Chapter Eight

C HAPTER E IGHT

“The woman I love,” Sabinus said, “is called Christina.”

And with that all Lady Long-Nose’s hopes came falling to the ground.

“She is shy,” Sabinus continued, “and I wonder if you might do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Lady Long-Nose whispered.

“Can you become her friend?” asked her love.

—From Lady Long-Nose

Julian woke to an insistent knocking at his bedroom door the next morning. He squinted, taking in the cold, dark room, confused for a second as to where he was.

Then he remembered that he was at Adders. That he was looking for his mother’s secret book. That the girl he’d hired hadn’t arrived.

And he was stuck here with Lady Elspeth.

He groaned as the knocking started up again. Perhaps this was a good sign. Perhaps the maid or the cook had returned.

“Enter!” he called.

The door opened to reveal Lady Elspeth holding a tray. Walking into his bedroom. With him in the bed.

Dear God. Could anyone be this innocent?

“It’s night,” he rasped. “What do you want?”

“It’s not, actually,” she replied with far too much cheerfulness. He noticed that the dog had followed her in. “Night, that is. According to the clock in the kitchens, it’s already seven in the morning.”

With that she threw back the curtains.

Julian shuddered, wincing away from the light, feeble though it was. “Seven of the clock is not a civilized hour of the day. Why are you awake? Why are you in my room?”

He thought he heard her laugh. He definitely heard the chink of china as she set something on the table beside his bed. “I’m awake because seven in the morning is a lovely time of the day—as is six in the morning, when I rose.”

“ Six? ” he muttered, appalled.

“And I’m in your room because I’ve brought you tea.”

He turned his head and found her beaming at him like a small, overly happy sun. “Oh God.”

She cocked her head. “Do you always braid your hair?”

He blinked, sitting up. “It tangles in the night if I don’t.” What was he doing having a conversation with her in his bedroom about his toilet?

“It is very long,” she mused, handing him a dish of tea. “Your hair must be beautiful when you let it out. Like Rapunzel’s!”

He nearly choked on the tea. “Lady Elspeth, I—”

“Elspeth.”

He looked at her.

“You called me Elspeth last night,” she reminded him.

He sighed. “ Elspeth. I am not—”

“Well, no,” she blithely interrupted, “you aren’t Rapunzel. And you’re certainly not the prince.”

His heart contracted painfully.

She drew a chair next to the bed and sat down. “You’re more like a sorcerer living deep in the woods in a lonely castle all by himself. Perhaps with a magical raven as a familiar.”

“You’re babbling.”

She looked hurt. She’d leave now—he’d driven her away—and he realized suddenly that he didn’t want her to go.

“I beg your pardon,” he said gruffly. “I should not have said that.”

She inclined her head gravely. “No, but I forgive you. One shouldn’t take anything said before the first cup of tea seriously.”

He glanced at his cup to find it half-full. “Have you had your tea yet?” He drank the rest of his cup and handed it to her.

“Mm.” She took the cup. “More?”

“Please.” He watched her pour, her small, soft hands competent and sure. This was oddly domestic, sitting here, too early in the morning, with her.

With Elspeth.

She gave him the cup and then studied him, her face solemn. “I am sorry, you know. That Lucretia had to leave without bidding you farewell. And that we hadn’t the time to tell you beforehand.”

He glanced at her and then away. He’d been so angry that night at the ball. In fear for his sister, enraged that Mulgrave had gotten the best of him… “No.” He cleared his throat before meeting her gaze. “I’m the one who should apologize. Lucretia needed to leave, and it was good that you found someone to take her.” He hesitated. “Although I would like to know who this person was.”

“A friend.” She bit her lip. “I can’t tell you more.”

He nodded, though the answer left him greatly unsatisfied.

Elspeth clapped her hands into the silence, startling the poor dog. “What shall you do today?”

He glanced at the window. Gray clouds covered the sky, and rain had begun to spit against the glass, the day so dark it looked like evening instead of morning. “I have work to do. In the library.”

“Really?” She sat up straighter. “Can I help?”

His first inclination was to deny her. To keep secret his plan and his thoughts as he had done with everyone for years. But what was the point, really? He no longer thought she worked for Augustus—the idea had been tenuous from the start—and she could help him. “I’m looking for a book.”

She stilled as if caught off guard. “What sort of book?”

He grimaced. “A book hidden within a book, if my information is correct. My mother made some notations, but she wrote them inside a book to hide them. I’m not sure what it even looks like.”

