Chapter 6

Ivy gently pushed open the door to the castle”s library, seeking solace within the comforting presence of books. It didn’t matter where she was in the world, being surrounded by volumes of knowledge and stories soothed her heart and mind.

The grand room, with its towering bookshelves and ornate furnishings, was lit by the soft glow of the setting sun. Streaks of amber and emerald shone through the large stained-glass windows, casting their rich patterns on the wooden floor. Atop the shelves were busts of historical and mythical figures alike, all of them pleasant featured so one needn’t feel as though Athena glared down upon them while reading.

Wandering along the wall of shelves, she allowed her fingers to glide across the spines. She paused at one shelf when a title caught her attention, and she delicately tugged the book from its place.

Pamela, a novel her father had often described as old but beautiful. She opened the leaf and turned to the page where the bookseller’s mark resided, along with the original year of publication, 1740. Incredible that, for nearly one hundred years, people had found pleasure in the pages of a single story.

Lost in her own thoughts, she was unaware of another presence until a familiar voice startled her. “What marvelous treasure did you find, Lady Ivy?”

She looked up to find Lord Dunmore, his tall frame leaning against one of the towering bookshelves, watching her with a teasing glint in his eye.

Her lips parted in surprise. Where had he come from? Perhaps one of the couches facing away from where she had entered. Wordlessly, she held the book out to him, the title page visible.

Eyebrows raised, he straightened and came a few steps forward to better read the print. “Pamela? An intriguing choice.”

Ivy looked at the volume in her hands, then up to meet the baron’s gaze. Her tone took on a defensive edge as she responded, “It’s a lovely work of literature.”

“Is it?” He tilted his head to the side. “I am only passingly aware of the contents. I didn’t think it a novel young ladies were encouraged to read, given the nature of the heroine.”

“But it’s about so much more than Pamela,” she said, somewhat aghast that he hadn’t read it. That he didn’t know about the story inside. “My father used to say the novel’s value came from how it presented virtue and the dynamics between servant and master. We used to discuss whether Pamela herself deserved praise for steadfastness, or if her story was about her manipulation of others to rise in social ranks.”

She wanted to bite her tongue midway through her explanation, but the words fell from her tongue as though she were holding a literary debate rather than speaking with a near-stranger. A handsome near-stranger, at that.

Lord Dunmore leaned in slightly, intrigued. “Which camp do you fall into, Lady Ivy?”

She pondered for a moment, closing the book and holding it against her chest, arms folded over it. “I believe there’s merit in viewing Pamela as a woman of her time, navigating the expectations of others. But it’s also a reminder that stories—and people—aren’t always as straightforward as they might seem.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Much like our present company?”

Ivy swallowed. “Perhaps. One can never be too careful in discerning the intentions of others, your lordship.”

The baron chuckled and crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the bookcase once more. “A great truth. No matter how you feel about books, we certainly ought to use such caution around people. Although it can be difficult when we cannot study a person the way we study a page.”

She certainly wished she could give greater scrutiny toward him. The initial shock and flutter of excitement she had felt when he had arrived the day before had altered to irritation. Mostly with herself. There was absolutely no reason for her to be pleased to see him again. They meant nothing to one another. He’d done her a kindness at the theater. That was all.

Yet the way he stared at her now, the way he had looked at her with such pleasure the day before, made her question his motivations. A man as charming as he shouldn’t be permitted to smile in such a way, as though he’d saved that smile precisely for her. Fanny would certainly take issue with such an open smile directed at an unmarried woman.

The thought of Fanny made Ivy immediately defensive. “Yet here you stand, Lord Dunmore, peering at me as closely as some would peruse a difficult passage in a book.”

His grin widened and she wanted to bite her tongue. Fanny would be mortified that Ivy would speak to a peer that way, but the Irishman seemed delighted. In fact, he seemed rather flirtatious.

“Forgive me, lady. I had no wish to make you uncomfortable.” He turned his gaze to the shelves. “Though I find you an interesting study, to be sure.”

“I cannot think why.” She bit her tongue.

His eyes brightened as he focused on her once more. “Can you not?”

Despite herself, she rather liked his attention. When was the last time a gentleman had spoken to her with interest and kindness?

