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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Temptation
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But apparently what he'd said was good enough, because Louisa's wary look at once dissolved into relief. James continued cautiously, “I just . . . thought it would be nice for us to have a chance to talk to one another. About life—our life. What we want to do after we are married.”
Her pale cheeks colored at once and she bit her lip. James mentally berated himself for his word choice. The last thing his skittish bride-to-be needed to hear was anything that sounded like a reference to marital activities.
“I mean,” he corrected smoothly, “where we will spend our time, how you'd like to see the house fitted out . . . things of that nature. I remember how you wanted the seashell-shaped bathtub, though I haven't commissioned it yet,” he teased, attempting to lighten her mood.
“Well,” Louisa reflected, “I'm willing to leave the choice of how the house will be furnished to you. The library's to my liking, and I may not be in many of the other rooms, so they really should fall according to your taste.”
Disappointment seeped through James. He was trying his hardest to please her, and she was parrying his every attempt to strike at her heart, or even at her conscience. How could he provoke her into showing some enthusiasm?
“But . . . you'll be receiving guests. Your friends, your family,” he prompted her. “And you'll have your own bedchamber—if you'll excuse my mentioning it,” he added. “That should certainly be made the way you like it.”
“Isn't it more important that
you
should like it?” Louisa replied, her smile an ironic twist.
James felt as if he were walking on a beach with quicksand somewhere nearby. Any misstep could land him in trouble, but he had no idea what such a misstep might be. He felt suddenly tense and frustrated.
“I want you to have things as you like them once we are married,” James repeated carefully. “But if you honestly have no preference, then I'll do my best to guess, as I did in the library.”
Louisa sighed, and looked up at him with eyes much older and more tired than her nineteen years. “James, I'm sorry. I do truly appreciate what you've done to make the library beautiful, and what you're doing to make a home for me. I'm just not used to thinking along the lines of how a viscountess would need to live. I shall try to do better.”
Her beautiful, sudden smile burst over her face again. “I just heard those words come out of my mouth. Me, a viscountess? Oh, it's so ridiculous! I can hardly believe it. James, what were you thinking, asking me to marry you?”
He smiled back, relieved. At last, at last, he had broken through her shell of worry. “I was thinking, as soon as I saw you for the first time, glaring at me, that you would be an excellent hostess for the dinner parties I planned to throw every night for at least eightyfive people.”
“Oh, stop,” she said, laughing.
“And I could tell,” he pressed, eager to take advantage of her change of mood, “that you would love to have sixteen houses in town, each bigger than the last, and a whole army of servants to command at each one.”
She shook her head, giggling. “How well you know me. I'm astounded; you've penetrated to my very deepest desires.”
“Ah . . . yes,” James said, clearing his throat and trying not to think of
that
type of desire. He darted a look at Julia, of course just to see if she had been listening, but she seemed as absorbed in her maps as ever.
“Well, we'll leave the subject for now,” he suggested, returning to seriousness. “But if you have any ideas about what would make you comfortable, you have only to say the word. In the meantime, I'll just focus on getting the place habitable. At least, what your aunt would consider habitable,” he finished wryly.
“Not possible.” Louisa shook her head. “If that's your standard, I'm afraid you might as well pull this beautiful old place down and rebuild it in the middle of Grosvenor Square. She doesn't care for much of anything outside of London.”
“That could be asking a bit much. In Grosvenor Square? The rent would be scandalous,” he bantered back.
Louisa smiled, and rose, her action matched at once by the viscount. “Thank you again, James. You're very patient with me. I . . . I'll try to do what you want me to. I do appreciate all your kindness.”
She walked over to speak with Julia, who bounced up out of her seat at once and tossed aside the book of maps with a bit more force than would be expected for someone who was really enjoying their perusal.
James, left behind, again sank into his seat. Louisa had seemed happy at the end of their conversation, but it still rang hollow somehow. He blankly watched the two sisters talking, seeing Julia draw more smiles out of Louisa in two minutes than he had been able to get from her in the past two hours.
A peal of laughter from the other side of the room broke into his thoughts, and he snapped from his reverie to see Louisa and Julia both giggling helplessly, Julia pointing at a plate in what he very much feared was an old human anatomy book.
Just then she looked up and caught his gaze on her. She turned red and instantly slammed the book shut, stowing it behind her back like a child caught in the kitchen with a handful of biscuits. Louisa laughed even harder at this, herself turning to look at James and shaking her head helplessly.
“Julia found something rather interesting on your shelves,” she explained.
Yes, he thought bitterly; he could make his fiancée happy, as long as he didn't talk about anything serious. As long as her sister was around her to cheer and distract her.
He smiled at Louisa, but inside, he felt leaden.
Chapter 8
In Which Baboon Behavior Leads to Unfortunate Consequences
The visit at Nicholls was intended to last only for one week, but the following morning at breakfast, Lady Irving pronounced herself “completely unsatisfied” with the home's furnishings and arrangements.
“This is no fit place for a future viscountess,” she stated. “It'll be at least a fortnight before I can bring the place into any semblance of fashion.”
