Chapter 4

FOUR

“ I t’s very…empty.”

A few minutes later, I found myself standing in the lobby of the British Library. Otherwise known as Mecca.

And there wasn’t a soul here.

I turned, trying not to notice the way my heels echoed in the great hall. “Xavi, where is everyone? They aren’t closed, are they?”

It didn’t make sense. The main doors had been open, after all.

Xavier shrugged, even as he stared up at the ceilings, taking in the sheer enormity of the place. I had a feeling he hadn’t ever been here either, despite growing up in this city.

“Today’s a bank holiday,” he said. “I simply requested they open a few rooms for us instead of closing completely.”

I blinked. “Open a few rooms.”

Meaning, what, the entire block-spanning complex? I didn’t even want to think about how much essentially renting out one of the largest libraries in the world must have cost him. Or what kinds of favors he’d have to repay.

“Good evening.”

We turned to find an approaching woman in a tweed skirt, hair in a bun, glasses perched on her nose, and a pair of oxford shoes that clipped noisily as she walked across the stone floors. She looked like she had stepped out of a BBC series where she was playing a bookish extra in the background.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” she said, nodding in Xavier’s direction.

“Xavier, please,” he replied, tensing slightly at the address as he reached out to shake her hand. “Or, Mr. Parker, if you must.”

“Mmm.” The woman did not seem to approve. “I am Edith Willoughby, Chief Librarian of the British Library. And this is your wife, I take it?”

“Girlfriend,” Xavier said shortly.

“I—yes,” I confirmed, too gobsmacked by the woman addressing us to notice Xavier’s quickness to correct her.

This wasn’t just someone who spent her days reshelving books or creating Dewey Decimal labels. Edith Willoughby was in charge of some of the greatest treasures of the English language at one of the largest caches in the world. Her being here was like having the President of the United States substitute for a tour guide at the White House.

“Very nice to meet you,” I told her.

Ms. Willoughby nodded primly, though she did not return the compliment. “Our collections are entirely at your disposal for the next three hours. However, per His Grace’s instruction, we have prepared the requested materials in the Manuscripts Reading Room. Come with me, please.”

She turned on her heel, leaving us no choice but to follow her up the steps of the entrance hall.

“Bit stuffy, isn’t she?” Xavier whispered.

“Shh,” I reprimanded. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”

For that, I received a cheeky smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

So this was what it felt like to be with the bad boy in high school, I thought with a thrill. I’d always been the girl too busy reading to get mixed up with the wrong crowd.

“You sound like a naughty schoolboy,” I told him.

“Well, I’m always naughty with you, aren’t I?”

As if to demonstrate, Xavier reached behind me to pinch my backside, causing me to emit a squeak that echoed off the tall ceilings. I stifled a giggle when Ms. Willoughby looked over her shoulder at us and quickened her pace.

We were led to a room on the vast second floor of the library, our footsteps immediately quieted on a layer of thick green carpet, atop which rows of reading of carrels lay waiting under high boxed ceilings.

In the center of the room, a number of desks had been laid with a variety of materials, including what looked like several letters, at least three manuscripts, some kind of transcribed music, a box with a flower drawn on the top, and a portable wooden desk opened with a pair of glasses inside.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said the librarian, holding out two pairs of white gloves—a smaller set for me and a large set for Xavier.

I took them eagerly, curious to explore the treasures laid out. Then I peeked up at Xavier, who was frowning while he tugged on the gloves. “What have you done?”

He bit his bottom lip and offered a mischievous half-smile. “Can’t you tell yet?”

“Please keep the manuscripts on their cradles at all times,” Ms. Willoughby instructed. “I shall wait at the desk if you have any questions. These are national treasures. So…do be careful.” She opened her mouth like she wanted to say more. It was clear she was very hesitant about allowing either of us to touch the things she’d set out. “Please,” she finished, then left us to explore.

“How did you do this?” I wondered, approaching the tables. “You need a pass to access these rooms. My friend did research for her dissertation here, and she said there’s an interview and everything.”

I tread carefully, feeling like I was disturbing someone’s grave or something equally taboo.

