by Charlie Lane
“For the past few months, I’ve noticed odd happenings. More to the point, odd literary happenings.” She peered intently into his face.
Odd literary happenings. He gripped the book tightly behind his back. She knew, then. But how much did she know? “The literary set is often odd,” he replied.
She tapped her foot on the floor. “Hm. Not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean, Miss Shropshire?”
“I mean a book fairy has been at work in my house.”
“A book fairy?” He spat the words. He wasn’t a book fairy!
“Oh, yes. Someone has been leaving novels about. Did you ever read the story of the elves and the shoemaker?”
Carson’s eyebrows rose slowly. Had the Grimm’s Household Tales been translated into English? “How much German do you read?”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “Enough.”
He nodded once, impressed.
“It’s a bit like the story about the elves. I’m forced to go to these deadly dull luncheons, but after,” she stepped closer to him, lowering her voice, “there’s a book where there wasn’t one before.”
He shrugged. “It sounds like you’re misplacing your reading material.”
“No. These are not just any books. They are forbidden books; books deemed unfit by my mother and thus by your mother as well.”
“What does my mother have to do with it?”
“You tell me, book fairy.”
“I am not a book fairy!”
“Then why are you leaving novels lying about my house?”
“I’m not!” He was, but he couldn’t admit it now. She thought him a tiny winged creature, an elf, for goodness’ sake. He’d not concocted this plan to be viewed as an elf.
She stepped closer, then closer still, and the warmth of her body stole his breath and clouded his brain. The light in her eyes challenged him. Her arms snaked around him. Thank God, the wait was over. He would hold her now, drop his lips to hers, and—
The book he held behind his back was yanked from his hand, and Allison danced backward, brandishing it before her like a trophy.
“Hey!” Carson objected. He didn’t lunge after the book though. He had his dignity, and it had already been tarnished enough today, thank you very much.
Allison held the book aloft in a victorious posture. “And just what is this, my lord?”
Carson crossed his arms over his chest. “The Mysteries of Udolpho.”
She pulled the book back down to eye level, gazing at the title on the cover. “Oh! It is The Mysteries of Udolpho! I’ve wanted to read this for ages!”
“I know.” No one else at the luncheons seemed to pay Allison a blink of attention, but he saw nothing and no one but her, heard only her voice. And she did an awful lot of talking during the lunches, breathy, pithy asides she thought no one noticed. And no one else did seem to hear them. Carson heard, though. He’d learned more about her from her mumblings than she probably wanted anyone to know about her. “I know you.”
Allison’s attention shot back to him, her eyebrows raised high. She looked surprised. No, skeptical. Quite frankly, she looked like she wanted to hurl the book at his head. Instead, she dropped it like a hot stone onto the pink couch, allowing herself a second more to gaze at it longingly.
“Go ahead, take it. Read it,” Carson encouraged. The ruse was up. She knew. He no longer needed to pretend. “It’s for you, after all.”
She marched right up to him and poked her finger into his chest. “I know who it’s for, Lord Secrets. But you do not know me!”
“Don’t I?”
Poke. “No!”
The angry glint in her eye energized him. He’d waited weeks to boldly challenge her, to candidly speak with her. A thrill ran through him. “Don’t I?” he repeated.
She stepped back, blinking. “What do you think you know?”
Everything. But she didn’t need to know that. He shrugged. “You’re a defender of the downtrodden.”
“Excuse me?”
“You came to Miss March’s rescue today and Miss Alexander’s last week when Lady Ann insulted her bonnet. The week before, you spoke up in defense of the Cavendish sisters.”
“They are particular friends. And lovelier than their reputations allow.”
“I know that, too. You mumble about them quite a bit.” He’d thought her mumbling odd at first, then endearing. And informational.
Allison frowned. “I don’t mumble!”
“You do. Except when you’re defending the downtrodden. Then, you bellow.”
“I don’t!”
He grinned. “Here’s another thing I know about you. You like to read.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“No, they don’t. Your mother would have a fit if everyone knew it.”