She tilted her head. “Why now?”

“What?”

“Well,” she said slowly, as if thinking through an equation, “you’ve been master of Adders Hall for quite some time, haven’t you?”

“Since my mother died,” he replied gruffly.

She nodded, her smile entirely gone now. “So why decide to look now?”

He took a sip of his tea, watching her over the cup’s edge. “I only learned about the book recently. From a former maid of my mother’s.”

She gazed at him, obviously waiting for more.

It was tempting. Very tempting. Just to open his mouth and tell her everything. Spill his secrets and let them live or die in the light of day.

But caution had stood beside him so long, it had welded itself to his very soul.

He remained silent.

“Well,” she said at last, “I can certainly help you search the library, at least. That is, if you don’t mind.” Her eyes were oddly intense.

He didn’t entirely trust her. And she had some sort of obsession with libraries that he didn’t understand yet.

She’d presumed too much, traveled here alone in some sort of outrageous quest. Her being here with him at Adders was far beyond the pale. He most certainly should rebuke her.

He should tell her that he didn’t need her, didn’t want her near him.

But that would be a lie.

He found himself saying, “Very well.”

Her dimples made a reappearance as she smiled at him, her sky-blue eyes alight with excitement. Something in his chest squeezed hard, and he realized.

If anyone in this room was a sorcerer, it was she.

Elspeth surveyed the kitchen, hands on hips. She’d come down to discover what there might be for breakfast while Mr. Greycourt was dressing in his bedroom.

Her mind caught for a moment, snagged by the thought of bedrooms and dressing and Mr. Greycourt’s long, nimble fingers.

Then she shook herself and reined in her thoughts.

Breakfast!

Mrs. McBride had made bread yesterday, and two loaves still stood in the kitchen cupboard, but Adders was chilly with the weather still damp and gloomy. Something hot was needed. She searched the kitchen, peering in bins until she found what she was looking for. By the time Mr. Greycourt arrived, she had a pot of porridge popping over the fire and Plum lying by the fire enjoying the heat.

He halted just inside the doorway. “Oatmeal?” His voice was not enthusiastic.

“Yes,” Elspeth briskly replied, lifting the pot off the hook over the fire. “I know Mr. Johnson says the English only feed their oats to horses, but I grew up in Scotland, where we are canny enough to eat it ourselves.”

He grunted and sat at the big, scarred kitchen table. Plum immediately got up from the hearth and trotted to his side to see if Mr. Greycourt had any food to give him.

Elspeth almost called the dog back. Mr. Greycourt had made it very clear that he didn’t like dogs. But then she noticed he was caressing Plum’s head.

She opened her mouth and then shut it again firmly. She had the idea that if she drew attention to the petting, Mr. Greycourt would deny it.

Instead she spooned the oatmeal into two dishes and added pats of butter to both. “There,” she said as she placed the bowls on the table. “Doesn’t that smell good?”

Mr. Greycourt, sitting across from her, looked dubious.

She pushed a little covered clay pot toward him. “Some like honey in it.”

“Ah.” He stirred a spoonful of honey into the oatmeal and took a bite, his brow clearing. “Palatable.”

“Thank you.” She felt a smile play about her lips. “Palatable” might not be the most enthusiastic of compliments, but if she waited for enthusiasm from him, she had a feeling she might grow gray hair first. She plopped a large spoonful of honey in her bowl. “I’ve always thought oatmeal the best breakfast on cool mornings.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you eat it every day in Scotland?”

“No.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Kippers are nice as well, as are boiled eggs, and scones with lots of butter are lovely.”

He was still watching her, his gray eyes intent, his oatmeal seemingly forgotten. “I wasn’t aware that the Dukes of Ayr were fond of oatmeal.”

“Oh.” She looked down at her oatmeal, stirring slowly as the honey disappeared. “No, I don’t remember if Papa ate oatmeal, and I don’t really know what Ranulf eats to break his fast.” She cleared her throat. She’d have to ask him in her next letter. “But you see, after Papa died, we moved to the north of Scotland.”

“With a relative?”

“Yes.” She was careful of her words. “With Papa’s sister, my aunt Hilda. She took Freya, Caitriona, and me to live with her. Lachlan, and of course Ranulf, stayed behind.”

The parting had been hard, she remembered. She’d cried as their carriage drew away.

“Why ‘of course’?” he asked lightly.

