Love In The Library (18 page)

Her gaze shifted to him, and a smile lifted the corners of her very agreeable mouth. "I appreciate the sacrifice you're making in order to appease. . ."

"A poor, afflicted woman," he continued.

She started to laugh. "Really, Mr. Steffington, you're making it ever so difficult for me to stay angry with you."

"I'm still not exactly clear on what it was I did at dinner to alienate you." Would he ever understand women?

"You wouldn't," she said, frowning.

What the devil? Was she going to get all bristly with him again for reasons he would never comprehend? "Can we not behave as friends?"

Her incredible eyes misted, and her face turned away from him. "We were friends, were we not?"

"I shouldn't like to use the past tense." Wasn't that a gentlemanly thing to say?

"Then I appreciate that. It's a pity so much water has now passed under our bridge."

Why could women not speak plainly? Were they even capable of saying what they meant? He hadn't the foggiest notion that they
had
a bridge. "If you're referring to the termination of our partnership, may I remind you that was
your
idea."

Her eyes narrowed. "It was not!"

Perhaps she was right. "I merely said that if we were going to be working together, we must act like partners. Do you have any idea how dangerous your stealthy trip to Lord Seacrest's library could have been? You could have been shot."

She pouted very much the same as Lizzy.

"Madam, you are acting exactly like my youngest sister. She is thirteen."

"You've changed. You didn't used to chastise me."

"You didn't used to act as if you were thirteen."
Uh, oh
. That was not a gentlemanly thing to say. It was such a pity Melvin was not possessed of the Graces.

Without saying another word, she spun back to her window and ignored him for the next two hours. He wished to God he had brought his bloody Euripides.

At one o'clock she turned her attention to the basket of food they'd had the innkeeper's wife pack for them, and Mrs. Bexley solicitously began asking him what he desired and doled it to him in a most gracious manner. There were apples and big chunks of bread and country cheese and cold mutton.

When they were finished eating, she acted as if she'd never cut him several hours previously. If she'd suffered a blow to the head he would have attributed her sudden change of mood to amnesia, but the woman had been sitting right in front of him all morning.

"We must discover more books we have both enjoyed, Mr. Steffington. That is a topic which is most successful at stimulating conversation."

Now she wished to talk! He suppressed a retort. He was determined to conduct himself in a gentlemanly manner. "There's always Shakespeare."

Her eyes danced. "Do we agree that he's brilliant?"

"It is safe to say we must be in perfect agreement on that, madam."

"Let me guess. You like his histories best."

He nodded. "How well you've come to know me."

She screwed her mouth in thought. "Allow me to guess which you like best."

"Go on."

She thought for a moment before responding. "
Julius Caesar
."

His eyes widened. "How could you know that?"

"It's your love of classics that gives you away."

"Now it's my turn to guess your favorite." He stared at her. "Romeo and Juliet."

She shook her head emphatically.

"I thought all women adored that romance."

"Why would I like a story with such an unimaginably horrid ending? Do you think I could take pleasure in death?"

"Sorry."

"Care to guess again?"

"So I take it you don't like the tragedies."

"That is correct."

"Then since you like Sir Walter Scott's historical novels, you must, like me, prefer the histories."

"It's not that I don't like the histories, it's just that I prefer the comedies."

He was at a loss to guess which of the comedies would appeal most to a woman. To him, they were all perfectly forgettable. Even if the writing was brilliant. After a significant silence, he shrugged.

She started to laugh. "You don't like the comedies, do you?"

"It's not that I don't like them. It's more that they're not so memorable."

"
As You Like It
."

At first, he thought she was commenting on his opinion. "Oh, yes, it's a clever little play."

"If we're going to talk Shakespeare, I must tell you I never ever tire of his sonnets."

"I'm sure I must have read them at some point. . ."

She laughed. "And obviously, you did not find them memorable. After all, they weren't Virgil."