“Oh, you’re one to talk about mothers throwing fits! What would your mother do if she found out you were secretly providing me with illicit reading material?”
He’d considered the question quite often in the last month. Unequivocally, his mother would not approve. But it didn’t matter because she would never know. He’d kept most of his other activities secret from her; this one would remain secret, too.
Allison poked him again. “Why are you secretly providing me with illicit reading material?”
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and searched the room for an answer behind a clock or mirror. Nothing. Damn. “I wasn’t prepared to have this conversation yet.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed. The conversation deteriorated, not that it had started in the best of states. Time for the truth. “I planned to wait a few more months. Then start a casual conversation about, say, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner when our mothers were out of the room. Later, I’d planned on telling you about the books, definitely before we married.”
Allison took a hurried step away from him and stumbled. Carson reached out to steady her, but she pulled away. “M-married?” She clutched the couch for balance.
He had shocked her, but he couldn’t back down now. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I would really like to marry you, Miss Shropshire. I know this is unexpected, but I didn’t anticipate you finding me out. Certainly not today, anyway. I thought I’d have a few more weeks or months before I made my next move. But now you’ve found out, so I may as well let you know I have intentions toward you. Honorable ones, of course.”
Allison made a fist with the hand not gripping the couch and set it against her temple, closing her eyes. “Are you saying this whole book fairy—”
“Not a book fairy.”
She waved away his objection. “Are you saying this whole thing is an attempt at courtship?”
“Yes.”
“Courtship!” she barked. “You’re mad.”
Yes, he began to understand. His previous itch to take her in an embrace had not lessened. His always-present desire to kiss her had not dissolved, but he had learned a truth. Miss Allison Shropshire did not welcome his courtship, no matter how many books he’d tempted her with. He scratched behind his neck. “Not mad. Just, maybe, not very good at this.”
“Ha! That goes without saying.”
“So, you’ll not marry me?”
“Yes! I mean, no! I mean, I will not marry you, Lord Trevor!”
He burned with shame and something darker. His pulse beat at his wrists, and his fingers itched to find more physical means of persuasion. He kept his arms shackled to his sides. “This has been a disaster,” he ground out.
She snorted.
“I won’t bother you again, Miss Shropshire.” He hunched forward as he walked toward the door but straightened as he stopped and turned toward her again. “Will you at least tell me why.”
“We barely know each other!” Allison blurted out.
He answered calmly. “We met almost six months ago.”
“We’ve scarcely spoken in all that time.”
He scratched the back of his neck again. “We spoke t
oday.”
“That was hardly a conversation.”
“It’s just … our mothers are always with us, and mine has very clear ideas about who I should marry and how I should court that person.” Yes, his mother wished him to marry Lady Ann Harrington. He shivered at the thought. He’d rather not contemplate a fate such as Lady Ann.
“And there’s another reason!” Allison continued. “Your mother hates me, and I am not overly fond of her. She’s ruined my life.”
That was just too much. His mother could be high-handed and a bit overbearing, but she wasn’t responsible for ruining anyone’s life. “Excuse me?”
“With that book of hers! She’s ruined my life with her rules and guidelines and moral strictures.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Your mother is the reason books are forbidden to me. Your mother is the reason my mother monitors every aspect of my life down to the color of my garter ribbons and how many points of toast I’m allowed to eat at breakfast.”
What color were her garter ribbons?
“Do you know,” she said, “my corset wouldn’t tighten quite as much last month, and my mother refused me all food for two days!”
Carson cringed. That was bad. He eyed her subtle curves. She looked much the same as when he’d met her. Delectable. What in hell had either his mother or hers found wrong with her form? “That’s horrific. But I don’t see how it’s my mother’s fault.”
“Then you’ve not read chapter seven of the Moral Guide, entitled ‘The Proper Size of a Proper Lady.’ But it’s not just the book, you know. My mother called on yours for help, brought her into my bedroom—” Her face flushed, and she studied the rug as if it were a deep and intricate work of art. “I had to undress, and your mother, she … she gave the order that kept me locked up without food for days!” Her eyes met his finally. They were righteous pools of fire.
