“I was wondering if you would permit me to show Miss Chilcott the library,” Anthony said, pulling Isabella out of her reverie. “There’s a particular book that I promised I’d lend to her.”
“How thoughtful of you,” his mother said. “I have no issue with it as long as the Chilcotts don’t—just be sure to leave the door open, that’s all.”
Isabella blushed at the duchess’s implication that something untoward might happen between her and Anthony if they were left alone behind closed doors. Well, it probably would, considering that they hadn’t even required that much when they’d kissed in the middle of the road for all the world to see.
“By all means,” her father said while her mother gave a nod of confirmation, “as long as you abide by your mother’s conditions—I’m in no mood for a duel.” He winked.
If Anthony thought it embarrassing, he hid it remarkably well, helping Isabella up instead and then offering her his arm. Saying something to the effect that they would be back shortly, he guided Isabella out of the room and away from the safety her parents and his mother had offered.
They didn’t have far to go, though with each step they took, Anthony became keenly aware of the heat entering his body at the point where Isabella’s hand rested upon his arm. He’d enjoyed the discomfort that had emanated from every part of her body as he’d sat beside her on the sofa, for it meant that she was far from indifferent to him. He knew this already, of course, but the confirmation bolstered his confidence. He was grateful for that, considering the conversation he would have with Mr. Roberts later in the day.
Arriving at the library, Anthony opened the door and ushered her inside, only to recall their last encounter here. A similar thought must have struck Isabella, for her eyes immediately went to the shelves where his figures were displayed and blushed. But then her eyes caught something, and she moved forward as if drawn by one singular object of interest. “Is that me?” she asked as she came to stand before the tiny model he’d made of her using the fabric from her gown.
It was Anthony’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he masked it by heading for the side table and pouring himself a brandy. For some reason, her opinion mattered more than he ever would have imagined. It was a silly hobby of course, but it was his, and he’d put extra time and effort into perfecting her likeness. It was imperative to him that she approved. “Yes,” he muttered, offering her a glass of sherry, but she waved away his offer as she peered closely at the figure, as if imparting every detail of it to memory.
With bated breath he waited for her censure, until she finally leaned back, turned toward him with glowing eyes and said, “You put more care into this one, Anthony. It’s . . . I mean, the others are incredible too—I’ve said so before—but this one . . . it’s as if . . .” She hesitated and averted her gaze from his.
“As if what?” Anthony prodded.
She kept quiet a moment, as if taking courage. When she spoke again, her voice was but a shy whisper. “As if your whole heart was in it when you made it. I absolutely love it.”
But do you love me?
He could not ask such a bold question without sounding foolishly desperate, so he merely thanked her as relief flooded his body and he decided to address the topic that had floated in the air between them since her arrival, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. “You seem to be taking the news of your heritage rather well—far better than I would have thought, in fact. How do you feel, knowing that you are not simply Miss Chilcott, but the granddaughter of a marquess?”
Taking a deep breath, she walked across to the bookcases and started perusing their contents. “No different at all really,” she said as she ran her fingers along the spine of an atlas. With a quick glance over her shoulder at him, she gave him a crooked smile. “Perhaps I ought to be angry with my parents for lying to me all these years, except nothing good would come of that. They are still the same people who raised me, cared for me and loved me. I understand why they did what they did—they loved each other, and this was the only way in which they could be together. Yes, they deceived me, but they were only doing what they thought best; what they believed would protect me.”
Anthony stared at her as she stood there, dressed in a simple light green gown, her hair knotted neatly behind her head, though a few loose tendrils curled against her cheeks. “You’re a very forgiving woman, Isabella. Your parents are incredibly lucky.”
She gave a little shrug with one shoulder. “I think it would be unfair of me to judge them based on a decision they made in the face of a difficult situation so long ago. Everyone makes mistakes, Your Grace, and they are my parents. I won’t hold a grudge.”
“And what of your grandfather, the marquess?”
Isabella stilled. “He treated my parents most selfishly. My mother refuses to speak of him, so I don’t know much. I suspect that it was he and my grandmother who stopped me at the ball to ask about my gown? They recognized it, though I was certain at the time that they were mistaken.”
“They asked me to help them find you, hoping that you might be able to give them a clue to their daughter’s whereabouts.” He watched as her posture tensed. “I haven’t said a word to them yet, though I do believe that it would be the kind thing to do. They lost their daughter twenty years ago and have been worried sick ever since.”
Isabella nodded, her face still turned away as she faced the many books before her. “So it was because of them that you went looking for me,” she said. There was no disappointment to be found in her voice. She simply stated it as fact.