She darted a glance at him, but his face seemed without guile. “Well, they had to manage the dukedom, hadn’t they?” Not to mention that the Wise Women didn’t like the introduction of boys who were nearly men.

He stared at her a moment longer as if waiting for more information, but she merely took a large bite of the oatmeal.

Julian glanced down at his bowl. “Was she nice? Your aunt.”

Elspeth swallowed hastily. “Aunt Hilda was marvelous! She was a bit gruff—she’d been burned in a fire, you see, and lost someone very dear to her—but she was kind and loving. She taught us to ride and to fence and to cook. Arithmetic, history, and geography. She read to us every night as we lay in bed, and she would lead us in discussions about all sorts of things—the metamorphosis of butterflies, poetry, the philosophies of Aristotle, Isaac Newton, and René Descartes, and the movement of the planets and stars.” She stopped to take a breath.

“An unusual education for a duke’s daughter,” he said softly.

She glanced at him, startled. “Perhaps by society’s standard. It seemed very normal when I lived there. We had a huge fireplace that we could all sit around at night, telling stories or reading from a book. When I went for a ramble, I’d climb the highest hill nearby, and if it was a clear day, I could see the sea. It was so beautiful.” A sudden wave of homesickness swept her. She’d loved those hills.

And her friends and family who lived there. But most of them were gone now, she realized with a pang. Freya, Caitriona, Rikvi…

Mr. Greycourt’s voice brought Elspeth out of her thoughts. “Is your aunt still there?”

Elspeth stared at him a moment before her eyes dropped to the table. “She died when I was twelve. I loved her very much.”

All gone. All the Wise Women whom she loved and admired.

The ones who remained up in Scotland didn’t hold the same values as she.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Greycourt said. “Who cared for you after her death?”

The Wise Women, of course, but she could hardly tell him that. “She had friends. Aunt Hilda, that is. They took us in, and Freya was eighteen by that point. Old enough to care for me as well.”

There was a silence, and she wondered if Mr. Greycourt was suspicious of her vague reply.

But he said only, “That’s good. I hope you were happy?”

“Yes,” she assured him, for he seemed to need it. “I had a happy childhood.”

He nodded and took another bite of the oatmeal before saying, “My sisters were sent to live with an elderly relative when my mother died.”

She blinked, for he was telling her about his family without her nagging him to do so. “Were… were they happy as well?”

His face went blank, what little expression he’d been holding disappearing entirely. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t they tell you?” she asked softly.

He glanced up at her and then down again at his bowl. “No. I tried to write letters, but I was dissuaded from that immediately.”

How had he been dissuaded ? Her brows knit. “Were you not at this relative’s house as well?”

“No.” His mouth twisted. “My uncle felt that Quintus and I should be in London with him at Windemere House. Messalina and Lucretia were lucky—my mother sent them away right before she succumbed to her illness.”

She took a sip of tea to steady herself. “And the Duke of Windemere dissuaded you from contacting your sisters?”

“Hm.”

“That’s terrible,” she breathed, appalled.

“No, not at all.” He pushed away his oatmeal only half-finished and stood. “I was seventeen—a man grown. And Quintus was there as well at Windemere House. I hardly needed missives from my younger sisters to survive.”

“But…,” she started. He was already walking away. She called to him, “But survival is a mere minimum in life. There is so much more!”

He halted at the kitchen doorway. “Is it? I wouldn’t know.”

And with that he left.

Elspeth scowled down at her bowl as she ferociously ate the remainder of her porridge. Surely, Julian didn’t believe that. Surely, he had some happiness in life?

But as she thought about it, she wasn’t sure. He wasn’t close to his sisters. She’d noticed no friends around him. He really didn’t smile…

She stood and stomped her foot, making Plum look up at the sound.

That was no way to live—hoping only for survival. Stupid man! Did he not understand that there was so much to enjoy in life? That there was more than duty and grimly marching through his days?

She gathered the dishes and brought them to the hearth. A pot was already simmering over the fire. Elspeth took it down, added cold water, and scrubbed the dishes clean.

He needed to understand.

But why was she so disturbed by Mr. Greycourt’s philosophy of life? Did it matter to her if he was unhappy? If he had no one to love him?

It did. It really did matter to her.

She sat for a moment unseeing. She had a mission—a direly important mission. But wasn’t a person’s life just as important?

Wasn’t Julian’s life important?

Yes, it was.

Elspeth blinked and realized she was still crouching by the kitchen fire and the pot of dirty water in front of her.

