Library

Chapter 1

"Find me, if you dare," Lady Artemisia whispered close to William's ear, stirring him up into a frenzy. "Let us see how keen those instincts of yours are. How wild a wolf you can be."

He was already on the brink of a ferocious thirst in dire need of quenching, after dancing a scintillating waltz with the fine lady. He had assumed that would be enough to have her eating from the palm of his hand, but she, too, had clearly been schooled in the art of the tease.

"I will not make it easy for you." Lady Artemisia smiled, her brown eyes sparkling behind her golden rabbit mask. And just like that, she was gone, blending into a sea of similar masks and infuriatingly similar gowns.

"Is rabbit the fashion this Season?" William muttered, trying to spot her raven-black hair. "Did all the ladies conspire to wear pink?"

Anthony appeared at his side, wielding an array of hors d'oeuvres on a napkin. "Something wrong, Brother?" He inhaled a salmon puff. "You look as if you wish to start a fight."

"Not a fight," William replied, smirking as he spotted a braided bun of that silky black hair.

Although, there may be a kind of wrestling.

He neglected to add that part for the sake of Anthony's more innocent ears.

Anthony selected some manner of tiny sandwich and chewed contentedly. "I thought we might venture outside. There are games on the lawn, apparently."

"Later," William growled, his blood heating up. "I have something more pressing to attend to."

With a shrug, Anthony swallowed his mouthful. "Good luck with Lady Artemisia. I fear you might need it."

Laughing in the back of his throat at his brother's perceptiveness, for he kept forgetting that Anthony was no longer a child, William set off in search of his prize, prowling through the crowd like the wolf his silver mask marked him to be.

Allowing a grin to creep onto his lips, he came up behind the raven-haired woman and closed his hand around her arm.

A shriek of alarm went up, the woman turning sharply. She wore a golden rabbit mask, and her gown was a dusky pink, but her eyes were a bright, startled blue.

"Your Grace!" she gasped, her gaze flitting to his hand.

He let go as if his fingertips had touched a thorn. "Apologies," he said as evenly as he could, "I thought you were someone else."

"I could be someone else, if you wanted," the young lady replied, her shock transforming into a coquettish intrigue.

A sensation of disgust prompted his nose to wrinkle. There was temptation and teasing, and then there was desperation. One made his blood pound and his loins stir, the other left him cold.

"Apologies," he said again, moving on before he lost his hunger altogether.

He was more careful with the next few ladies he thought might be Lady Artemisia, speaking her name before he thought about touching anyone. But none were her, and he was beginning to grow impatient, his need becoming an itch that would drive him to madness if he did not scratch it.

Pausing in the center of the ballroom, at the periphery of the dance floor, he scoured the throng of guests with renewed determination.

There you are, my sweet bunny.

On the other side of the ballroom, leaning seductively against one of the French doors that led out into the garden, gleamed a golden rabbit in a pink gown. Dark eyes gleamed, and red lips curled into a sly smile that made his hunger tip toward ravenous.

He walked slowly toward her, weaving through the masses, letting the anticipation build. It was always better that way.

"Looking for someone?" Lady Artemisia purred.

He stood a polite distance away, for this was not the place to get close to her. "Not particularly."

"I saw you speaking with a few potential replacements," she said, feigning a pout. "But you should know, Your Grace, no one can do what I do. If you have lost interest, I shall simply have to lavish another gentleman with my affections tonight. And you shall have to dream about what you missed. It will keep you awake until morning, I assure you."

He swallowed thickly, seconds from damning everything and tearing that infuriating pink gown off her, feeding his desire until both of them were entirely satisfied.

"You sound jealous," he replied with a wolfish grin. "It does nothing for me."

"Jealous?" She laughed. "Not in the slightest. It would be your loss, not mine."

Her nonchalance was fuel to the fire of his craving, her confidence and her lack of desperation utterly intoxicating. He fully believed that if he did not continue to pursue her, she would find someone else, and that was something he could not permit.

"Is this what you do?" he said slyly. "Speak of things then disappear and never act on them?"

"Why not come to the library and find out?" she replied, pushing away from the garden door. "Twenty minutes, if you can bear to wait."

He watched her walk by him but did not reply. They both knew he would go to the library in twenty minutes, as they both knew that she would be there waiting. They could have gone there right that moment, but that would do nothing to raise the anticipation and the mutual thrill of their eventual reward.

So, it came as something of a surprise when, not five minutes later, as he made his slow way through the maze of hallways to the meeting point, he saw a figure in that same shade of pink sneak into the library.