He found himself wondering if she still wanted him to sign a copy of his Virgil translation for her. Then he realized once they returned to Bath he wasn't likely to find himself in her sphere any more. He did not hang about the Assembly Rooms. He'd only gone to please her.

Unaccountably, he grew a bit melancholy at the notion of never again carrying on a conversation with her. She was the first woman he'd ever encountered whose company he had actually enjoyed.

Until that fateful night at Granfield Manor, assisting her had brought him great satisfaction. He had liked to believe he was the brightest star in her galaxy. Even though she probably said that to every man with whom she communicated.

He would miss the laughter, too. He'd not experienced so much mirth since childhood.

 "Kind of you to remember about Virgil," he mumbled.

"I'm looking forward to reading it. You haven't forgotten you promised me a copy? I shall be happy to pay you for it."

His brows lowered with disdain. "You will
not
pay for it. It's the least I could do since I couldn't find the Chaucer for you."

"I have one last avenue of investigation."

"Mr. Whitebread?"

She nodded. "You did send a letter to him, did you not?"

He nodded. "I did. If I have a response, I shall bring it to you." He had sent the communication to the collector four days earlier. It was possible he could have a reply already.

A melancholy look came over her face as she nodded and returned her attention to the scenery outside their window. They were now following along the meandering River Avon. He had been right. They would be back in Bath by four o'clock.

It bothered him that his mention of not finding the Chaucer had cast a pall over their coach. It also bothered him that he could no longer help her, but she had made her decision.

When the spire of Bath Abbey finally came into view, he cleared his throat. "I suppose you'll be happy to see those familiar walls of Number 17 Royal Crescent."

"It is true, I love my home, but the failure of our quest will result in Coutts taking possession of it."

"But what of your fiancé? Is he not one of the richest men in the kingdom?"

She whirled toward him, her eyes wide with shock. "What in the world are you talking about? I have no fiancé!"

Now his eyes widened. "But he told me. . ."

"Who told you?"

"Maxwell Longford! He came to Green Park Road expressly to tell me that you had agreed to become his wife."

 "When was this?"

"Shortly before we left on our journey."

"Oh, dear."

The way she said
oh, dear
it sounded as if she'd just remembered that she
might
have agreed to marry the pompous baboon. Melvin would never understand the workings of a woman's brain. How could one forget that she had promised to spend the rest of her life with a particular man? His brows lowered. "What do you mean by
oh, dear
?"

She shrugged. "I may have agreed to such a request without realizing exactly what I was agreeing to."

Why did her explanation—weak as it was—make him happy? It was nothing to him if she married Maxwell Longford, but he was awfully glad she wasn't. He'd never been able to picture her settling down with the officious man. Melvin also took pleasure in vindicating the greed he'd falsely attributed to her.

Before he could ask her to explain herself, the coach pulled up in front of his house on Green Park Road, and he was forced to take his leave from her. He exited the coach, then turned back. "You might consider explaining yourself to Long
mouth
."

"You mean Longford, do you not?"

He smirked. "Terribly sorry for offending your betrothed, madam."

She yanked an apple from her basket and hurled it at him as the coachman flicked the ribbons, and the carriage jerked forward.

He was unable to duck before the apple bounced off his forehead. The woman had wounded him! He rubbed his head. There was going to be a knot.

And she would never see the results of her angry display.

He stood on the pavement and watched her carriage rattle toward the Royal Crescent.

How in the devil did a woman manage
not
to know if she was betrothed?

Chapter 14

Catherine rushed into her house, trembling. What was she to do? Apparently Mr. Longford was spreading news of their so-called betrothal over Bath. Was she the last to know?

As soon as Mr. Steffington had told her, she instantly realized she must have nodded in the affirmative whilst Mr. Longford was droning on when just the two of them were supposedly engaged in conversation, but which was nothing more than soliloquy. Regrettably, Mr. Long
mouth
was rather incapable of conversing. Had it been at the Assembly Rooms that he’d posed so momentous a proposal? Or perhaps it had been that day they rode in Sydney Gardens.

