Library

Chapter One

C HAPTER O NE

Once upon a time a baby girl was born in a palace. The baby had golden-brown eyes and downy black hair and a nose that was far, far too big for her face. When her father, a courtier to the king, saw her, he beamed with pride. Her mother, however, was silent.…

—From Lady Long-Nose

O CTOBER 1760

L ONDON

Private libraries were extraordinary, Lady Elspeth de Moray mused. To have an entire room filled with books—in one own’s house —seemed quite fantastical. If she had a library, she would never leave. She’d eat, sleep, and daydream surrounded by stories and be completely happy.

Footsteps sounded outside the door, rapidly coming closer.

And—more practically—a library held a multitude of excuses right at hand, should a lady be discovered skulking in one.

Elspeth reached for a large book and opened it, perching on the library ladder as she did so.

Just in time, as it happened, for a tall, severely handsome gentleman to slide into the Duke of Windemere’s library. His eyes narrowed as he spotted her. “What are you doing here?”

His tone was not friendly. Actually, if one were to be frank, his voice was rather icy. Which was a pity since he was otherwise intriguing. His black hair was braided into a long queue, and he wore a gray pearl earring dangling by the sharp angle of his jaw.

Elspeth met his gaze. His clear gray eyes were the same color as his pearl earring—beautiful and almost otherworldly. Unfortunately, he looked at her as if she were a bit of manure he’d just discovered adhering to his shoe.

Humph. “I am reading,” she replied loftily to his question, and then glanced down at the book.

She blinked in surprise. A rude engraving covered the page.

The gentleman walked to her, his movements graceful. Sinuous. He reminded her of a viper gliding toward a particularly plump sparrow—the sparrow in this case being she.

He stopped in front of her, so close Elspeth could see the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he narrowed them again.

“Are you?” His gaze flicked down to the illustration of… a couple? Possibly two couples? There were a confusing number of limbs. One ebony eyebrow rose censoriously as he looked back at her. “Reading, that is?”

Quite unfair that she was unable to raise her eyebrow in return. She felt heat invade her cheeks. “Yes.”

His mouth twitched irritably, and she couldn’t refrain from staring at his lips. They were thin but perfectly formed, the cupid’s bow wide and defined, the bottom lip just a fraction plumper.

She was still staring when those lips parted and he asked, “Who are you, and how did you get into this library?”

Her gaze abruptly jerked up to meet his stony one.

Elspeth lifted her chin. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”

If she hadn’t been watching, she would’ve missed the tiny curl of his upper lip.

He seemed to dismiss her, glancing about the library as if he were looking for something—or perhaps someone ? The room was rather gloomy. Bookshelves rose up to a second story, accessible only by means of the ladder she sat on. The walls were gilt and bloodred, shadowed and menacing. It was an atmospheric room.

Perhaps that was why she felt a frisson of alarm trip up her back when his attention snapped back to her. “Why are you here?”

“Why does anyone frequent a library?” Elspeth shrugged. “For the books, of course.” She smiled. “Why do you ask? Do you perhaps have another reason for being here?”

His face frosted over, all expression gone, as he stared at her. “You haven’t answered my question.”

The gentleman was persistent.

And a bit formidable.

Elspeth swallowed. “Nor have you.”

He said with a cutting edge, “I hardly think—”

Whatever horrible words he meant to throw at her were interrupted. Outside the door, the sound of voices was approaching fast.

Before Elspeth had time to think, the gentleman seized her, turning her bodily around to face the ladder. The scandalous book dropped from her fingers to the floor.

He placed his palm on her bottom and gave a hard shove. “Move!” he hissed, herding her up the steps.

Despite his rude push, Elspeth scrambled into the upper story of the library. It would do her no good to be found here. A narrow walkway ran around the room, with an iron railing to keep one from accidentally falling.

Once he’d ascended the ladder himself, the gentleman led her into a dark corner where there was a window covered in grime. Both the corner and the window were obscured to those below unless one stood quite at the opposite side of the library.

Abruptly, he sat and pulled Elspeth down, and she belatedly realized they were hiding—that he must have some reason to hide as well. How very interesting. They squeezed together, the gentleman with his back against the window and Elspeth between his legs.