But Fanny would disapprove, and the admonishments of her sister-in-law echoed in Ivy’s memory. Loudly. “A lady ought never draw attention to herself, nor make herself a spectacle. Certainly, she shouldn’t invite the attention of men. Modesty, demure posture, and silence are the most appropriate attributes of an unwed lady.”

Ivy lowered her gaze to the book in her hands.

When she didn’t answer, he returned his attention to the shelves. “His Grace has a splendid library. Every time I peruse the shelves, I find something of interest. I could spend the whole summer in this room, I think. Reading.”

A safe topic meant asking a safe question. “Do you have a literary recommendation, Lord Dunmore?”

His grin widened. “Perhaps something a bit more...contemporary than Pamela. There are modern tales that mirror the age-old dance of romance quite well.”

Warmth crept into her cheeks. Surely she had imagined the interest in the undertone of his voice. She hadn’t said a word about the romance of the novel.

“I appreciate classics,” she replied with a measured tone. “There”s something timeless about them. And re-reading old favorites is rather soothing, I find.”

Teague”s expression turned quizzical. “You”re not fond of surprises, then?”

It wasn”t that Ivy disliked surprises; it was the uncertainty they brought with them. Sometimes her honest reaction to them was at odds with what was expected of her.

“They can be pleasant enough, I suppose.”

Those dark eyes of his were still uncertain. “What of meeting me again, Lady Ivy? Was that a pleasant or unpleasant surprise?”

The directness of the question took her aback, and she stammered over the hasty and polite response that spilled from her lips. “P-pleasant, of course. Why wouldn’t it be pleasant? You did a kindness for me.”

A hint of disappointment clouded his eyes. His posture changed and he looked to the windows. “I am glad I could be of service to you, then. Especially given that those glasses of yours seemed rather important.”

As one who had schooled herself in polite behavior for years, Ivy immediately recognized the withdrawal of his more open personality, of his easy conversation, and regretted the loss of both immediately. Why could she never get things quite right?

“Discovery is far more interesting to me than surprise,” she said, stepping toward him again, bringing her within easy reach. If she liked, she could have touched the lapel of his coat. Caught hold of it to drag his attention and good humor back to the conversation. She resisted that overly impulsive thought. “Like this castle. There is so much to find here. Every corner tells a story. Speaking of which, have you seen the ballroom? It’s lovely. The paintings there are quite rich with history.”

Lord Dunmore’s eyebrows rose and a startled chuckle escaped him. “Ah, so we”re discussing architecture and history now, are we?”

Ivy didn’t know precisely why she wanted to coax his smile back. It was pleasant. He was handsome. The combination of the two made her stomach flutter. “If you wish. I am fond of history.”

That tilt of his head made her wonder if he found her curious or interesting. Perhaps both. “As am I. Though I must admit that a moment ago, I was trying to delve into a different kind of history—ours.”

Ivy”s mouth opened and closed without sound, as she couldn’t find the words for addressing such a blunt statement. Finally, she squeaked out, “Ours? One meeting in London and an unexpected reunion here hardly constitutes a history, Lord Dunmore.”

“Yet it”s a start, isn”t it?” He moved closer, eyes searching hers. “Every great tale begins with a single moment. Our meeting again, entirely by accident, feels like something out of a story.” He nodded to the shelves, his eyebrows raised along with the corners of his lips. “Does it not?”

Caught in his gaze, Ivy felt a twinge of vulnerability, and warmth spread across her cheeks as her pulse quickened. “My past experiences have taught me to be cautious,” she admitted softly. “It”s not you, Lord Dunmore. One can hardly trust a moment of serendipity to lead to the happy conclusions in works of fiction.”

Teague”s expression softened. “I understand caution, Lady Ivy. But, sometimes, amidst the games and dances of society, a genuine connection is worth the risk.”

Watching him, Ivy hadn’t any idea what risks she could take. She’d been freer, more prone to wildness and daring, before her father’s death. However, her brother and sister-in-law had labored and lectured until she’d learned how often her natural inclinations went against the bounds of propriety. She had her sisters to look out for, too. They depended on her.

She didn’t have time for frivolous things. William wanted her to marry. Fanny wanted her to behave respectably. Her sisters counted on her to secure a match that would set all of them free from their half-brother’s watch.

A summer’s flirtation with an Irishman wasn’t likely to help any of those things.