But she had made a concentrated effort to listen to him that day at Sydney Gardens. She froze in midstride as she went to the sideboard to examine the post that had accumulated while she was away. The reason she had tried to make so pointed an effort to listen to Mr. Longford that day they went to Sydney Gardens was because of little innuendos he’d let drop at the Assembly Rooms the night before. Innuendos about how singularly she honored him.

Oh, dear.
She could hardly tell the man she rarely listened to a word he uttered because he was the most boring person she’d ever encountered.

She hated to humiliate him by letting it be known she'd never had any intention of marrying him. (Which was the truth, of course.) She would rather beggar herself than spend the rest of her days with that blithering braggart. She didn’t care how rich the fool was.

A letter in her sister’s familiar hand was at the top of the stack. As she thumbed through the correspondence beneath it, she sadly acknowledged the rest of them were duns from tradesmen.

“Welcome home, madam.” Simpson was emerging from the basement stairs.

“Thank you, Simpson. It’s good to be home.”

“Mr. Longford called for you each day of your absence, and as you instructed, I told him that you had taken ill and weren’t seeing anyone.”

“Excellent. Did I have any other callers?”

“Felicity was here this afternoon.”

“And you told her I was sick?”

“I did. She penned a quick note which I neglected to put with the post.” He extracted it from his waistcoat pocket. “Here it is.”

As Simpson carried her valise upstairs, she unfolded Felicity’s brief missive.

Dearest Catherine,

I do pray that you’re well tomorrow night for Glee will be passing through Bath and plans to go to the Assembly Rooms. She particularly requested to see you.

You should have seen the Steffington twins' sister’s come-out. (I don't mean that the sister was a twin, but she is sister to the twins!) She was most lovely. A pity you—and the smart twin—had to miss it.

Catherine had never been able to conceal anything from either of the former Pembroke sisters, her lifelong friends Felicity and Glee. It was obvious from this note that Felicity knew Catherine had gone off with Mr. Steffington. She would have surmised, too, that they were attempting to locate the Chaucer manuscript.

Catherine sighed. Four more days wasted. It had now been more than a week since she had received the terse letter from Coutts. There was one slim prospect remaining, but she held little hope for its success.

In the library she was pleased to find a fire burning. It was an expensive practice she had yet to abolish, though she knew she should economize. As she settled on the green settee and somberly stared at the flames, she grew melancholy. In the fourteen months since Mr. Bexley had died, she had never allowed herself to feel lonely. But now she felt more alone then she ever had.

Only recently had she stopped thinking of this room as Mr. Bexley’s. Now, instead of thinking of it as hers, its very walls seemed to echo with Mr. Steffington’s presence. She could almost hear his earnest dialogue. Not only had this chamber perfectly suited the tall, broodingly dark scholar, without him it seemed a most lonesome place. His absence was almost palpable.

She had to keep telling herself their estrangement was for the best. She needed to become a self-sufficient woman. Never again would she be dependent upon a man.

It was looking like a certainty that she was going to have to become the aging aunt in her brother’s overcrowded house. Not only would she be buried there for the rest of her life, but her little sister, too, would be denied the opportunities to be presented, to make a good match. Catherine had planned to bring her out next spring.

She would never be able to solve the dilemma about Mr. Longford as long as she was in this chamber that almost seemed to breathe Mr. Steffington’s name. This library was entirely too sad without him. She wished it weren’t the case, but she missed him.

From the coziest room in the house, she dragged herself away and trudged up the stairs to her bedchamber. What to do about the odious Mr. Long
mouth
? How well the twins’ moniker for Mr. Longford suited him!

Even though it was an expense she couldn’t afford, she rang for the parlor maid to build a fire in her chamber. Four days of chilled air made the room practically glacial.