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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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Chapter 18
Containing a Lost Parrot
Louisa had promised to add four entries to her Louisa catalogue at this house party. After eight days, she had done nearly all of them.
First: Get kissed.
Indeed. And she'd done the kissing.
Second: Find some interesting new books.
This had gone better than she'd hoped. She'd found an ancient, coded ledger and worked out an alphabet table for deciphering it.
Not to mention she'd read
Fanny Hill.
That had been a revelation.
Third: Make peace between James and Xavier and convince the polite world of my charm.
The second part of that resolution was still underway, though she had made a new friend in Jane. And she'd heard enough from Xavier to convince her that, if he ever told his old friend what he'd told her, James would happily forgive him. Her brother-in-law was a pleasant-natured sort.
Fourth: Get kissed some more.
Oh, yes. There was that.
She had vowed not to lock herself away from the house party, but the day after the outing to ruined Finchley Castle, she was doing precisely that. She had spent the morning flipping idly through books from the stacks she and Jane had created, hoping to distract herself with the familiar comforts of silk-fine vellum and sturdy rag paper, leather-covered boards and hasp bindings, block printing and black lettering.
The history of knowledge surrounded her in stacks, but as a distraction, it failed utterly. Her mind kept flitting away from the pages before her to the gold velvet chaise near the fire. Its spindly mahogany legs held up far too many memories. Far too many temptations. It might as well be speaking to her.
Just once more. Surely you could handle one more interlude. One more burst of passion before you leave for . . . whatever comes next
.
She sank to the floor, heedless of her sprig-muslin gown. Folding her legs beneath her, she tugged a striking volume from one of the tottering stacks she and Jane had created. Velvet over board binding, with gold-thread embroidery. The binding was a work of art in itself.
Yet as her fingers chased the fine-sewn flowers and leaves, she thought only of the gold velvet of the chaise, and Alex sliding his hand up her thigh as she lay back and let her careful world disintegrate.
“That's not how friends behave with one another,” she muttered.
They could be nothing more than friends as long as Alex was determined to play the part of rakish Lord Xavier. Such a role allowed for no leading lady. Eventually she would have to stand aside and let him play the part without her—so how much ought she to risk?
She had already ventured too much. Here she was, sitting amidst stacks of rare and marvelous books, and her mind was too full to devour their secrets.
She laid aside the embroidery-bound book without opening it. Honestly, she ought to beat herself upon the head with it. She was obviously an idiot.
The door was flung open then, thumping against the edge of a bookshelf before swinging shut.
“Good God,” said a familiar male voice. “What has happened to the place?”
Louisa stood to face the man who was currently driving her to consider self-head-bashing.
“Good morning to you,” she said, wiping her dusty hands on her skirts.
“It's after noon,” he replied. “And you may disregard my question. I just recalled that Jane was assisting you a few days ago. Considering that, the level of destruction is no more than moderate.”
It was disconcerting how striking he looked. He'd attired himself in his usual stark palette: black coat and gray waistcoat, white linens and buff breeches. As he wound through stacks of books, he looked as elegant as a man performing a country dance.
Ummmm
.
No. Friends didn't think
ummmm
when they looked at one another.
His foot knocked against one of the stacks and set it to teetering. “Damn. Ah, sorry.”
“Let me guess,” Louisa said, attempting to discipline her thoughts. “You've forgotten your quizzing glass.”
He frowned at her. “I didn't forget it.” He pulled the quizzing glass from a pocket in his waistcoat and spun it in his fingers. The lens was round, the frame of chased silver, with a loop at one end of the thumb-length handle.
“You could string it around your neck,” Louisa suggested. “Then it would be readily at hand.”
His frown deepened. “I prefer not to use it all the time. Besides, I ought to be able to walk around my own house without knocking into things.”
Louisa shrugged. Likely he thought it too unfashionable to peer through a glass all the time, a habit more common in their parents' or grandparents' generations. “I'm afraid the obstacles will be here for a few more days. It will take some time to reorder the books.”
“Do you find that they have potential?” His face was all politeness. “These books, I mean. A brilliant young lady once told me I should not expect more praise than that.”
He was only teasing, she knew, though she could have held on to the word
brilliant
and petted it like a kitten.
“I've found some lovely items, as a matter of fact,” she said. “Since I haven't had the ledger to work on, I've been making some notes on your other holdings.”
“Ah. About the ledger.” Alex shuffled sideways, bumping another stack of books. “Damn. Sorry. I shouldn't have said—
damn it
.”
A tower of morocco-bound volumes had toppled. He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring.
Louisa bit down hard on a laugh. “Don't trouble yourself. My aunt has a wide and colorful vocabulary. Would you like to have a seat?”
“I'd best. I seem to be as destructive as Jane.” He sidled to the gold velvet chaise and sat down.
On the chaise.
That chaise.
“Ohh.” The exclamation popped out unbidden, an embarrassing clue to her thoughts.
Alex met her eyes. “Oh?” His mouth was solemn; his gray eyes burned like heated steel. She was caught, her body all tingles and wishes and quaking desire.
She turned her head away. “You were going to say something about the ledger?”
