The de Valery Code (15 page)

A soft rap on her door drew her attention. The housemaid came in and removed the dinner tray. “I’ll be back later to help you dress for bed, miss.”

Margery nodded. As the door closed, she stood, suddenly in need of movement. Perhaps a book from the library would divert her thoughts from Mr. Bowen and the de Valery manuscripts. She plucked up her book because she couldn’t possibly leave it unattended.

She opened the door and nearly stumbled, as Mr. Bowen was doing the same.

His lips curled into a disarming smile. “Again?”

Her pulse quickened and the heat she’d felt after his kiss raced through her. “So it seems. Where are you going this time?”

“To get a book.”

“From the library?” She nodded. “That’s where I was going.”

They moved toward the staircase in unison. Though several inches separated them, she felt his proximity. He’d removed his coat, but still wore his waistcoat. He was still “dressed,” but some women would be horrified. Margery was not. In fact, she was disappointed he was wearing so much. It was
that
which horrified her.

When they reached the base of the stairs, she hesitated. He did the same.

“Do you think his office might be this way?” She gestured to the right, opposite where they would go to return to the library.

He stroked his jaw, which had darkened at this late hour with the onset of his beard. “It might be.”

“Do you think it would be open?”

“There’s only one way to know for sure.” He turned and led the way.

She stifled a smile as she followed him down a short corridor. They tried two rooms, but they weren’t his study. The last door, however, proved successful.

“Aha!” His tone implied he might’ve found the treasure they sought. His half-smile was charming and did completely inappropriate things to her belly.

The office was very masculine, with a pair of bookshelves and a large mahogany desk. Mr. Bowen went immediately to the desk and sat behind it.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking for the book.” He peered up at her. “Or are we still trying to disguise that’s what we’re doing?”

She suddenly felt ashamed. They had no right invading this man’s privacy.

Mr. Bowen’s brow gathered and he abruptly stood. “I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind. I’m as desperate as you to study his book, but I can’t bring myself to be rude.”

She retreated to the door. “Nor can I.”
 

He joined her and they exchanged what had to be mutually appreciative looks before trudging back up the stairs. Outside their rooms, Margery faced him, lacing her fingers together in front of her waist. “Good night then. Again.”

“Yes, good night.” He inclined his head, then went to his room.

Margery frowned at his closed door, feeling strangely . . . empty. She pivoted slowly and reentered her own room. A short while later, the maid returned and helped her prepare for bed.

As Margery was about to climb beneath the coverlet, she realized she hadn’t obtained a book and would likely never fall asleep without something to distract herself.

Wearing a robe over her nightrail, she went back into the hall. She half expected Mr. Bowen to be there and was disappointed when he wasn’t. Making her way along the sconce-lit corridor, she tried to focus on what to read. A novel or a book of poetry? Perhaps some Shakespeare. She’d seen several of his plays on the shelves.

When she arrived at the library, she froze at the threshold. Mr. Bowen removed a book from a shelf and turned, pausing as their gazes connected.

“It’s not the corridor, at least,” he quipped.

Margery’s insides melted at the warmth in his tone and the tilt of his head as he regarded her. His eyes swept her from head to foot, making her think he didn’t want to miss a single detail. Men that had expressed any interest in her in the past had never looked at her like that—as if they were memorizing every part of her. For a man who professed there would be no kissing, he certainly seemed as if he wanted to. Maybe he was fighting to overcome his attraction, just as she was.

Turning from him, she went to where she’d seen the Shakespeare. Perusing the spines, she selected
Twelfth Night
.

“An excellent choice,” he said, close behind her.

Startled, she spun about and flattened her back against the bookshelf.

Unlike her, he was mostly dressed, though he wore a banyan over his shirt instead of a waistcoat and coat. The garment, crafted of gold silk, buttoned closed and looked absurdly handsome on his frame. The absence of his cravat revealed a small triangular space of flesh. Overall, he presented an alluring example of masculinity.

“Though,” his deep voice drew her attention back to his face, “I might’ve chosen
Taming of the Shrew
.”

She resisted the urge to smile at his wit, but she didn’t want to call attention to the fact that her deceptive behavior could be considered shrewish. She’d only been protecting her own interests.

She tipped her head to read the cover of the book he held, but there was no title on it. “What are you reading?”

He glanced down at the tome. “A book of poetry from the twelfth century.”

“What language?”

His dark gaze found hers and held. “Welsh.”

“You speak medieval Welsh?”

“I
read
medieval Welsh. There is a massive difference.”

She smiled at the humor in his tone. “I’m sure. What other languages can you read?”

He leaned against the bookshelf, which brought his chest almost in contact with her shoulder. “Latin, Greek, medieval English of course, Italian, French, some German.”

She also turned so that her side was against the bookshelf, so she could face him straight-on. “My goodness, that must’ve taken years to master.” How old was he anyway? She’d guessed him to be within five years of her.

He shrugged, and the familiar touch of hubris that she found attractive—in moderation—came out. “Once you learn one, the rest come easily.”

“I can’t imagine it’s that way for everyone. I’m sure you worked hard.”