The door opened.

Candlelight suddenly brightened the room below as someone—two someones—walked into the library.

The gentleman tightened his hold about her middle. Her bottom was firmly wedged against the V of his thighs, his heat enfolding her. Elspeth had to pull her mind away from the sensation of his breath against the nape of her neck to listen to the men below.

“… the matter,” the Duke of Windemere was saying.

Oh Goddess. Of course the library was the duke’s, but she’d rather hoped that he’d not return home before she left.

“Yes, Yer Grace.” The other man spoke with a guttural London accent.

Elspeth was distracted by an intriguing scent. Something… spicy. Perhaps mace? Or cloves—she always had trouble telling the two apart. She turned her head and drew in a long breath.

“What are you doing?” the gentleman hissed, so close to her ear it tickled.

“I’m sniffing you,” she replied as softly as she could.

“ Don’t. ” His whisper had the hint of a growl.

Well, that would mean not inhaling, and as she needed to breathe, that was a silly command.

He seemed prone to ire over the least little thing.

As was the duke. His Grace was speaking sharply to the man with the London accent now. “… and you must be discreet.”

Drat. She’d missed something again.

But it was hard concentrating on what sounded very much like a lecture while being held in a gentleman’s arms. He might be chilly and abrupt, but his arms were warm and very solid. Quite muscular, in fact.

Elspeth placed an experimental hand on his thigh. Yes, his legs were muscular as well. And encased in velvet. It made one want to run one’s hands down the soft yet hard length of his thigh.

The gentleman stiffened before pulling her hand from his leg and placing it in her lap.

She looked down. He hadn’t let go, and it was fascinating how big his hand was next to hers—his fingers encased her wrist quite easily. He wore a dully gleaming gold ring on his forefinger. The ring seemed to have some sort of carving. Elspeth tried to bring both their hands closer to her eyes to examine the ring, but of course he wouldn’t let her.

Strict man.

She bent over their hands instead. The light wasn’t good, but she could just make out… a snake? Something serpentine in any case, curling around the flat head of the ring. How extraordinary. The de Morays’ emblem was the merlin, and she remembered inspecting her father’s gold ring—very similar to this one, though of course with a bird instead of a snake. It was almost as if—

“… what in the hell?” the duke said suddenly. “Who took this book from the shelf?”

Elspeth’s head jerked up. Windemere’s voice was calm, nearly bored in fact, but what if he decided to search the library? She couldn’t afford to be found here. Her search had only just begun, and if she was discovered—

The gentleman’s arms tightened around her as if he meant to protect her.

A soft thump—the sound of a book being shelved.

“Where was I?” Windemere muttered. “Ah, yes. You’ll have the rest of the money once the deed is done and not before.” There was a scraping from below as if someone was standing from a chair. “Be discreet when you leave my house—the less you’re seen, the better—and make sure your men know as well. I expect a report within the week, do you understand?”

“Aye, Yer Grace.”

The door opened and then closed, taking the candlelight with it.

Elspeth moved to stand, but the gentleman restrained her. “Stay. Don’t move.”

She rolled her eyes. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. Elspeth began to wonder. Why was he so wary of being discovered in the library? She knew her own reasons for hiding, but what were his?

Elspeth realized that her breath matched his. In. Out. In. Out. It was so comfortable simply sitting like this, his warm body against her own, waiting.

She yawned.

“For God’s sake,” he muttered into her ear, and then he broke her peace by rising and pulling her to her feet.

Elspeth shook out her skirts before she looked up to see that the gentleman was already climbing down the ladder. He jumped onto the main library floor and then motioned to her impatiently.

She descended the ladder more slowly. Halfway down, she felt his hands grip her hips and lift as if she were as light as a newborn chick—which she most certainly was not.

He was quick to let her go once she stood on two feet.

She turned.

He was staring down at her in almost an accusatory way.

“Well,” she said brightly, “wasn’t that exciting?”

“You should leave,” he clipped out. “If—”

“I wonder why,” she interrupted, “you were so insistent we hide?”

The gentleman’s aristocratic nostrils flared. “I beg your pardon.”