"You would not understand, dearest Lydia," Joanna Bolt, the Duchess of Bruxton, said for at least the tenth time, her voice carrying a faint note of condescension.

Lydia Bennet stifled a yawn. "No, I suppose I would not. It all sounds very dull if you ask me."

"I have no doubt, but when you are married, you will find interest in such things." Joanna smiled, and Lydia tried to remind herself that the older woman likely meant well. She was never deliberately patronizing.

In truth, Lydia could not remember what it was that Joanna, her sister Nancy, their cousin Marina, and Lydia's sister, Emma, had been talking about. Something to do with choosing governesses or taking regular walks with one's husband to maintain a good relationship. Or that might have been the previous discussion; it all blended into one whenever Eliza's Duchesses, as they were collectively known, were all together.

Lydia adored her sister, Emma, and all the friends they had made through their godmother, Eliza. In smaller divisions, Lydia reveled in their company, but something strange happened whenever all four gathered, plus her, that made the conversation so very boring. They transformed from interesting, amusing, vibrant women to just wives and mothers, forgetting the rest of their complex layers entirely.

"It is impossible to find good tutors," Nancy said. "Adam has suggested sending Alexander to the Charterhouse School, to prepare him for Eton, but I do not know if I could bear to send him away so soon. I am more inclined to send him to the local grammar school or to have him educated at home."

"If you lived closer, you could share Bernard and Angel's tutors. They are all exceptional," Joanna replied.

Emma shuddered. "I feel fortunate to only have daughters. I could not dream of sending my children away. It would break my heart."

"Jasper says I am too soft-hearted," Marina agreed, the women's words becoming a low, unintelligible drone in Lydia's ears as her attention wandered to the amusements of the ballroom.

In a trance, she watched couples in the midst of a country dance, lamenting that she had only caught a glimpse of the earlier waltzing. She had never seen waltzing before, considering how frowned upon it was. But being a masquerade ball, there were certain things that were more tolerated, for everyone was hidden behind their disguises.

She glanced over the dancers, her attention snared by two people on the far side of the ballroom. They were standing a polite distance apart, but it was obvious that they were whispering to one another; it was written on the sneaky smiles that graced their faces.

The lady had evidently fashioned her costume after the French aristocracy; the bodice tight, the skirts excessive, the sleeves edged with frilly lace, the bosom bordering on scandalous, the pink brocade fabric absolutely breathtaking. Then again, a reasonable majority of the ladies present were wearing something similar, using the ball as an excuse to show off their figures.

Lydia, herself, wore a more modest version.

The gentleman, however, was the one who held Lydia's fascination, standing out like a diamond among coal. He was dressed like a swashbuckler in a flowing white shirt and no cravat, his collar daringly open to just below the notch at the base of his throat.

He wore a waistcoat, unbuttoned, and had a saber at his side and a leather tricorn hat on his head. Meanwhile, his trousers were astonishingly tight, a red sash around his waist drawing the eye downward, and his boots up to the knee in the military hessian style.

Silky, dark hair curled out from beneath the hat, but it was impossible to see the color of his eyes from that distance. Nevertheless, Lydia imagined that they might be a summer blue or a warm gold, matching one of her two favorite heroes from her most beloved—and most secret—novels.

A pirate or a fox? A fox pirate?

She could not quite tell what his mask was supposed to be.

Whatever he had come to the ball as, she found herself wishing that she might be in that other lady's place, feeling the full measure of his attention. What manner of a smile would he coax on her face if he whispered sweet nothings to her? What would she do to hide the blush on her cheeks? How would she fan herself to appear mysterious yet tempting?

What is the matter with you?

She hurriedly shook away the notion, embarrassed by how wayward her imagination could be sometimes. Those were thoughts that needed to be kept in the library and in the pages of her most treasured books. They were not for real life.

Besides, the lady who had captured the fox-pirate's attention appeared to be everything that Lydia was not: she was confident, beautiful, at ease in the company of handsome gentlemen, and certainly not turning a worrisome shade of raspberry red because he had spoken to her.

Lydia knew she would have been purple by now if she were in that lady's place. And she would be utterly frozen, silent as a tomb, shyness locking her tongue and her personality up tight.

"Lydia had a very encouraging governess," Emma said, the sound of her name bringing Lydia out of her daydreaming. "She was terribly quiet as a child. Mama and Father both worried she might be mute. That governess was a blessing, though I believe she got married and does not educate anymore."

Lydia stared at her sister, smarting at the mild betrayal.

"You were quiet, dearest. You were positively a recluse until that governess came along," Emma insisted, offering the kind of smile reserved for dimwitted children. "I am only saying it as an example. You are not like that now, of course."