Carson pulled at his cravat. “Er.” What to say? Why the hell had his mother so tortured the girl? Why would she suggest starving any girl? His gut tightened with guilt. It wasn’t his fault. But a tiny part of him screamed it was; Allison had suffered because of his mother, and he, somehow, must shoulder the blame. He could say nothing to take back those two days. He tried anyway. “I’m sorry. It’s inexcusable.”
Allison snorted. “Your mother is the bane of my existence.” She shook her head slowly, her gaze darting about. “Marry her son? I cannot even conceive of such a thing. Besides,” she flicked her hand in the air, “you’re much too boring to wed.”
Boring? She thought him boring? Perhaps he should care more that Allison thought his mother had ruined her life, but he couldn’t seem to summon the same outrage he felt over being called boring. He wasn’t boring! He was … careful. Secretive. She didn’t know him, but he’d crafted a plan to remedy their tenuous acquaintanceship—the books, the slow courtship had been about giving her a chance to get to know him, the real him. In secret of course.
“I’m sorry,” Carson grit out between clenched teeth, “for my mother and for the proposal you find so distasteful.” He studied the carpet for a moment, then searched Allison’s face. Like marble, not a feature moved in sympathy for him. “So, my mother is an insurmountable stumbling block to our union. As is my own …” He paused, considering his next words. “My own bland personality.”
She nodded, folding her arms behind her back.
“I understand. My mother would never have honored the union anyway.” He’d known it, but he’d chosen to ignore it. Such was his potent attraction to Miss Allison Shropshire.
She stared out the window. “That’s quite clear to me, too. Good day, Lord Trevor.”
He nodded, unable to force words between his lips. He stopped in front of the couch, intent on gathering Udolpho, but he pulled away before his fingers could so much as brush against it. He wanted her to have the book. He knew the tedium of living the life someone else wanted you to live, and he knew how books could save you from it all. She needed it more than he. Besides, he could always go back to Hopkins Bookshop and procure another. She could not. He wouldn’t deny her the pleasure of his gift.
He abandoned the book and took one last look at the woman whose mere existence fascinated him. She faced away from him, and he saw only the graceful curve of her neck above her gown, the tiny tendrils of golden hair curling about her ears. She didn’t want him and never would. Because of his mother. And because she thought him boring.
He needed a drink.
Yes, first a drink to put the events of the day behind him, to dull the heartache. Then, he’d find comfort in the one place that never failed to buoy his spirits—Hopkins Bookshop.
Chapter 3
Allison waited to hear the door click closed behind Lord Trevor before sinking onto the couch. Her legs didn’t want to work anymore. Must have been from all the crouching. Something dug into her rear. She reached, she pulled, she uncovered The Mysteries of Udolpho. He’d left it.
A quarter of an hour ago, she would have said the most mystifying occurrence in her life had been the random appearance of forbidden books. But now there existed a greater mystery—what had prompted the appearance of those books.
Lord Trevor had been courting her! And she’d had no idea. If she had, she would have told him not to waste his time.
She could never marry him. He was conceited, pompous, and arrogant. And more importantly, he lived to do his mother’s bidding. Exhibit A: any page of Lady Hemsworth’s Guide. Allison rose and walked across the room where a copy of the guide rested on a round table. She quickly found the page in question.
I caught Lord Trevor, at thirteen years of age, ogling the maids. Appalled, I pulled him aside and asked him why he would violate all the rules of society in such a manner. He responded the way most young men would—he found her pretty. Unlike other young men of lesser moral fortitude, however, he took the swift and direct lesson I gave him that day to heart. It is not appropriate for young men of status to notice a woman’s existence unless otherwise approved of by his parents and hers, and no lady would be approved unless she is of good birth and good manners. I have never once seen him ogle another woman, maid or otherwise, since then.