The words might be polite, but his frosty tone made it more than clear that it was Elspeth who should be begging.

Silly man. As if she’d ever beg.

She smiled instead. “It’s just that if you had leave to explore Windemere’s library, I doubt you’d need to hide from him. Are you a thief?”

His face iced over. “Listen to me, girl,” he said with excruciating precision. “You do not want to come to the Duke of Windemere’s attention. Trust no one in this house. Leave as fast as you can. Do not linger. I do not want to see you in the duke’s library or anywhere in his house ever again. Do you comprehend?”

Elspeth nodded slowly. The gentleman’s instructions were quite understandable, not to mention ominous.

“Leave,” he said, taking her arm and marching her to the library door.

She shivered as she walked away. She could feel his gaze fixed upon her back like icy fingers. No doubt he was making sure she obeyed him and took the correct hallway to the front door.

Not that she would, of course.

She shook her head. Whatever his reasons for lurking about the duke’s library, the gentleman was a fascinating man—so rigid, so severe, so contained . She couldn’t help but wonder what it would take for his ice to melt.

But she hadn’t time for her curiosity. She was in London for a very important reason: to save the Wise Women and return to her home in Scotland.

And to do that she needed to find and steal a book hidden in one of the Greycourt libraries.

Julian Greycourt watched the sway of the young woman’s skirts disappear around the corner of the hall. He wanted her.

He closed his eyes.

These… urges were loathsome, and yet they plagued him near constantly. He’d been in London over a month now with no remedy. Perhaps that was why he’d found himself drawn to the girl.

She was pretty and bright and innocent, and she had smelled of wild roses. She would not welcome his touch. No sane woman welcomed his touch—not at least without being paid.

Julian shook his head and started down the hall, pushing the girl and his perverted needs out of his mind. He had other, more important things to think about.

Such as the person he’d expected to meet in the library—Peg McDonald. Peg had sent him a note telling him the day, time, and place.

And yet she wasn’t there.

Maybe she’d lost her nerve. Peg was a housemaid—one of the few who had been in service to the Greycourts since Julian was a little boy. More importantly, Peg had served his mother until her death. It had taken Julian months to coax her into meeting him.

The woman had been terrified.

Julian turned a corner in the hall and came face-to-face with the reason for Peg’s fear. Augustus Greycourt, the Duke of Windemere—and Julian’s uncle. The duke was a short, rotund man a bit over sixty. He wore a simple white wig with a minimum of curls. His cheeks were rosy, his eyes the Greycourt gray—the same as Julian’s own.

By rights Augustus should be a jolly man.

Appearances in this case not only deceived but gave no forewarning of the madness within.

“Nephew,” Augustus greeted him with a smile.

“Uncle.” Julian kept his tone even.

“Do you mean to attend the duchess’s gathering?”

“I do,” Julian replied, watching him warily. The duchess had invited him to her afternoon tea, a ready-made excuse for him to be in Windemere House.

His uncle feigned surprise, his eyebrows arching up, his hands spread wide. “And yet this is not the way from the front door to my wife’s salon. Have you become lost?”

Augustus knew damn well he wasn’t lost. Julian had lived in this hellish house for four years before he’d escaped at the age of one and twenty. “I stopped in the library to look for a book.”

“A book?” The old man’s expression metamorphosed from one of pretended kindly concern to one of sly amusement. “Perhaps one of… licentious drawings? Is that the book you were interested in?”

“Yes,” he replied without inflection. He could not give away the girl’s presence in the library, even if it meant humiliation in front of his uncle.

The duke cocked his head like a curious robin—or a feral dog about to attack. “You should be careful of such base desires. I’ve known them to wreck a man.”

Julian felt a chill down his spine. He’d made sure to indulge his sexual requirements only in the country and in secret. If his uncle ever realized what Julian craved, the duke would destroy him with the information.

The duke continued, “You must’ve been bored waiting in the library.” The old man’s smile widened until he grinned maliciously. “I expect it was disappointing when my maid Peg McDonald didn’t come.”

Julian stilled. Peg was dead. He knew it as certainly as if he’d witnessed her death. Julian felt hot rage boil within his chest—at his uncle, at himself for imperiling the woman. But he contained his anger, tamping the feeling down, locking it behind iron walls of indifference.

