mistress, clearly unwilling to take orders from him.

  Dom rolled his eyes.

  “Go on, Billy, and do as Lord Rexton bids,” she said, nodding at the boy. “I’ll be fine.”

  As the lad left the room, she smoothed her hair and pushed pins firmly into the chignon. Putting your armor back in place, Dom thought. Pity.

  “I assure you this behavior is not typical for me.” She pushed to her feet. “I am usually very responsible—” She broke off as she teetered a bit and put out a hand to steady herself against the armchair. Her book fell again to the carpet with a soft thud.

  He stepped up and put a hand under her elbow. “Easy now.” She was the perfect height. And he was close enough to catch her scent: warm, female, soft. Gardenia? It filled his nose and slid down to tickle the base of his spine.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” She tried to step back but had to content herself with turning away sideways from his light grip.

  He hid a smile at her retreat. What a prickly little creature you are, Miss H.

  “And I do promise this will not happen again. I fear I am not accustomed to such a large midday meal.” She cleared her throat. “It apparently left me a bit sleepy.”

  “Ah, well”—he leaned toward her and did smile then, in his way that always had the ladies swooning—“we’ll have to ensure we starve you at noontime from now on.”

  She shot him a furtive glance from beneath that jet-black fringe of lashes. Was she checking to see if he was serious? He kicked himself again at the hint of fear in her serious gray eyes. But he registered a flicker of irritation as well that his jest fell unaccustomedly flat, as did his smile.

  “There is no need to concern yourself,” he said, trying again. “I’ve often fallen asleep with a good book after luncheon myself.” It was a lie, but he wanted that anxious look off her face, now.

  “I’m delighted you enjoy such leisure, but I do not fall asleep whilst working.” She smoothed down her skirts and squared her shoulders.

  More armor, but at least she’s looking in my general direction now. And he liked the salt back in her tone. “With a paragon such as yourself, I have no doubt.”

  She pursed her lips into a disapproving line and stepped back to bend down for the fallen book.

  He stooped to reach it first and handed it to her as they both crouched low. “I trust you won’t make a habit of dropping all my books to the floor? Hard on the bindings, you know.” Teasing her appealed as a potential pleasure, if his proper librarian wouldn’t allow him to flirt.

  “I shall contrive, my lord,” she replied dryly, “to keep them where they belong. Is it your desire that I put this one with the other blue-bound books, so they might all look lovely on your shelves?” She tossed his words from luncheon back to him. She stood, placing the book and most of a stack tottering on the floor onto the leather seat of the chair. She then picked up the remaining volumes and marched to a long central table, where she slapped them smartly on top of a pile.

  He followed, hard-pressed to keep a smile off his face. “A little testy, aren’t we, Miss Higginbotham?” Her feathers seemed delightfully easy to ruffle, and he sensed a temper beneath her mask of formal politeness that the devil in him itched to test. Unable to help himself, he strolled up behind her and murmured in her ear, “Do you have a guilty conscience, perhaps?”

  “I beg your pardon?” That got her attention, and she shot a startled glance over her shoulder at him.

  “You seem unable to look me in the eye. Are you plotting to steal my prize books, perhaps?”

  “My lord!” Outrage widened her eyes and brought them squarely to his for the first time. A shock of connection sizzled in his gut. Not gray, but moonlit ocean flecked with silver. He felt an odd sort of shift within himself, as if the woman came abruptly into sharper focus.

  “I . . . I would never—I have never stolen in my life!” she sputtered.

  The annoyance in her eyes gave way to worry, and he suddenly found it most aggravating. Did she think he would throw her out on a suspicion? He wasn’t an ogre. Although, he had to admit, that “Master of Love” drivel meant it had been ages since he’d felt honest. He’d played a part so long, some days he wasn’t sure who he was anymore. He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I was merely teasing.”

  “People lose their positions over false accusations of thievery.” The note of rebuke in her voic
e gave the impression that she was thinking of someone in particular. She squared off her book piles with ferocious energy—English scientific treatises in one stack, French poetry in another.

  “You are, of course, most correct,” he said gravely. “I do apologize for my poor taste in jest. And so why will you not look at me?”