It wasn’t true though, and Anthony definitely didn’t want her to think that this was the only reason why he’d scoured Moxley for any sign of her. “No, Isabella, I went looking for you because you stirred to life a part of me that I’d long since forgotten existed—a joie de vivre I haven’t felt in many years, not since my father got sick. In your company, I felt the weight of all the responsibility I’ve been shouldering for so long lighten, allowing me the opportunity to have fun. But there was also something else—something powerful that drew me to you, and I felt as though I’d be giving up on the best opportunity life was likely to afford me if I didn’t do all in my power to at least further my acquaintance with you.”
She didn’t move, but he could tell that his words had moved her, judging from the slight quiver in her breath. Moving toward her, he reached out his hand and gently traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. Her breath hitched, and though she might have appeared as calm and collected as a stone statue, Anthony could see her pulse racing against her neck, and he knew that her emotions were raging beneath the surface.
If he tried to kiss her now, she would allow it, of that he was certain, but he’d taken advantage of her too many times already and had made his decision—it was time to treat her with the respect she deserved and for him to act the part of the gentleman he claimed to be. How many times had he said he’d reformed during the past weeks, only to have gone and acted on his rakish impulses? It had to stop. And so he stepped away from her and crossed the room to a safe distance. “I believe it was Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman that I promised you,” he said. She turned then, and he suspected from the surprise on her face that she had not expected him to have moved so far from her. She nodded. “It should be just over there to your right—one of those brown volumes on the lower shelf.”
He watched as she crouched down to retrieve it, but as she did, he remembered something. “Wait,” he said, starting forward, except she’d already noticed the book he’d hidden behind Wollstonecraft’s and was presently pulling it from the shelf as well. A wave of heat descended over Anthony as he swooped down in an attempt to snatch the book from her hands. It was too late though. She already had it firmly in her grasp, and he was forced to abandon his attempt, muttering an oath beneath his breath instead.
“It looks as though you’ve misplaced one of your books,” she said, smiling up at him.
“Quite right,” he said, hoping that she wouldn’t notice the sheen of perspiration gathering upon his brow. “If you’ll please hand it to me, I’ll make sure to put it back in the right place.”
She must have seen right through him, for her eyes narrowed and she frowned, looking from the book to Anthony, from Anthony to the book and back again. He held his breath as he waited for her to make her move, and then she opened it.
Oh dear God in heaven.
“The Path to Passion,” she read. “By Anonymous. Hmm . . . what a curious name for a book, and how rare for an author to seek anonymity rather than fame.”
Anthony felt himself cringe all the way down to the tips of his toes. He cleared his throat. “Er . . . yes. I suppose the author wasn’t particularly proud of this . . . ah . . . er . . . piece. Perhaps we should save him from the humiliation of reading any further?” He reached for the book as if it had been the dullest thing he’d ever set eyes on before, hoping she’d relinquish it.
Instead, she clutched it tighter and turned herself away from him. “Nonsense,” she said. “He or she is not even here, and besides, I’m rather curious now as to why it’s been hidden away like this. I’m beginning to suspect that it was on purpose.”
Christ!
Well, there was nothing for it now but to wait for the inevitable, so, without further ado, Anthony finished off the remains of his drink and returned his glass to the side table. He was just about to take a seat in his favorite armchair when a loud gasp stopped him in his tracks. It was impossible for him to stop the smile that sprang to his lips, for he knew precisely what it was that had evoked such a shocked response from Isabella, and he rather enjoyed knowing that he was no longer the only one feeling uncomfortable.
“Oh my,” she said in a breathy voice. “These are quite . . . ahem . . . provocative pictures.”
“Yes,” he said, seeing no sense in denying the obvious.
He expected her to close the book at that point as she blushed and fumbled for some sort of excuse to escape the library as well as his presence. What happened, however, was something entirely different, and it was Anthony who was left gaping as Isabella settled herself on the floor, appearing to study the images before her more closely as she angled the book first one way and then the other, tilting her head as she did so. “How on earth is this even possible?”
Anthony coughed—hell, he practically choked on his own breath in response to her question. “Isabella, I really don’t believe your parents would approve if they found you leafing through that particular book. I suggest you put it back where you found it immediately.” It had to be done for his own sanity if nothing else, for he knew by heart each erotic position the book portrayed, and watching her study them was doing very little for his tightly reined self-control.
Thankfully she agreed and did as he asked, but when she rose to her feet and turned to face him with the Wollstonecraft book in her hand, she tilted her head, studied him for a moment and eventually said, “I wasn’t aware such books existed, though I can certainly appreciate the educational benefit of them. Hopefully we’ll have the opportunity to study it together more closely at a later date.” And then, as if she hadn’t just fired his every desire, she added, “Shall we return to the others?” Upon which she headed for the door, leaving Anthony to deal with the uncomfortable state he was now in before he was once more presentable enough to enter back into polite society.