Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,146

there in front of her.

“I’ll carry that for you, shall I?” He appropriated her glass. “Let me show you those books, as promised.”

She tucked her hand in his arm. He whisked her from the drawing room, across the Great Hall, and under the staircase to Lord Restive’s library. It was truly magnificent—shelves upon shelves of volumes, some of them clearly used, not just placed there for show. What a pity she couldn’t remain in here for the duration of their stay.

She released his arm. “Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure,” Cecil murmured.

“Usually I can handle odious men, or Mother does it for me. We are always at odds, but I do recognize her abilities. She is excellent at fending off suitors she disapproves of.” Or mere lechers like that old fogey.

“Then my work is cut out for me,” Cecil said.

Dismay assailed her. Surely he wasn’t another suitor!

“Restive and I decided he will make it plain that he desires the Contessa, while I pretend to be smitten with you.”

Oh. Did that mean Cecil didn’t find her attractive?

“She won’t be able to catch you with him, because he will always be at the Contessa’s side. Your mother will not only realize that her plan won’t work, but she’ll be further occupied with fending me off.”

“I see.” It was a clever plan, so why did she feel slighted?

“If you agree to the deception,” he added. “Since she considers me ineligible, there’s no harm in it.”

Dorothea almost blurted that she didn’t care a jot for eligibility, but that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t actually going to court her, nor did it matter what he really thought of her.

Nevertheless, she was again a little chagrined—perhaps because on the many occasions when he had surreptitiously guarded her, she had been a little attracted to him.

Or, if she were to admit it to herself, perhaps a great deal. He had figured more than once in bedtime fantasies. Now that she was acquainted with him, that would have to stop.

She took a decisive breath. He would make a show of desiring her, and she… “What is my role? Should I pretend to encourage your advances?”

“Only if you wish to, but I expect it would infuriate your mother.”

She laughed—but ruefully. She didn’t like angering her mother and wished there were another option. “I shall tell her that you and I have many ideals in common. She will hate that, as she disagrees with all my radical notions. I shall say that I find your conversation most stimulating. That I simply can’t get enough of it.”

“Excellent,” he said, a little drily, “and now we had best find a book or two to discuss.”

Awkwardness came over her. She resorted to commonplaces. “What a magnificent library.” She strolled about, running her hands over the spines. “I never thought of Lord Restive as a great reader.”

Cecil fingered a few volumes. “He inherited most of this, but he enjoys poetry—everything from Shakespeare’s sonnets to William Blake.”

“I like Blake’s poems very much. They are so different to anything I’ve encountered before.”

“They are indeed.” Did that mean he liked them, or not?

She didn’t care—the measure of a man was not the tastes they shared—but she had to say something. “I also enjoy Mr. Wordsworth’s poetry, when it’s not too mawkish, that is.”

He didn’t respond—because he was perusing the titles on a shelf, or because he felt it would be rude to disagree?

He removed a few slim volumes. “How about the first two parts of Tom Jones?”

“I’ve already read it, but Mother doesn’t know.” She felt herself reddening. An innocent girl shouldn’t be aware of such an improper tale—not that it seemed particularly dreadful to her; the behavior of real people was often far worse. “She will be appalled if she thinks you are recommending it to me.” Dorothea couldn’t help but laugh again. “Poor Mother.”

“She deserves it for cutting up your peace.”

“Dorothea! Whatever are you doing in here?” Mother stormed into the library with Lady Alice behind her. “Lord Wellough claims you deserted him mid-sentence.”

“I can never resist a library, Mother.” She smiled at Cecil. “Thank you for showing me, Mr. Hale. I have heard fascinating things about Tom Jones, but I fear my mother would not approve.”

“My pleasure, Miss Darsington,” Cecil purred, sounding not at all like himself. He sketched a wink, returned the books to the shelf, and left.

“What an ill-mannered man.” Mother glared at Cecil’s retreating back. “How could you go aside with him?”

“I rather like him,” Dorothea said. “He reads poetry.”

“And scandalous novels,”