“I did.” There was no sense of pride in his answer, just a confidence that she found ridiculously alluring. “Do you read any languages?” He reached out and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

She struggled to remember his question. Languages? “Um, yes. French and a little Latin. I actually speak the French in addition to reading it, however.”

“Well done.” His whispered words caressed her, and the heat swirling in her belly heated to a slow burn.

The moment stretched into something she couldn’t define. She could see him kissing her again, wanted it to happen. She arched forward as he bent his head.

“Oh! I didn’t realize you were in here.” They broke apart as the housemaid moved into the library. “I came in to tidy, should I come back later?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, while Margery answered, “Please come in, we were just leaving.”

They exchanged heated looks as they walked toward the door.

“Good night,” Margery said as she passed the maid and made her way toward the stairs.

Mr. Bowen followed her, and this time they ascended more quickly than on their previous trips. Outside their rooms, they faced each other.

Margery hugged her book and the play to her chest, as if she could armor herself against the sensations Mr. Bowen made her feel. “We should really stop doing this.”

He nodded. “We should.”

“Good night then.”

“Good night.”

Neither of them moved.

Suddenly he stepped forward and cupped the side of her face. He kissed her, trapping her hands with her books between them. Unlike the day before, this kiss was soft, gentle, and so sweet she thought she might sigh with the loveliness of it.

His fingers stroked along the underside of her jaw as his mouth worked over hers. She tipped her head to the side and kissed him back, though she lacked the experience he clearly demonstrated.

He glided his hand back along her neck and she did sigh then, which opened her lips to his tongue. Then he did that thing again, where he slipped it into her mouth, and now she wanted to groan instead of sigh. It was hot and wet and delicious and she couldn’t get enough. And her bloody hands were engaged. Just as she was about to drop her books, probably on his feet, and grasp the front of his banyan, he lifted his head.

“My apologies. I said there’d be no more kissing.” His voice was dark and heavy. “I’m afraid I simply couldn’t resist, but I shan’t do it again. Good night, and this time I mean it.” He tucked his book beneath his arm, went into his room, and closed the door.

Margery stared at the door, her lips still wet and her insides still molten. If Aunt Agnes were here, she’d tell Margery to go after him. To ask him to finish what they’d started. If Aunt Eugenie was here, she’d instruct Margery to hurry back to her room and endeavor never to be alone with him again without the benefit of a chaperone or a marriage proposal—and she’d advocate for the latter.

But Margery didn’t want a marriage proposal. There was no such thing as a happy ending—just look at her aunts. Oh, they were happy, she supposed, but men played no part of it. That wasn’t precisely true. Aunt Agnes spoke fondly of her protector. She’d loved him and he’d loved her. And after some of the moments Margery had shared with Rhys—Mr. Bowen—particularly the kissing . . . She began to wonder if she could allow the possibility . . .
 

No. Lady Stratton was right. Independence was far preferable, and it was in Margery’s grasp. She just needed to keep her distance from Mr. Bowen. Tomorrow’s appointment with Lord Nash and his book couldn’t come soon enough.

Chapter Nine

Rhys waited in the corridor for Miss Derrington, which felt odd after last night’s repeated unintentional meetings. He was also surprised she wasn’t out here pacing a hole in the carpet, since Lord Nash had returned and summoned them to his office.

Maybe she’d already gone down.

With a frown, he went to her door to knock. It opened just as he lifted his hand.

She stopped short of barreling into him. “Oh! I was just coming to knock on your door.”

He glanced at the ever-present book in her embrace. “You were?”
She was.
 

He closed his eyes briefly, irritated with himself for assuming the worst. He didn’t want to return to their warfare of two days ago. Last night’s accord had been pleasant. Dangerously so. He’d tossed and turned half the night recalling her kiss and chastising himself for initiating it.

“Shall we go down?” He presented his arm.

She set her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Thank you.”

Their pace quickened as they neared Lord Nash’s office. The door was open, and the baron, a man of middling height with a slight paunch and wearing a white queued wig, stood as they approached. “Come in, come in!”

He gestured for them to come and sit in the pair of leather chairs that faced his desk. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Artemisia’s letter explained why you’ve come, of course.” His gray eyes were alight with excitement as he retook his seat. He set his palms flat on the desk. “May I see it?”

Miss Derrington glanced at Rhys and he gave her a look that said,
yes, show it to him
.

She set her book atop the desk. “This is my de Valery manuscript.”

The baron’s fingers caressed the edges of the book before he opened it. He smiled as he read the title page. “Exquisite.” He looked up at Rhys. “It bears de Valery’s mark?”

“On the last page, yes.”

Lord Nash sat back in his chair and looked as though he might cry. “After so many generations, for my family to see it again . . .” He dabbed at his eyes. “You must understand, the books were split up between the brothers—one who fought for Owen Glendower and one who did not. I’ve tried to trace this one, but it’s long been feared lost. Can I ask how you came to have it?”

Miss Derrington smoothed her hands along her skirt. “It belonged to my great-grandfather. I don’t know how he obtained it.”

Lord Nash shook his head. “A shame, but I suppose all that matters is that it’s come to light at last.”