He would not give his uncle the pleasure of his heartache. Augustus fed upon others’ grief, their terror and rage. Julian had learned long ago to never show emotion.

“Your maid?” Julian asked in a deadened tone. “Perhaps your mind is softening with age, Your Grace. I do not meet with servants.”

His uncle’s face twisted with fury before he spat, “Just as well since she seems to have disappeared.”

“Pity.” Julian calmly held Augustus’s gaze. “If you’ll excuse me? I’m late already to Her Grace’s party.”

“Of course.” Augustus moved aside. “Enjoy the tea and my wife’s clever conversation.”

Julian brushed against the savage old man as he passed. He was two strides away when the duke spoke behind him. “Oh, and Julian?”

He froze before slowly turning to look back at his uncle.

Augustus smiled. “I think it’s about time Lucretia married, don’t you?”

Julian breathed slowly, watching the old man.

His uncle chuckled softly. “And I’ve found the most marvelous bridegroom. I think you’ll be most surprised.”

The duke was too delighted with himself. Julian knew that the nameless man was someone entirely wrong for Lucretia.

He felt the impact of the duke’s words. Inside he was growling, fighting down the urge to wrap his hands around the old man’s throat and squeeze until Augustus choked on his own bile. Outwardly he turned without comment and continued down the hall.

He must’ve walked automatically, for he stopped at the doors to the pink salon without remembering how he’d arrived.

Julian blinked. The duchess’s tea had been an excuse, a reason, should he need it, for being in Windemere House. But now he felt a desperate urge to see his sisters in person. To make sure they were alive and well.

He pushed the tall painted doors open.

The pink salon was a huge room. The walls were a deep, shrieking pink, embellished with light-gray plaster bas-reliefs of flower baskets. If one had the misfortune to look up, a ceiling entirely painted with Roman figures at a banquet assaulted the eyes.

The Romans were pink, white, sky blue, and gold, a rococo excess.

At the far end of the salon, a group of ladies were gathered, their silk gowns almost as colorful as the ceiling. Julian could see his sisters sitting together, their shining black hair in contrast to the rest of the party.

He breathed, feeling his chest loosen, and walked toward them.

As Julian approached, a ridiculous Italian greyhound ran at him and attempted to shred his stockings by jumping at his legs.

Julian deftly caught the animal and continued his progress, stopping before his sister Messalina. “Yours, I presume?”

Messalina glanced up, the gloss of her ebony hair reflecting the light. “Oh, Daisy!”

The puppy wriggled happily.

Daisy had taken an idiotic liking to Julian—despite his best effort to dissuade the animal. For a moment he curled his fingers into his velvet-soft fur, wishing…

Then Julian dropped the puppy onto his sister’s lap.

He turned to his hostess, making a leg. “Your Grace, I beg your forgiveness for my tardiness.”

Ann Greycourt, the Duchess of Windemere—and Augustus’s third wife—was only three and twenty, a full decade younger than Julian. She was a pale, rather retiring girl who looked too delicate to survive his uncle’s Machiavellian machinations.

Ann gazed at Julian with a rather nervous smile. “Not at all. Not at all. I’m so glad you came.”

He nodded at his sisters. “Messalina. Lucretia. Good day.”

Messalina, the elder, smiled as she fed a tidbit to Daisy.

Lucretia glanced at him, and Julian rejoiced at the bored expression in her pretty gray eyes. She didn’t know. She had no fear.

“I didn’t think you were invited,” she drawled.

Lucretia’s skirts twitched as if Messalina had kicked her in the shin. No matter. He cared not that his sisters thought him cold and uninterested. It was better, in fact, that he maintain the facade.

He was their shield, standing between them and Augustus.

“Indeed I was invited,” he replied dryly.

Messalina cleared her throat. “Have you met everyone here, Brother?”

At his no, she began the usual introductions, which were rightfully the duchess’s duty.

He glanced at Ann and found her slowly angling her hand in a sunbeam, perhaps to make the ring on her finger sparkle. Poor girl. Marriage to the duke could not be enjoyable. Augustus wanted a child badly. As it stood, Julian himself was the duke’s heir—a fact he enjoyed rubbing in his uncle’s face.