Perhaps he glimpsed something of her confusion in her gaze and took pity on her. Teague’s eyes wandered momentarily to the bookshelf where she’d found Pamela. He plucked a slender volume from its companions and handed it to her.

“Of course, risks ought to be weighed. Have you read The Vicar of Wakefield? In it, the vicar says, ‘When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy, what art can wash her guilt away?’ I’ve seen men and women both make mistakes because they acted without thinking.”

Who was this Irishman who quoted random snatches of literature at her mere moments after flirting outrageously?

She tilted her chin upward. “And you? Have you acted on impulse, only to regret it later?”

He chuckled, the light in his eyes dimming a touch. “Once or twice. Each mistake has been a lesson. Sometimes, I learned about the world. Other times, about myself.”

Ivy found herself drawn into his honesty, sensing a depth in him that intrigued her. “What lesson do you take from our current moment?”

Lord Dunmore returned the book to its place and looked at her. “That sometimes, serendipity isn’t merely about chance. It’s about recognizing the importance of the moment and the person you’re with.”

The man was clever. “Are you something of a philosopher, Lord Dunmore?”

He laughed, the sound soft in the library. “All Irishmen are philosophers, Lady Ivy. Especially when in the company of a lady they wish to impress. Though it seems I am failing spectacularly at it today.”

Her heart gave a painfully hopeful twist. He wished to impress her? Why?

Ivy was about to respond when she caught a glimpse of movement in the doorway to the corridor. One of the duke’s footmen—Sterling, she thought, given the man’s height—briefly put his head into the room. His stern expression, though she doubted it was directed at her, and swift stride past the room reminded her they weren’t completely alone, not even in a castle of Clairvoir’s size.

“Is something wrong?” the Irishman asked, bringing her attention back to him.

“Oh. No. But?—”

A chime from the clock above the hearth interrupted their exchange. She glanced towards it, then back to the baron, feeling an odd sense of reluctance mingled with relief. “I suppose we should prepare for dinner.”

He offered a nod of agreement, but as she moved to slide Pamela into its home again, he spoke. “Perhaps we could continue our exploration of classic tales and personal histories over a walk tomorrow? The gardens here are quite enchanting. Unless you have seen them already?”

Caught off guard, she replied honestly instead of cautiously. “I haven’t seen much of them yet. I’d like that.” Not only did she take Pamela with her, she also took hold of the book he’d recommended. She held both close to her chest.

“Excellent. I look forward to it.” He bowed his farewell.

As Ivy stepped away from the man and went through the door of the library, her thoughts thrummed at speed with her racing pulse.

Why did he have such an effect on her? She wasn’t typically this open with people, especially not men she barely knew. His presence was magnetic, an unyielding force that seemed to draw the words from her lips. Was it his clever wit, or perhaps the gentleness she sensed in his eyes?

She felt the weight of Pamela in her hands, the pages heavy with a near century of readers’ emotions.

Was it so wrong to desire connection, to want to feel something, even if they were the dreamed up emotions in a novel? Life wasn’t a storybook, and she wasn’t an imagined character free from consequences. Every word she uttered, every gesture she made was watched. Judged.

Her sister-in-law’s words echoed in her mind. “A lady must always be in control of her emotions, her reactions.”

Perhaps the trouble was that Lord Dunmore inspired something in her to behave more like she had in the years prior to her father’s loss. The free-spirited, open-hearted girl who viewed the world through a lens tinted with curiosity and wonder. He stirred a part of her she thought she’d buried deep, hidden from the gaze of society.

Her fingers traced the spines of the books as she held them closer.

Lord Dunmore was right, of course. Every great tale started with a single moment. One couldn’t always tell what sort of story would be told after reading the first page. One simply had to read more.

Was this another fleeting connection, doomed to be extinguished by life’s cruel realities, or was it the start of something new and interesting? She felt the tug of anticipation and caution war within her.

It was merely a walk in the garden. With a man she’d met in London. A trusted guest of the Duke of Montfort. She hadn’t accepted a contractual agreement or committed to an act of war.

Everyone took walks in gardens.

She reached her chamber door, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could allow herself to enjoy a moment of serendipity, a happy accident. But with caution.

Always with caution, she thought as she stepped into her chamber, letting the weight of their conversation settle in her heart, telling herself she wouldn’t examine it later.

Knowing already she’d fail at that promise.