She rose, shook out the apron she’d pinned to her dress that morning, and threw the slop water outside.

It was past time she went to the library—if she wasn’t wrong, both Julian and Maighread’s diary awaited her there.

Mother had been quite ingenious to hide her notes within a book. Obviously, it had been overlooked by Augustus when the crates of books had been sent to Adders.

A shame her notes were equally hidden to him.

Julian sighed, looking up at the tall bookcases lining the room. They rose nearly to the ceiling, at least as tall as those in the library in Windemere. But there was no walkway at Adders, just a narrow, too-long ladder. He squinted. Would the blasted thing even hold him?

He heard the swish of Elspeth’s skirts behind him, but he didn’t turn. Bad enough that he kept remembering that one kiss—the coolness of her lips in the early morning, the flush of her face when he lifted his head.

The sight of her breasts straining against her stays under the poorly tied shawl.

He shook his head.

She cleared her throat behind him, a quiet ahem-hem , and truly whom was he bamming? He’d never be able to ignore her once she entered a room.

Julian turned to find her smiling hesitantly at him, which was patently wrong. Elspeth should never feel worried about her welcome. She wore a plain blue jacket made of ordinary wool and a tan skirt. Her skirt fell at her ankles more like a working woman’s than an aristocrat’s. A white kerchief was tucked in the bodice. He’d never seen a lady wear such a practical costume.

And he wanted her. Wanted to pull the concealing fichu from her pretty titties. Wanted to open his mouth over her nipples. Wanted to throw up her skirts and find her center.

Worse, he wanted her to command him to do so.

“Erm…” Her cheeks had pinkened. Did she know his thoughts? She drew a breath as if to steady herself. “I thought we should take Caesar’s advice and divide and conquer.” She cleared her throat again. “The library, I mean.”

He dragged his mind back to his purpose. “You’ll help me?”

“Of course,” she replied. “And in return, I’d like to look for a book.”

Ahhh. Now he might find out what she had been doing in all those libraries. “What book?”

Her eyes slid to the left. “An… old book.” She brightened. “A family heirloom, in fact. Legend has it that the book is in the Greycourt libraries.”

The book might be old, but the rest of her tale? Unlikely.

Cheek, assuming he’d help her steal an unnamed book from his library.

He’d waited too long to answer her, and now her smile had fled her face. He had grown used to that smile.

“Very well,” he replied. “But I may have trouble looking for a book without description, title, or author.”

“Oh.” Her brows drew together as she thought. Probably deciding how much to tell him.

Behind her, Plum nosed open the library door and made his way to the hearth, heaving a heavy sigh as he lay down.

Elspeth came to a decision. “It’s a diary. Handwritten.”

Why would a diary be such a secret? Perhaps it had information that was detrimental to the de Morays, he thought cynically.

“And it came from the Greycourt estates in the north of England?” he asked. “In the box of books my mother sent me?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I only know it’s in one of the Greycourt libraries.”

“Very well,” he said. “I take it you were searching for this diary yesterday?”

Her cheeks pinkened, but she said sturdily enough, “Yes.”

“And you were only looking for a handwritten book?”

“Yes.”

He’d expected as much. If she’d only glanced at the first couple of pages and seen a printed book, she could’ve easily missed his mother’s writing. “Then you’ll need to check the books you inspected yesterday in case one of them has my mother’s writing. Which part of the library did you start in?”

“There.” She waved to the right of the door.

“Very well. You research that area,” he said. “And I’ll begin on the opposite side.” He pointed to the bookshelves on the right of the fireplace. “If we search clockwise, then we will cover the entire library.”

“Very well,” she said behind him.

He picked up a desk—a little spindly thing—and brought it near the fireplace, setting it so that he could see Elspeth out of the corner of his eye. Then he took ten books from the bottom shelf and began his work.

It was tedious. The books were spotted and dusty, and there seemed to be too many books by obscure poets—obscure for a reason. He had to check every one, though. Bad poetry would be just the sort of book his mother would hide her notes in.

She’d loved Shakespeare’s sonnets, and some of the more modern poets. As a boy, he’d had her read as he knelt at her feet, his head on her lap. And when he’d begun to write his own far inferior poems, she’d always praised him. Reading his poems to Father over and over again.

Julian shook his head. That had been long ago, before Augustus had come into their lives and Julian had realized that poems were a liability that could be used against him.

All that was in the past.