Julian returned to the introductions to bow and bow again. The names and faces were a blur of words and feminine giggles until Messalina came to the last woman.

The room seemed to quiet.

“Have you met Lady Elspeth de Moray?” Messalina asked with a warning stare at Julian as a familiar face looked up at him.

De Moray.

The girl from the library was a de Moray. The sister of Ranulf de Moray.

His enemy.

He returned Messalina’s glower with a small arch of his eyebrow. Did his sister think he’d become violent at the name?

Julian turned deliberately to examine the de Moray girl. She was plumper than was fashionable. Her generously round hips overflowed the seat of her chair, and her pillowed breasts pushed against her stays as if they wanted freeing. She had full cheeks, pink against her white skin, and her hair was a glorious blond red like the dawn of a new day.

A smile played about her lush lips.

He felt his own mouth tighten. “We haven’t been introduced.”

Messalina nodded. “Lady Elspeth, my brother, Julian Greycourt.”

Lady Elspeth’s blue eyes held the hint of a merry twinkle, which Julian didn’t like at all. What had she been doing in his uncle’s library? He realized she’d never given him an answer. How very suspicious.

He bowed and took her hand, soft and white, in his. “An honor, my lady.”

His lips brushed the air over her knuckles, and for a fleeting second, he wanted to put his mouth to her hand and discover the taste of her skin.

Madness.

He straightened.

“I trust your delay in arriving wasn’t caused by something dire?” the minx asked with an innocent air.

The only empty chair was next to hers. He sat, his gaze never leaving hers. “Not at all. My horse wasn’t saddled when I asked for it.”

“Oh, you have a horse,” she replied nonsensically, her eyes softening. “What sort?”

What was she about? “A bay mare.”

She smiled, and the room seemed to grow a little brighter. “And her name?”

He cleared his throat. “Octavia.”

Lady Elspeth tilted her head, gravely considering. “The Greycourt family does seem rather fond of ancient Roman names. Save for Daisy, of course.”

“Obviously.” He turned pointedly to watch their hostess pour the tea. But the scent of wild roses seemed to tap at his shoulder, keeping him aware of the woman beside him.

Across the gathering, Lucretia sighed. “I can’t think why our ancestors considered it a good idea to use Roman names. There are only so many, after all, and quite a few made famous by tragedy. I mean Lucretia , of all people.”

“My namesake isn’t much better,” Messalina murmured. “But it’s tradition, dear.”

Lucretia snorted, and they were off, debating names and ancient figures. He felt a swelling of not-unfamiliar affection for the two.

“Sugar?” Ann asked, holding a tiny, delicate teacup.

“No. Thank you, Your Grace.” Julian took the dish of tea.

Beside him, Lady Elspeth shifted. He imagined her body heat warmed his side. “I don’t understand how you can drink tea alone without sugar or milk. It’s far too bitter.”

“Perhaps I enjoy bitterness,” he replied. Of course, he wouldn’t taste the tea in Windemere House. Even if Ann looked innocent enough, he knew better than to trust anyone under Augustus’s power.

He could feel Lady Elspeth glance at him, but he kept his gaze steadfastly on Lucretia.

Lady Elspeth took a breath. “That seems rather self-defeating.”

“Do you think so?” He finally turned to her and found those wide blue eyes far too close. He steeled himself and straightened away. “But then you know nothing about me, my lady.”

She nodded. “I think that’s why I have the desire to peel you apart like an orange. Surely your insides must be sweet?”

He clenched his fists, fighting down any physical reaction. “I doubt anyone has ever described me as sweet.”

“No? But that only makes me more curious about what you hide at your center.” She cocked her head, and for a moment, he had the awful sensation that she could see inside him. “Of course, I know a few things about you.” She looked as if she was fighting a smile. Was she mocking him? “I know you can move very fast up a ladder.”

“Hush,” he breathed. Was she mad? It was her reputation that would be ruined if it came out that they’d been alone together in the library.

She raised her eyebrows, murmuring lower, “Are you so humorless, Mr. Greycourt?”