  She paused in her stacking and half turned toward him, eyes down. “I have no desire to appear rude, Lord Rexton, but I think it best that we confine our discussion to matters pertaining directly to the library.”

  “I won’t sack you for speaking your mind, if that’s what has you worried. In fact, I far prefer honesty between us.”

  She blushed, although the look she flashed his way held nothing of maidenly coyness. “It’s rather beneath you to be fishing for compliments, isn’t it?”

  “Fishing for compliments? Whatever do you mean, Miss Higginbotham?” His lips curled in satisfaction. This was more secure territory.

  “I am sure you are not unaccustomed to women finding themselves distracted by your looks.” She resumed working her way briskly down the table—more Greek tragedies, several stacks of Latin works, and something that looked suspiciously like French erotica before she quickly hid it under an edition of Voltaire. “I simply do not wish to become sidetracked from the important matter for which I am responsible.”

  “The sight of me could sidetrack you from your work, my dear? What an intriguing idea.” He kept pace beside her down the table.

  “I didn’t say that! You do not distract me, is what I said.”

  His petty side took delight in her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, which showed he was back to annoying her. Her struggle to contain her irritation was vastly more amusing than anything he’d seen at the theater lately, and much preferable to her scared look, which only made him irate with whatever fates plagued her. “But you implied, I think you have to agree,” he practically purred, “that you could be distracted by me, if you let yourself.”

  She turned fully to face him, and he felt again the sizzle from the snapping fire in her silver-gray eyes. “I’m sure my great-aunt Mildred could find herself distracted by a man with your looks, along with every other female from your scullery maid up to Queen Victoria herself. But somehow we members of the female race must still contrive to go about our daily lives! There! Is that what you want to hear?”

  He grinned at her provocation. “Are you by any chance accusing your employer of conceit, Miss Higginbotham?”

  She drew a deep breath and went back to thumping at her book piles. “Oh no, my lord. I feel certain an ideal of male virtue such as you could never be guilty of conceit.”

  He saw with pleasure he’d been wrong. The nervous tension and vulnerability she radiated were real, but so too was the core of strength to her. She was simply too smart and too determined to let him get to her, despite the cost evident in her stiff back and tense mouth.

  He was beginning to quite like his new librarian.

  A knock at the library doors startled them both. Graves entered, bearing the coffee tray, his butler’s way of saying that if messages were to be passed about coffee and carriages, he was to be in on it.

  “Where shall I set the tray, my lord?” His deadpan expression and sepulchral tones—as a boy, Dom had called him Gravestone—communicated Graves’s displeasure over the library’s being turned so topsy-turvy.

  She hurried to make space on the table. “I’m afraid we’ll have to stand to take our coffee.” She looked around, with a small grimace, at the piles of books occupying all the chairs. “I seem to have taken over the seating.”

  “Not a problem, I assure you,” Dom said. “However, some temporary shelving and worktables to help sort the collection might be in order. Graves can see to it for tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Graves. That would be useful,” she admitted. It was not lost on Dom that she addressed his servant and quite ignored him.

  “Certainly, Miss Higginbotham. I shall make arrangements directly.” The butler bowed toward her. “The carriage is being made ready. It will await you in front when you are prepared to leave.”

  “Most efficient as always, Graves.” Dom waved him off, surprised to realize he was impatient to be alone again with his new librarian.

  The butler merely looked at him and lifted an eyebrow a fraction of an inch as he departed. Damned if Dom cared to know what that meant.

  “Shall I pour?” she asked stiffly as she stood looking down on the silver and china. He could see no more of her eyes than a half circle of dark lashes against pale cheeks.

  “Please,” he replied, suddenly wanting to watch her perform the ritual.

  She hesitated a moment, clearly still provoked, before she began to prepare their coffee. “Sugar or cream?” She bestowed on the task the same careful concentration he began to suspect she applied to all her undertakings. He accepted both—although he far preferred his coffee black—simply to prolong the pleasure of watching the delicate bones of her wrists and long fingers move over the tray.

  “You seem quite awake now, but I suspect a cup of coffee will help ensure you are fully revived from your slumbers, don’t you?” He tried out his most devastating smile as she handed him his cup. She’d have to look at him now, or risk dropping it on the rug.

  “Your solicitude is most touching.” Was he mistaken, or did the bite to her tone mask a catch in her breath as their eyes held?