Joanna joined in with the condescending smile. "It must be so difficult to navigate Society these days. It is not as it was when we were searching for husbands. Everyone seems so much… younger, do they not?"

Lydia resisted the urge to roll her eyes, holding her tongue back from telling Joanna that she was behaving as if she were Eliza's age, and not nearing thirty. This was another issue when Eliza's Duchesses all got together—they treated Lydia as if she were an infant who knew nothing of the world, while she was certain that she had read about things they could not even begin to imagine.

"I am going to the powder room," Lydia said brightly. "I will not be long. Might I bring anyone any refreshments on my way back?"

By rights, a chaperone should have gone with her, but she knew that the four women would not be separated while they were in the middle of such talk. They would allow her a morsel of freedom, so they could continue to discuss the merits and disadvantages of sending their own darlings away to be educated.

Emma hesitated. "Do you know the way?"

"Certainly, I do."

Emma's brow furrowed, clearly conflicted, but Lydia had accounted for that.

"I have just seen Lady Danielle and her mother heading in that direction. If I delay any longer, I shall miss them," she urged.

Her older sister relaxed and waved a hand. "Hurry along, then. And hurry back."

Lydia did not need to be told twice, slipping away from the Duchesses and into the heat of the crowd, hoping that her gown—so similar to everyone else's—would be enough to give her a longer stretch of freedom.

If her sister and the others could not find her, they could not scold her, and when she did return, she could simply say she got lost among all the near-identical masks.

Rabbits, peacocks, and deer seemed to be the most popular choices, and the Duchesses were following the fashion—two peacocks, one rabbit, one deer. Who would not get lost trying to find their companions again?

Excitement bubbled like champagne in her chest as she weaved through the other guests, trying to avoid tripping on the trailing skirts of the ladies, lowering her gaze as she passed the gentlemen.

She did know the way, but she was not joining Lady Danielle and her mother, nor was she going to the powder room. There was another room in the manor house that called to her, and she could not visit any unfamiliar house without investigating it thoroughly.

Libraries held secrets, and one could tell a lot about a person by what they had on their bookshelves.

She found it with ease and glanced around fleetingly before turning the handle, nudging the door with her shoulder and sneaking inside. Clicking the door back into place gave her a giddy thrill, intensified by the scent and sight of so many glorious books.

She was alone, the beautiful, expansive room empty and shrouded in partial darkness. The fireplace cast a faint glow on the first few bookcases while dim lanterns marked a pathway through the stacks, as if the Lord and Lady of this manor had only vaguely considered that some guests might want to look through the library.

Now and then in her library searches, she happened upon a fellow wallflower seeking a hideaway or something she should not have seen, but more often than not, she could investigate at her leisure.

"Let me get my paws on you," she whispered delightedly, pushing her cat mask off her face.

She approached the first bookcases with a reverence that others reserved for cathedrals, tracing her fingertips along the spines, feeling the embossed lettering of every tome. She withdrew a few, blowing the fine layer of dust from their covers before restoring them to their places.

Not keen readers here, she judged, and moved down between the stacks, following that mystical path of lanterns. On rare occasions, in households where it was obvious no one bothered with their library, she would borrow a book as revenge for all those unloved pages. Tonight felt like one such occasion, as long as she could find the perfect book for her collection.

A red spine caught her eye, sticking out of a row. The gold lettering was muted and partially scratched away, as though someone had wanted to keep its identity a secret.

"What have we here?" she whispered, heart racing as she pulled the book from the shelf and opened it to the title page. "Oh… how naughty. How delicious."

Banned since 1749, long before Lydia was born, it just happened to be a book that she had been desperate to get her hands on: Fanny Hill, or Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, by John Cleland. And, by the looks of it, both installments were bound in one cover.

She was just wondering how on earth she was going to sneak it out of the library and the manor itself when she heard the door open. Fear snaked up through her feet, rooting her to the spot, her heart lurching into her throat. If she was caught with that book in her hand, she did not know how she would explain herself.

Slowly… slowly put it back… and hide until they are gone.

She achieved the first part, slotting the book back into place, when another sound chilled her to the bone—the click of a key turning in the lock, trapping her inside. With whom? She prayed they were just lovers seeking some privacy.

But the footfalls that echoed in her ears were singular. Heavy. Male.

She threw herself into the darkness cast by the towering bookcases, tiptoeing along the row as catfooted as could be. A moment later, a shadow cast by the fire flickering behind the intruder stretched across the path between the stacks.

A deep, rumbling voice murmured seductively, "Do not hide from me, My Lady. There is no use. I have you precisely where I want you, and I am so very tired of chasing."

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