He stiffened. “I don’t have time for humor.”

“Don’t you?” She sounded almost pitying now, and he shot a sharp glance at her. She shrugged. “I think humor is the spice to our days, Mr. Greycourt. It makes everything that much livelier. That much more delightful.”

This time he didn’t bother answering her, giving her his shoulder.

Across the table, the ladies were chattering about hats or some other frippery. Lucretia picked up another dainty cake from one of the plates before them—her third since he’d entered the room. His lips softened. His youngest sister had been fond of sweet things ever since she’d been a child.

As was he.

But Julian knew better—any sort of indulgence was a weakness waiting to be exploited.

Lady Elspeth leaned forward to make her own selection from the tray of treats—a confection of pink sugar roses atop a tiny cake. He watched, appalled, as Lady Elspeth ignored her fork and brought the cake to her lips with her fingers. Julian swallowed. What would the icing taste like licked from her fingers, sweet sugar and her? The thought was too sensual. Too tempting in every way.

He was so intent on his thoughts, he almost missed her next words. “I suppose you haven’t time for pleasure, either.” Her voice was low for a woman’s, almost husky. “I’m afraid it rather begs the question what you do have time for. Perhaps your horse. Or a dog. Do you have a dog?”

“No,” he bit out. Not since I was seventeen.

He had to get hold of his mind.

Focus on what his uncle had revealed of his plan for Lucretia. Augustus was head of the family and he had the power to force Lucretia into marriage. Just as he had done only two months ago when he’d made Messalina marry Gideon Hawthorne—a disastrous misalliance. Hawthorne had been Augustus’s bullyboy, a violent, immoral man who had emerged from the manure pile of one of the seediest areas of London: St Giles.

“No dog,” mused Lady Elspeth beside him, persistent as a kitten begging for attention, her needle-sharp claws pricking and scratching his skin. “Of course not. Too frivolous, I suppose.” Did she wish to draw blood? “I have noticed some London gentlemen—and ladies—quite interested in tobacco. Do you smoke or snort or otherwise take tobacco?”

As it had turned out, Hawthorne had not been quite as awful as expected. Messalina appeared to be smitten with the man—proving that Julian would never understand the inner workings of women, let alone his sisters.

“Perhaps cards?” Lady Elspeth murmured, her voice lowering to an unbearable purr. “Or books? I did, after all, meet you in a library.”

But the fact remained: Julian had been out of town when Augustus had forced the union. Julian had arrived far too late to help Messalina.

He’d been useless. Too far away, too distracted by—

“The sensual arts?”

His head whipped about at her whisper.

Her eyes widened at his sudden movement. “ Oh. ”

“That is not a subject for unmarried ladies,” he said sternly.

She looked both surprised and innocent, but perhaps she was an actress. “Isn’t it?”

What was she playing at? “Of course not.”

Everyone must be looking at him. He felt heated by the combined stares. He slid his gaze about the circle of women, but no one seemed to have noticed their little exchange.

When his eyes returned to Lady Elspeth, he found himself the object of her too-intent inspection. “How very interesting,” she said, her sky-blue eyes trailing from his neck to his chest to somewhere about his belly. “One would never think from your cool exterior that you might be a liber—”

“Hush.”

Sparks had trailed behind her gaze, flying perilously close to dry tinder. He felt as if he might go up in a blaze at any minute.

“Your words and thoughts are intemperate, my lady,” he replied coldly, and for a fleeting moment, he saw the flare of hurt in her face.

He made himself ignore her dismay. Julian stood and bowed to the duchess. “Your Grace, you must forgive me, for I have a pressing matter to attend to.”

He barely waited for Ann’s confused nod before striding from the room and heading for the front door.

Outside, Octavia waited patiently for him under the supervision of a groom. Behind her was a large carriage with no emblem. Two shifty-eyed men lounged on the box while an enormous brute picked his teeth by the side.

Gideon Hawthorne’s men.

Julian would never like his sister’s husband, but he had to admit Hawthorne made sure Messalina—and by extension Lucretia—was well guarded.

Julian nodded to the big man by the carriage and turned to mount Octavia. For the moment, Lucretia was safe.

He just had to make sure she stayed that way.

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