  Heartened, he kept on his tack.

  “Miss Higginbotham, I’d like to apologize”—he hitched one hip on the table, pushed aside a pile of books, and moved in closer—“for my rude comments at luncheon. They were most uncalled for. I’m afraid I can be quite the idiot sometimes. Not at all the intellectual type, such as yourself.” There—flattery and a rueful grin usually did the trick; he sipped in satisfaction.

  All it got him, however, was her tighter mouth and narrowed eyes as she drank and then set down her cup. “I confess I find you rather difficult to fathom, Lord Rexton. I can’t tell if you care for these books or not. As regards myself, you’re either inappropriately flirtatious or, as you admit, unprovokedly rude. And then you offer apologies. Yet we all know viscounts don’t apologize to the help.”

  He winced as he placed his own cup on a pile of German philosophy. The coffee was ruined anyway. “I see you’re not quick to accept an apology, nor to forget an ill-considered phrase.” Time to turn the charm on full. He hadn’t spent a lifetime having the lessons of a lothario drilled into him to be defeated by the pique of an impoverished book dealer with her back up. “What if I promise to be on my best behavior from now on?” He tilted his head to the side, gave her a lopsided grin, and leaned forward to gather both her hands in his for a warm squeeze.

  A startled breath expanded the neckline of her gown most nicely. This was not a woman accustomed to being charmed. Even so, she didn’t give in easily.

  “If I may be so bold, I’m not sure that promise translates into much. I’m informed you have a rather notorious reputation.” Although her words were tart, there was a gratifying breathiness to them and she was slow to pull her hands away.

  “Reputations”—he said slowly, struggling to rein in his bitterness—“as you perhaps have cause to know, are sometimes unfairly exaggerated.” He dropped her fingertips with a last caress, feeling her chapped and roughened skin. This past winter had been hard on her, in more ways than one.

  Her brow furrowed, but before that damn compassion—or worse, pity—could come back into her smoky eyes, his demons made him drawl, “Of course, sometimes they’re quite deserved.”

  Protected again by her tightened mouth, he steered them back to safer ground. “You had some questions for me, Miss Higginbotham?” he asked innocently.

  She abruptly swept past him, back toward the open trunks. “Yes, my lord, if we’ve settled all that, there are some matters pertaining to the collection we need to discuss.”

  They hadn’t settled anything, but he rose to follow her, suppressing a smil
e. She, too, was done with personal talk, diving back into the work at hand and retreating behind the security of her own mask. It was her way of dealing with her nervousness around him, he could tell, as well as communicating her displeasure, untrustworthy scoundrel that she took him to be.

  She paced over to a work space burdened with open ledgers and sheets of paper covered in lists. “What exactly is your interest in this library?” she asked briskly.

  Back to dangerous territory. He’d told no one about his secret passion for books, although he knew Uncle George and his sister had their suspicions. Now here was his prickly chit of a librarian, just up and asking. He tried for deflection. “The Avery family has had a long history of support for scholarly endeavor, even before my father established his fame as a philosopher. Besides our ongoing patronage of the British Philosophical Society, I sponsor Trinity’s philosophy tutors, whom you met at luncheon today, and in particular Mr. Thompson. He’s a bright young man, but his parents died, leaving him impoverished and without any particular connections; I’ve been talking with the Board of Governors at Trinity and hope we can get him elected fellow and tutor there next year. Danvers pays them all a small quarterly stipend; we provide lodgings at Rexton House when they come down to London and underwrite their costs for research travel, such as attending the Edinburgh conference.”

  “All most admirable, but not quite to the point, I’m afraid,” she said, tapping one foot. “What I’m after is a better understanding of how you intend to use these books. It would help in my organization of the collection.”

  So much for deflection. “What exactly would you like to know?” he asked carefully.

  “How often do you plan to consult the books, and are there certain tomes in particular you want easily accessible? Do you enjoy reading, my lord?” Her puckered brow took on the air of real puzzlement.

  “You sound skeptical of that possibility, Miss Higginbotham.”

  “Not at all,” she said too brightly. “I would read all day if I had the leisure, but I’m an odd bird in that regard. Most noblemen maintain a library simply because it’s expected of their station. Few read much at all.”