Xavier just shoved his hands deep into his pockets and smirked, watching me look around. “One thing I’ve learned: there’s no door you can’t open for the right price. In London or anywhere else.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, honestly. Some things were sacred, in my opinion. I didn’t think access to Shakespeare’s folios or the Magna Carta should be granted based on the size of one’s wallet.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take advantage of the opportunity while I had it. It wasn’t until I read one of the letters between a sister and her brother, detailing news from home and hopes for a novel meant to meet the success of P. and P. , that I realized what I was looking at.

I jerked up when I saw the familiar signature at the end. “Xavi.”

Hands clasped behind his back, his gaze was firmly on me, not the manuscripts. “Hmm?”

“Did you—is this—this is the Jane Austen collection, isn’t it?”

Xavier blinked, cheeks ruddy. “Just might be.”

“Xavi!”

Finally, his full grin emerged. “Like it?”

“Like it?” I mimicked back.

In response, I received a laugh of pure joy before he pulled me close to deliver a brief but forceful kiss.

“Oh my God,” I murmured. “Not in front of the letters!”

He laughed again, then kissed me once more before releasing me.

“I just like to see you happy,” he said. “Now try on those specs. If I’m a naughty schoolboy, I want to see what you look like as a naughty librarian.”

I shook my head; all jokes evaporated as I looked at the glasses sitting on the desk my favorite author of all time may have used to write some of her novels. The idea that such greatness had even touched it—that she might have even worn those exact spectacles while dreaming of Mansfield Park made me shiver, like I’d seen a ghost. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Scaredy cat.”

I turned. “I am not.”

“Are too. It’s a pair of glasses, Ces. What do you think would happen—the police appear and arrest you for sitting? Break a rule for once.”

“I—but she’s—but they belong to?—”

“Do it for me.” Xavier delivered another quick smack to my backside. “Otherwise no supper for you.”

I glanced between him and the glasses, torn between seeing that smile on his face once more and obeying my desire to follow the rules.

To absolutely no one’s surprise—not even mine—Xavier won.

We perused the collection for nearly an hour. Well, I perused the collection. Xavier just perused me, apparently content to watch me read, listen to me yammer on about Austen trivia, and noodle on his phone while he waited.

For once, I didn’t care about any inconvenience I might have caused. After all, this was a gift, a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I wanted to soak it up for as long as I could. I was utterly fascinated by the curves of the wordsmith’s writing, the little notes she left in the margins of the alternate chapters of Persuasion , and the care she took with detail even when corresponding with family. For a few moments, I even sat at the portable writing desk famously gifted to her by her father when she was only twenty. Even at that age, Austen had at least had the belief of her family. He wanted her to continue her passion wherever she went.

I swallowed as I drifted gloved fingers over the fine wood edges. I’d only been four or so when my father died. The same age as Sofia. I had nothing he’d given me—none of us did. And though my mother was still alive, she’d left her children to be raised by their grandmother in what was a warm and loving household but ultimately was still missing the two people who should have been there for us no matter what.

Not like this, I thought, imagining I could feel George Austen’s adoration of his daughter’s talents through the burnished wood—amazing now, even more so from a time when most women were expected to marry rather than work. Certainly not to become professional writers. George Austen supported his daughter in every way he could.

I snuck a glance at Xavier, who was busy answering an email.

Would he have done this for Sofia back then if she were in the same position? Would he have supported her no matter what, loved her even when she didn’t do exactly as he thought?

Would he do that now? For either of us?

When, at last, I had read through the final manuscript, I removed the white gloves and set them next to Xavier’s discarded ones, then decided to do a bit of exploring around the rest of the rare books room before the librarian returned to fetch us. Xavier immediately got up and followed.

“What’s back here, then?” he asked when he caught me examining a full printed version of the Oxford English Dictionary . “Christ, twenty books just listing words? How many are there?”

“I think the last count was somewhere around six hundred thousand,” I said, then found myself humming lightly as I watched him stare at the books with a deeply furrowed brow.

“Mmm?” he wondered when he caught the song.

I chuckled. “Sorry, it’s from a movie.”

Xavier turned, looking adorably confused. “Er—do I want to know?”

“I just feel like Belle right now,” I said as I ran my fingertips over the spines of the books.

“Belle? As in beautiful? Well, you are fucking gorgeous.”

I turned with a smile, unable to contain my blush. “No, I meant the character from Beauty and the Beast .”

Xavier frowned. “As in the fairy tale?”