James raised his eyes to the ceiling in an expression of pained patience that he knew the countess would ignore. “Might I remind your ladyship that this is already a fit home for a viscount? I know it's not ideal as yet, but I'm working on it.”
“Bosh,” she replied. “You obviously need me to take you well in hand, Matheson. And I suppose you need Louisa to take you in hand, too, eh? You haven't even had any time alone together yet.” She elbowed him. Actually
elbowed
him.
He eyed her buttery toast. He wondered if there was any way he could swat it out of her hand and onto her livid green gown and make it look like an accident. Probably not, but the idea was tempting anyway.
“But, Aunt,” Louisa replied, ignoring Lady Irving's last statement, “we must end our visit as planned; we packed only for a very short stay. And think of your parrot. Poor Butternut will be missing you as well.”
“I'm sure Tom is taking good care of him,” Julia interjected. “And surely this house is prepared for guests enough that we could stay longer regardless of our luggage. Good heavens, look at the breakfast they've made us.”
James grinned to see her eyes widen with delight as another tray was brought into the room. She rose from her chair with shameless speed, and, finding ham and eggs under the cover, served a very unladylike heap of food onto what would now be her third plate.
As Julia reseated herself, she added, “Not that we mean to invite ourselves to overstay our welcome. At least, most of us do not. But in case you shouldn't mind it, James, we probably could. Not overstay, but stay longer. Oh, dear—but you won't be able to say you don't wish us to stay, even if it's the truth; that would be excessively rude of you.”
“Rude I would never want to be, but as a matter of fact, I'd be genuinely happy to have you stay on,” James replied. “No need for you to worry about being comfortable even with your small amount of baggage. I have a great deal of clothing here for young ladies, which was once my sister's. It's well over a decade out of fashion, but you're welcome to it.
“The only problem is,” he confessed, his eyes limpid as he looked around the table, “that the options may be limited for you, Lady Irving. The only attire I have for, er, ladies of other ages belongs to the housekeeper and maids.”
He blinked owlishly at the countess, trying to hold an expression of innocent worry. He probably shouldn't bait his future wife's aunt like this, but he still owed her one for that “taken in hand” comment.
Lady Irving looked sharply at him. “I'll wager I can fit into anything my nieces can, you young rascal. So you needn't try to send me packing at the end of the week by threatening me with a maid's costume.”
“I would never try anything of the sort,” James said, managing to hold a straight face despite noticing, out of the corner of his eye, Julia's desperate attempts to swallow a mouthful of eggs without choking herself on a laugh.
Faced with a string of several days and limitless possibilities for her enviable taste to find an outlet, Lady Irving determined after the meal to direct the long-suffering Simone and several of the Nicholls servants to rearrange the furniture and pictures in one parlor that she found particularly offensive to the eye. This pleasing flurry of activity kept her occupied for the remainder of the morning, much to the relief of James and, he suspected, his other two guests as well.
Once Lady Irving's departure left them in relative peace, James wondered what Louisa and Julia would enjoy most. He was unsure of what to suggest or do next. It was an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling for a man raised from birth to mix in the highest and most exacting circles.
In the end, although it seemed depressingly uncreative, he suggested that the three of them return to the library, where he would endeavor to point out some of the room's treasures despite his ignorance of most of the collection.
Julia trailed behind as Louisa eagerly came along with him, hooking her arm fondly into his and asking all sorts of questions about old and rare books that he found himself almost totally unable to answer.
No, he was pretty sure they didn't have a Gutenberg Bible.
Probably they had some things that were printed on vellum, but he couldn't say what those might be or where they were in the library.
No, he didn't
think
there were any books in Italian . . . but there might be, somewhere.
Finally, when she asked him if he had any examples of block printing in his collection, he threw his hands into the air.
“I have no idea,” he exclaimed. “You're making me heartily ashamed of myself. I'm sure there are some wonderful gems in here, but my grandfather was the last serious collector. As far as I know, there's not even a catalogue of what we own.”
“Then you really ought to have one made,” Louisa said decisively. Her face lit up. “Oh, James, could I work on one? It would be my delight. I know our book collection at Stonemeadows so well, and as you might imagine, it's not often that I get the chance to look—
really
look—at another home's library.”
“I would love to have you create a catalogue, if you would enjoy that,” James replied. His nagging unease lifted a bit at Louisa's excited expression. “Actually, that's a fine idea. The library would be the better for your expert treatment.”
“I'm hardly an expert,” Louisa confessed. “Just a selftaught book lover. But I
would
like this, very much. I can make a beginning while we're here this week, and perhaps we can continue on here awhile longer than we had planned.”
“I'll help you,” Julia offered. “We can start right now. I really want to climb around on that ladder that rolls along the edge of the shelves.”
James followed her eager gaze. Good Lord, no. That ladder had to be twenty feet high. Well, fine, perhaps it was only eight or so—but it was still far too tall for a young lady to be climbing.
“Absolutely not,” James answered. “Those are not playthings. They're for getting books down, not for pretending to be a baboon.”
“A
baboon
?” Julia seemed much struck by the word. “I have no idea what that is, but it sounds fabulous. I'm climbing the ladder.”