There was a long pause. Louisa looked determinedly across the width of the room. The windows—she'd look out the windows. At the heavy brocade of the draperies. Anything.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I'd been working at the next portion of text, and Lockwood swiped it from my desk, along with the alphabet key. I didn't think much of it, since it's his family, too—for the most part—but I'll try to get it back.”
He gave a sigh so deep that she turned back to look at him, curious.
His mouth made a wry shape, like a smile ironed flat. “Lockwood is being . . . obstinate. I'm very sorry he harassed you. It won't happen again.”
Gooseflesh broke out on her forearms, but she refused to rub at it. “No. It will not. I was very clear on that point.”
The corners of his lips softened; an expression of such empathy that she felt positively enfolded.
“I told him to leave,” Alex said quietly. “But he refused. I'm not sure I can do more without creating a great scandal.”
“I understand,” Louisa said. “As a host, you must respect the needs of all your guests.”
This was true: she did understand. Rightly, Alex had told Lockwood to leave. If Lockwood refused a direct order from his host, and she was pulled into the scandal of a feud—no, Louisa didn't want that. The very word
scandal
, with its hissing sibilance and harsh consonants, still evoked a visceral reaction, a swift pang of distaste through her whole body.
“Louisa.” He hesitated. “Perhaps you'd better leave instead. For the sake of your reputation.”
The suggestion was eminently reasonable. But if she left, he'd lose his wager with Lockwood.
It had been some time since she'd recalled that Alex had virtually slapped a sum across her chest. She didn't mind the wager now that she knew him better; she could guess how it had come about. He'd been deep into his Xavier role, and someone had baited him, and he'd felt he had something to prove.
Fine.
And yet—as little import as it might hold for her, or him, it held much for Lockwood. In order to force Louisa out of the house, he'd harassed her ever since her arrival. In the ruined castle cellar, he had pushed his prank far beyond the pale.
She couldn't let Lockwood win. He wasn't a man who deserved that kind of power, especially over Alex. He would abuse it. He'd already tried.
“I am here under my aunt's protection, and yours,” she replied. “My reputation will survive. I assure you, I'm most unobtrusive where the
ton
is concerned.”
“Lockwood is determined to bother you, though.” He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, then down the line of his jaw, as though checking whether his face still had its accustomed contours. “I don't want this house party to bring you anything but the fondest memories.”
Unbidden, her eyes wandered over the chaise longue. Yes, she had made some fond memories indeed. When she'd reread the startlingly intimate bits of
Fanny Hill
, she'd understood them far better than the first time.
“Are you concerned that I won't be able to control myself around you?” She meant it as a jest, but her hands misunderstood. They fluttered at her sides, wanting to follow the path his own hand had taken across the planes of his face.
He gave a harsh laugh. “You? That's hardly what's worrying me. Between Lockwood and myself, there's not a safe place for you in this house.”
“I'm not looking for safety.”
“You should be.” He dragged his hand through his hair again.
She shrugged and tapped at a fallen book with her slippered toes. Judging from his example, diversion was the correct action when the conversation took an awkward turn.
One fat little morocco-bound volume splayed open as she knocked it. And she saw—
“A fore-edge painting.”
At any time, a wonder. At this moment, an excuse to snap a thread of talk that was becoming increasingly snarled.
She bent to study the book more closely. She shut the volume and studied the gilt edge, then fanned the pages aslant again. “Alex, do come look. This is remarkable.”
He threaded between stacks of books, his long limbs setting towers wobbling as he settled into a crouch at Louisa's side. She ignored his clean scent of vetiver and starch. Mostly. Her treacherous female parts gave a little squeeze, and she breathed harder as she handed him the book.
He shot her a sideways look, then peered at the title page through his quizzing glass.
“
Life on the
Golden Hinde
, or My Adventure Around the Globe. A Fantastic Account of Sir Francis Drake's Explorations in the New World, As Told by His Parrot.
”
He handed the book back to her. “I must be over-tired. I'm afraid its wonders are hidden from me.”
Louisa smiled. “You are exactly right.” She turned the book so its gilded front faced him, then fanned the pages out into a slant, flexing the paper.
A picture appeared on the angled pages—a small wooden ship, tossed on a stormy sea under moody gray clouds. A winged speck flew about the ship's tallest mast, buffeted by strong winds that lashed waves almost over the deck of the small boat.
Alex ran his fingers over the image. “How did you do that?”
“If you paint on a book while it's held at a slant, just a tiny bit of paint goes on each page. You can't see the painting again unless you hold the pages at the very same angle.”
She shut the book, causing the picture to disappear, then fanned the pages so the storm-tossed parrot and the angry sea reappeared. “It's lovely work, isn't it?”
“Indeed. Very stealthy, too.” He flexed the pages again as she held the book, his fingers almost touching hers. “I am always pleased to find that something is more than it seems.”
“I, too.” Their eyes caught. Yes, he understood.
But he didn't look away from her, and those two words rang in the silent room. She'd meant only to show loyalty, but it was twisting now, changing into something much sharper.
She tried to tame the feeling. “Despite his reputation, Lord Xavier possesses a very fine library. It has much more than potential.”
“Thank you,” he said, and with an awkward smile, he drew back.
He sat on the floor and stuck his legs out before him, his boots knocking into another tower of books. “It's a gem of a painting. Who knows what else we shall find if I keep blundering about? This is what comes from not using my quizzing glass.”

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