“The Disney version, yeah. Sofia loves it. Especially the part where they dance in the ballroom.”

“Ah. So it’s one of those movies.”

I nodded, feeling a little sheepish. But I loved it too. After all, what woman didn’t dream of the beast in her life turning into her prince after all?

“There’s this scene,” I said. “Where she really falls in love with him. What she loves more than anything in the world is books, and then he opens these doors, and he gives her an entire library.” I waved my hand around us, as if to demonstrate. “It’s a meme. I don’t know. Maybe you need to see it.”

Xavier didn’t say anything for a few minutes, leaving me to focus on the gold lettering of the dictionary spines as I wandered further into the stacks.

He must have thought I was an idiot, quoting Disney princess movies at him. Simple and childlike.

“So, does that make me the beast?”

When I found the courage to turn back, I found Xavier watching me with a particularly feral expression. The blue of his eyes had disappeared into a deep black. His shoulders seemed even larger than normal.

“I—no—um?—”

With a quickness that belied his size, he strode down the aisle until he stood directly in front of me, caging me against the shelves and forcing me to look up at him. Carefully, he took my chin in his hand and brushed his thumb over my lips, watching its progression like a panther tracking its prey.

“I am a beast,” he said without a trace of humor. It was practically a growl.

“Are—are you?”

I couldn’t really argue. Xavier was anything but tame.

A slight smile cracked, though his focus on my lips didn’t waver. “So, what did the beast do next?”

“I—I don’t remember.” I was having a hard time recalling my own name, much less the plot of a children’s movie.

He tugged my lip, then slid his thumb between my teeth and pulled down slightly, urging me to bite.

I obeyed, slipping my tongue around the salty end of his finger.

His smile was full of teeth.

“I think he ravishes the young girl,” Xavier said as he ran the pad of his finger over the edges of my incisors. “I think he rips off her clothes to examine his prey. Has her right there. Marks her as his own.”

My breath shook. Everything around me was fading away. The books. The art. Everything but this larger-than-life creature and the shadow he cast.

The hand at my mouth dropped down, briefly gripping my neck, then continued a path downward, toying with my neckline, then the buttons just below.

“I reckon he takes whatever the fuck he wants.” His eyes sparked like embers as he watched his hand progress down my chest, pausing to pull lightly at one of my nipples through the thin silk.

I sucked in a harsh breath. “Is—is that so?”

“I don’t think she has a choice.”

Xavier rubbed his stubbled chin over my neck, grazing his teeth over my thumping pulse. His other hand traveled up my leg, slipping under my skirt to find a solid handful of my backside and slip between my thighs, teasing for more.

He squeezed. Hard.

I grabbed his jacket with a gasp as his fingers touched the dampness forming just under the lace that separated me from him. “Xavi.” My voice was a breath.

“Your Grace?”

“Fucking hell,” Xavier growled into my ear.

Forehead against the bookshelf, Xavier swore again under his breath, then pushed away hard enough to make the wood creak and turned his head toward the voice that beckoned. I thanked God his frame was large enough to block me from Edith Willoughby’s shrewd gaze. For some reason, getting the stink eye from the top librarian in the entire UK seemed worse than receiving punishment from the queen herself.

“Dinner is served,” she called across the room.

I relaxed at the sound of her retreating footsteps and took a moment to put myself back together. There would be no helping the rosy flush that was no doubt all over my skin, but at least I could smooth my hair and fix my dress.

When I finished, Xavier was watching me once more with a curious expression.

“What?” I asked. “Is my dress straight? Is my hair sticking out?”

“Is it fucked that I sort of want you to walk out there a mess?” he wondered with a sheepish expression. “I’d mark you all over too if I could. Maybe I am a beast after all.”

He reached out to brush my hair off my neck, his fingers lingering over the spot on my neck where his mouth had been. No doubt there was already a bruise forming in the shape of his mouth.

He looked so guilty, but I couldn’t help but smile as I finished patting things into place. Then I popped up on my toes to give him a quick kiss, which he immediately turned into something a bit more.

“Maybe you are,” I said against his lips when he finally let me go. “But you’re my beast, aren’t you?”

God, I wanted it to be true.

That rare grin reemerged, lighting up the dim room. “Damn right, I am. Now let’s go. This beast needs to feed his girl and get her into bed, pronto.”