She at once began to step up the ladder, hitching up her skirt to her knees to get it out of her way. James averted his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of a slim, well-shaped ankle and calf.
All right, so maybe he had waited to avert his eyes until after he had already gotten a good look.
His heart beat a little faster. He couldn't watch this—or, more accurately,
shouldn't
watch.
He coughed. “Far be it from me to diminish your enjoyment at all, but this is rather unusual behavior. While I am sure we both find it delightful, you may not want to do this at a party in London next season,” he said formally, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. Away from her legs.
“Nonsense,” Julia replied matter-of-factly. “I know perfectly well that libraries are the best places to meet handsome and eligible young men for the purposes of marriage.”
He looked up swiftly; was she talking about him? She had to be talking about him. Him, and the way he and Louisa had met.
What did she mean, referring to him as handsome and eligible? Was she teasing him, or was that how she really saw him? He shot a questioning glance at Louisa, but she didn't seem to be listening. She was already reaching her slender arms up for Julia to hand down several volumes into them.
Thus he missed exactly what caused Julia to fall.
He just heard Louisa gasp, saw the volumes tumble to the floor, saw Julia tumble on top of them. She landed awkwardly on top of a heavy folio, flat on her back, one of her legs pressed under her at a very odd angle.
Her face went white, and he was sure his own did as well. He went icy all over. He had killed Julia, he just knew it.
How could he have let something happen to her? In his own home, where he should have kept her safe? His skin prickled with shocked guilt.
Then she moved, and opened her eyes. Of course, of course. She was fine—or at least, definitely not dead.
He realized that he
might
have overreacted a bit. Thankfully, no one could read his thoughts.
“Oof,” Julia said.
He and Louisa instantly bent over her, clamoring to know if she was all right.
“I'm fine,” Julia assured them, her expression tight with pain. “Just a bit embarrassed. I can't imagine what caused me to fall. I'm not normally clumsy. Do you think it could be a problem with the ladder? Er, not that there's anything wrong with your ladder, James, I'm sure.”
“Except for the fact that it nearly killed you,” he said, still struggling to calm down.
Julia sat up cautiously and stretched out her legs in front of her, rotating her feet in slow circles. “It didn't do anything of the kind, and you know it. I was probably just overbalanced.” She winced and stilled her right foot. “I suppose I landed wrong on that one. Drat.”
Lady Irving bustled into the room, drawn by the noise.
“My, my,” she exclaimed. “This is better than I would have expected from the rest of your house, Matheson.” She gestured broadly at the untidy pile of books scattered on the floor. “Casual disorder is all the rage now, you know. Although I do think this is going a bit far with the concept.”
“We're not being fashionable,” Julia replied, struggling to stand. “I fell off this ladder and dropped the books.”
Lady Irving looked at her in mock amazement. “What in God's name was a gently bred young lady doing scampering about on a ladder?”
“Aunt, Julia is hurt,” Louisa replied in a quiet but firm voice.
“Oh, please, I'm fine,” Julia insisted. “I'll just have to . . .” She shifted her weight onto her right ankle, and sucked in a pained breath. “All right, maybe I'm not exactly fine. But close.”
She hopped over to the sofa so she could clutch at its back for support.
“Gently bred ladies don't hop either,” Lady Irving informed her. “I can see you have a few manners to master before we go to London.”
“Really?” Julia asked, diverted. “If you couldn't hop, what would you do if you hurt your ankle?”
“I'd use a cane, and swat at people with it, of course. Much more fun. Besides, you look like a fool when you hop. Nothing personal, my girl; anyone would.”
Julia rolled her eyes. “Well, I'm not going to hop in London. I just needed to get to the sofa.”
James could see it was time to step into the conversation. “It's very ungracious of me not to help you,” he said, and handed Julia gently onto the sofa. As she clasped his hand for him to assist her, his skin tingled with the physical thrill of it, and he drew his hand back as swiftly as manners would allow so Julia wouldn't feel him tremble.
“I'll get you a cushion so you can prop up your foot,” he said gruffly, and found a small pillow on another chair. One all the way across the room, just to give himself time to calm down.
It must have been the surprise of her fall; surely that was it. He felt pulled to her; he wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her until she forgot about the pain.
Again he averted his gaze. He shouldn't be looking at her like that. Not lying on a sofa, helpless, laid out quiet and lovely before his eyes like a gift.
Correction; he shouldn't even be
thinking
of her like that. He shouldn't be having any of these thoughts, for that matter.
What was wrong with him? Had twenty-seven years of an aristocratic upbringing taught him nothing about selfcontrol? He had already chosen his wife. He might have chosen quickly and in a somewhat businesslike manner, but he had chosen well. Louisa would make a fine viscountess. For one thing, she would never clamber around on a ladder and make his heart stop with terror.
She would never make his heart stop at all.
He silently handed Julia the cushion, then left her side to rejoin the conversation between Louisa and Lady Irving.
“I think we should get her home as soon as possible,” Louisa was saying to her aunt.
What? No, he had to put a stop to this talk.
“Surely she would be more comfortable as she is, staying here until she has a chance to recover,” he suggested. His voice had only a
little
squeak of desperation in it.

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