Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 26
Once in the drawing room, she was gratified to find the face of the very gallant she sought. Blushing, she approached him. There was a wonderful petrichor surrounding him. It was a scent that savored of wild countrysides, and she was eager to lose herself in it. To lose herself in him.
If it were not for her ardent infatuation, Milli would have noticed that something was amiss far sooner than she did. As it happened, it was not until she was offered a second cup of tea that Milli remarked Emma’s curious absence. And that Lord Winterly too was still in absentia.
Chapter Thirteen
L’escholle des Filles
Emma had only meant to peek into the library; it was her errant sister she’d gone in search of. But upon passing the open doorway, the lure of those silent tomes beckoning her closer with their fragrant mystique was such that she entered without hesitation. It was not she but her wayward feet that bore her from her purpose.
She promised herself only a moment. Surely a brief examination of Lord Winterly’s treasure trove could do no harm? Already her curiosity was sparked by a small volume that, despite its excellent condition, looked very old and begged her touch upon its leathern back.
The temptation proved too much. She availed herself of its heft and, hugging it to her chest, skipped towards the nearest chair. It was a plush high back armchair that, to her delight, completely swallowed her up. But the room was too badly lit, this reading corner especially—not in the least conducive to reading; she found herself squinting at the title: L’escholle des Filles. She pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes tiredly. It was just as well, for she ought to return to the drawing room before her absence was wondered at.
It was so blessedly quiet in the library, however, that she indulged herself a few seconds more. The chintz curtains were slightly parted from the casement to reveal a glowing crescent above the buildings. Smiling, she turned back to her volume and pressed her palm against the first flyleaf as though to absorb the words into her blood with touch alone.
Somewhere in the house a clock was striking. On the twelfth and final strike Emma heard the library door suddenly fly shut. It so startled her that she froze and held her breath, her heart sounding a guilty tempo. It was so silent now she misgave herself she heard even the books bristling at the threatening presence in the room with her. She remained as still as the moon, the back of the chair concealing her from view. Maybe if she kept still, they’d leave and—
“Do not stop breathing on my account, Miss Rose.” Lord Winterly’s voice was so unexpected that she nearly shrieked.
She shot up from the chair, shutting the aged relict with a snap, her face already puce with mortification at having been thus discovered. “I was…I thought perhaps I might…”
He chuckled at her difficulty, his face in shadows. “Please—” he gestured to the book “—do not let me disturb you. Continue your study.”
Would that he knew just how much she was disturbed by him; no amount of his reassuring her to feel otherwise would change that fact. Or perhaps he was very well acquainted with his effect on her and thus used his presence only to torment her. Perverse man! “You are laughing at me, sir.”
“It only appears so because you will not laugh with me, Miss Rose.”
“Perhaps I do not laugh with you because…”
“Yes?”
“Well, I am never certain who it is I will be laughing with—the wicked viscount from the boot shop or the knight errant from the night before. You must have recognized me in the boot shop, so your coolness on our second meeting I cannot account for. What am I to make of you?”
“It seems I am more myself at night. What about you, Miss Rose? Are you a creature of the night or the morning?”
“I believe the morning is my best time.”
“Interesting,” was all he replied. The smirk, however, half obscured by darkness, implied he did not believe her.
She became embarrassed under his bold examination, realizing at last the impropriety of their being shut up together. Alone! What on earth did he mean by closing the door? “I had better return to the drawing room.”
“Stay a moment.”
It was not a request and she found herself rankled by his temerity. “I think that most unwise, don’t you?”
“Perhaps.” Unconcerned, he stepped closer, dropping his eyes to the volume. “I must confess, Miss Rose, your literary interests never fail to astonish me.”
Confused, Emma bent her eyes to the volume’s front board again, turning it this way and that so that she could read it in the dimness again. Directly below the larger French title was the English translation: The School of Venus. She gave a shrug. “You find my interest in Roman mythology astonishing?”
His lips curled into a predatory grin. “Turn to the frontispiece, Miss Rose.”
She did as he instructed. When she came to the illustration printed thereon, she squinted down at it with a puzzled twist of the mouth. Her glasses! She needed her glasses. They were on the floor where she’d dropped them when she’d bolted up from the chair. When they were resting on her nose again, she took up the book once more and studied the illustration with sharper eyes. In the meantime, Lord Winterly was lighting more candles from the single flame that had occupied the mantlepiece before, so the room was no longer awash in deep shadows.
“It is a group of women gathered in front of a stall,” she said, shrugging again.
“And what, pray, do you see hanging in the preceptor’s stall?”
“It does look like a strange sort of fruit. I wonder…” Her words trailed off as horror dawned.