A shiver ran through her. What would Lord Trevor ogling a woman look like? He had a face for getting away with it, and after the events of but a few minutes ago, she could not deny—he had secrets.
But it made no sense: his secrets, his proposal, his cheerful grin. He didn’t leer or flirt or anything fun that went along with the concept of ogling. Never having seen him so much as look at a woman, Allison wasn’t even sure he could flirt let alone ogle. He studied the air above them, as if the women themselves were below his notice.
But he’d noticed Allison.
Well, she’d noticed him, too.
First, upon their initial introduction. She’d entered the parlor for the first luncheon, and he’d turned, slowly, studiously scrutinizing her form from slippers to curls. The question begged to be answered now—had it been an ogle? Whatever his gaze had been, it had sent prickles skittering across her skin. Then he’d smiled, wide and real, and her heart skipped a beat. Or two.
Then, her mother had introduced them, and all the skittering prickles disappeared. She recognized him for who he was—a prude, a snob, a boring, boring man. And his lips had drooped, his gaze shifted to a spot above her head as if she were so much dirt on his shoe.
Such a shame to waste such a smile—easy, charming, real—on such a person—prudish, priggish, boring. It should belong to someone else entirely. Someone fun. Not Lady Hemsworth’s son!
Allison plopped onto the couch, the Guide in one hand and Udolpho in the other. “Confusion,” she sighed. “Thy name is Lord Trevor.” Who was he? Bland and boring? But he’d been courting her with novels! Far from boring, that.
These mysteries were as peculiar as those inside the pages of Udolpho. Her head hurt attempting to make sense of it all.
One thing was clear, however, and al
ways would be: she’d rather only read Lady Hemsworth’s Guide for the rest of her life than marry the authoress’s son. Even if he did woo women with books. In secret. She shivered with the pleasure of the secret—his and hers—and suppressed a grin. If he asked her to marry him now, it would be harder to say no. She itched to understand the enigma of Lord Trevor.
Allison held the two books up, regarding them as if they were Lord Trevor himself, come to stand before her in judgment. Was he the model monument to moral manhood or the impulsive lover of horrid novels who proposed to a woman his mother had never approved?
“Oh, bollocks!” She tossed the books to the side and slouched low on the couch. Her first proposal. She’d had three seasons, and not one had produced a serious suitor. Oh, there had been a fortune hunter or two, as well as one of her father’s old associates from the war. Very old. But there had been no one whose proposal could be taken seriously. It probably explained why her mother had turned to Lady Hemsworth’s Guide. She needed to make her daughter a more suitable candidate on a marriage mart not at all amenable to the daughter of a newly titled baron, no matter how brave and noteworthy said baron’s wartime actions, no matter how large that daughter’s dowry.
Allison reached for Udolpho, stood with a huff, and stomped toward the door. Clutching the book in the folds of her skirts, she ran up the servant’s stairs to her room. She sank to her knees inside her wardrobe and pulled out a basket of mending. Her mother had told her never to darn another sock in her life when they’d risen the social ranks, but Allison rather liked mending socks. It soothed her.
It also provided a means of keeping secrets. Allison threw a handful of socks and thread to the floor beside the large basket, uncovering her secret library. The titles peered up at her—Clarissa, Pamela, The Monk, The Sicilian Romance. Now, she could add Udolpho to their ranks.
No, she couldn’t. Now that she knew where the books had come from, she couldn’t keep them. Tears pricked her eyes. She couldn’t keep any of them. Every time she read one of them, looked at them, even, she’d think of him, of the odd emotions she’d seen flicker across his face as she’d told him his proposal revolted her. There had been shock, anger, and … despair? Surely not. She was just unused to being proposed to and wasn’t acquainted with the emotions men felt during the process. But who knew Lord Trevor’s mind or heart? Certainly not Allison. Certainly not now. Sinner or saint, it didn’t matter. His mother would always be his mother, and Lady Hemsworth would never approve of an alliance with Allison. Allison snorted. Lady Hemsworth’s rejection could only hurt if she desired an alliance herself. She did not.