Across the room, he noticed that Elspeth was paging through the books that she’d already looked at for her diary. She was faster than he was, soon climbing the ladder for the higher shelves.

He frowned. She’d obviously already climbed that ladder to the highest rung to reach the books near the ceiling, but it was a daunting height. The thought of her missing a step…

He jumped from his seat, striding over as she touched the floor again, carrying a stack of books. “That’s too dangerous.”

She turned, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “You needn’t worry. I don’t have a fear of heights.”

Stubborn, stubborn woman. He glared at her, thinking, before he made up his mind. “I’ll do it.”

Her eyebrows raised. “What?”

He gestured to the ladder. “I’ll take the books up and down the ladder. You look at them. You’re quicker than I am anyway.”

She blinked at him, her cheeks rosy from her exertion. For a moment, he was certain she would make an objection.

Then she nodded, her lips quirking. “We’ll work together.”

She sat on the bare library floor with her armful of books. He started to protest but caught himself. If she wanted to sit on the hard floor when there were plenty of chairs around, she must have her reasons. He didn’t like it, but it was her choice.

They worked in silence for the next half hour, he estimated—for there was no clock in the room. That seemed to be her upper limit, though, for as he was descending with another batch of books, she sighed loudly.

“Do gentlemen often have illustrated books on the marital act?”

He nearly missed a rung. “What?”

He jumped the last steps to the floor and looked at her.

She had a rather large book open on her lap and was examining it with a considering moue. “There was a book like this in your uncle’s house, and now here’s another. Perhaps it’s a family trait?”

He hoped he had nothing at all in common with his uncle.

Julian cleared his voice. “I didn’t acquire the books in here.”

“No,” she said absently, turning a page, “but someone in your family must have.”

This was a dangerous topic. He was already far too aware of her, sitting on the floor, her red-gold hair beginning to fall from its pins, her eyes sparking with interest.

He stifled a groan.

She peered closer at the page, a line between her eyebrows.

It cleared. “Oh. He’s a satyr. That’s his hoof .” She shook her head. “I’m afraid these illustrations are not very good at all.”

“You should…” His voice came out a croak. He cleared it. “You should not be looking at that book.”

Her gaze was startlingly direct when she looked up at him. “Why not?” She leaned her chin on her fist. “If gentlemen want to engage in these actions, shouldn’t a lady be aware of them? How else is she to understand her lover’s needs? How else can she make intelligent choices?”

Her lover’s needs. “I don’t know what you mean.” The hoarseness had returned to his throat.

She tilted her head. “I assume men choose which of these… positions most suit them. They must know of such books. How is it fair if a woman is not even aware of the possibilities? Should she simply rely on her husband’s information?”

Yes. That was exactly what a gentlewoman should do. A lady was supposed to be innocent, unaware of the baser drives of her husband. Unaware of what Elspeth called possibilities .

But the thought… the mere thought of Elspeth examining rude drawings, learning from them what might be…

“What would you do with such information?” he asked too abruptly. Too bluntly. A gentleman should never discuss such things with a lady—especially an unmarried lady.

Yet he had.

“I suppose…” She turned a page and raised her eyebrows at what she saw there. “I suppose I would have to study all the information available. Several sources, ideally, to be quite sure I had a complete knowledge of such things, even if the knowledge wasn’t… practical.”

“And then?” He could feel himself hardening. It was her certainty. Her calm acceptance that she was interested in such things.

In sex.

His cock jerked.

He licked his lips. “And then?”

“That depends.” She smiled a secret smile. One that had been used by women ever since mankind had set foot on earth. “If I had a lover, I would tell him what I wanted.”

“Just like that?” he asked, his voice lowered.

She nodded. “Just like that.”

“What if he didn’t want what you want?”

“Then he could say so, couldn’t he?” She shrugged. “I suppose we wouldn’t match. Wouldn’t be compatible. In which case, I should have to find a man who was aroused by my needs.”

Her gaze dropped from his face, trailing slowly over his chest and belly to pause at the falls to his breeches.

Where his cock strained to be released.

She stared, and he’d never felt anything so erotic. Just her, frankly observing him. She must be able to see the outline of his erection even as it pulsed with new blood. His libido laid bare to her for as long as she pleased.

Every muscle in his body tensed, restrained, unable to move unless she said so.

She sighed softly. “I’d search for a man who yearned for me and what I want. Who craved my touch. A man who put my pleasure above his own.” Her gaze rose until she met his eyes. “Perhaps a man like you.”