A Little Thing Called Love

by Cathy Maxwell

  Jenny wasn’t certain what was correct under these circumstances. Her mother had warned all of her daughters not to speak to strangers in London.

  But she couldn’t have meant Mr. Morris. Indeed, Jenny had the heady sensation that she knew him, that perhaps she had even been waiting for him to enter her life.

  “Tarleton,” she said, supplying the word he wanted.

  “Tarleton,” he repeated although she sensed he had already known her name.

  “And you are?”

  “Fyclan Morris,” he answered. “And I, too, value reading.” He smiled at her then, a smile that made her light-­headed, and not in the dizzy, weak way of her spells. No, this was a very pleasant feeling. How criminal it was for so much charm to be tucked into one man’s expression.

  “You are Irish?” she asked because of his accent.

  “Proudly so.”

  Well, he might be proud, but her father would not approve. He did not like the Irish. Nor would he ever approve of a mere “mister” when he believed Jenny could marry a marquess.

  But then, Jenny was growing tired of her father’s dictates, and what harm was there in smiling back?

  Jenny offered him her gloved hand. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Morris.”

  He hesitated before taking her hand. If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she might have missed it. He acted as if he wanted to savor the moment.

  How intriguing.

  His fingers wrapped around hers. They were strong, long and lean in his gloves, and she wondered how his body would feel if he pulled her forward into his arms—­?

  From where had that thought come?

  Mr. Morris had the devil’s own smile and a presence that compelled her toward him. A wise woman would run, and Jenny had always been wise, always discreet.

  Except when Mr. Morris released her hand, and said to Childs, “Well, man, are you going to leave us on the doorstep?” and the servant stepped aside, Jenny didn’t back away.

  Instead, when Mr. Morris approvingly indicated with a sweep of his hand for her to go ahead of him, she did.

  After all, she wanted a book . . . didn’t she?

  Chapter Three

  ASTUTE INTELLIGENCE AND a fantastic luck had carried Fyclan far in life—­but this was different.

  Miss Jennifer Tarleton was a treasure of the greatest value. She read! She valued books. Her physical beauty now blossomed in his mind when ­coupled with her intelligence.

  Fyclan would not be the man he was today if he had not received access to Mr. Rodwell Neary’s library when he was a boy. Books had taken a lad of common parentage and given him uncommon opportunities in life. Through the adventure of reading, Fyclan had dared to dream. He particularly enjoyed history and biographies of great men.

  And now, he was facing the dream of any man’s lifetime. He was in the presence of his destiny. Over the years, he’d met many women, but he’d waited for the one. He’d believed she’d existed for no other reason than his Gran’s assurance, and now, Miss Tarleton was his reward for his patient trust.

  Sir David’s front hall was the size of a ballroom. The house had been in the family since the Restoration. The floor was of uneven squares of gray marble, and the wood paneling was covered with a variety of exotic spears, sabers, and the horns and skins of dead animals.

  “Oh dear,” Miss Tarleton whispered.

  Fyclan nodded with understanding. “I’m here often enough I’ve become accustomed to it. Sir David is proud of his collection.”

  “Yes,” she said in a subdued voice.

  “I, on the other hand, find it a bit much,” he confided. “However, his library is worth the extravagance. This way. Subscribers are allowed the freedom of the house to search out the library on their own. Sir David is rarely at home, and he takes pleasure in sharing his books.”

  At the mention of the library, Miss Tarleton’s eyes lit up. “I heard it is hard to imagine.”

  “One of the best collections in the world and a fitting location for it,” Fyclan acknowledged.

  “Wait here for me, Mandy,” she said to her maid, indicating a chair by the front door. She then followed Fyclan down the narrow hall to wooden double doors. The latch appeared ancient and was probably a trinket Sir David had picked up during his travels. Fyclan opened the doors, first one, then the other, so that Miss Tarleton could have the full effect of the library.

  Her reaction was all he had anticipated and mimicked his own when he had first walked into this room.

  “I’ve never see the like,” she breathed in admiration. She moved into the room, with its line of fully stocked bookcases, one after another, from one wall to the next.

  Desks were available for study, complete with ornate oil lamps. Comfortable chairs formed a gathering place in the middle of the room beneath a domed ceiling.

  Miss Tarleton moved to the center of the room and looked up at the paintings gracing the dome. They were of Athena, the goddess of Wisdom, and her minions. They rode in chariots or lounged on clouds.

  “This is amazing.” She glanced around the room. “We are the only ones here in this wealth of knowledge.”

  “Sir David is particular about whom he allows into his sanctuary,” Fyclan answered. Childs had come in behind them. He now took a stance at the desk nearest the door, assuming his duties as keeper of the library.

  “I can understand why.” She moved toward the books, placing a reverent hand on the leather-­covered spines. She glanced at him, her eyes sparkling with the pleasure of a book lover. “This speaks well for your credibility, Mr. Morris.”

  “Which has been my intention all along, Miss Tarleton.”

  She laughed, the sound so light Fyclan could imagine it being the music of angels. She disappeared among the bookcases. “I don’t know where to begin,” she called. “Sir David can’t have read all of these?”

  “These books have been in his family for generations.” Fyclan moved toward the sound of her voice.

  “I would never leave the house with all this to read,” she declared. “I would be in heaven.”

  That was the same reaction Fyclan had experienced when he’d first visited the library. “Sir David is not particular about how many books one borrows. The rule is if you do not return a volume, your subscription will be abruptly ended. Childs marks every book that leaves this room.”

  “Is that true, Childs?” Miss Tarleton called, her voice coming from the far corner of the library.

  “Mr. Morris is very correct.”

  Miss Tarleton’s lovely head popped out from behind a bookcase. “I don’t know where to begin,” she whispered in wonder. “There is so much here.” She stepped from behind the bookcase. “Thank you, Mr. Morris, thank for this generous gift. I should not accept it from you, and yet, I am powerless to refuse. You may have saved my sanity.”

  If Fyclan had slain a dragon for her, he could not have been more proud.

  He had won his lady’s interest. The cost of the subscription was a mere pittance to him; however, the smile she gave him was worth more than gold.

  “Start anywhere,” he managed to say. Her smile had the power to unman him or throw him into unrivaled lust.

  She took his advice and started perusing the section closest at hand. “Maps,” she whispered. “This is a shelf of maps. No, wait. This whole case is shelves of maps.” She shook her head as if bemused by the extravagance and moved on.

  “Biographies,” she announced, delighted. She pulled a book from the shelf and did something he always did—­she opened the cover, flipped a few pages, and breathed deep.

  She caught his eye and smiled as if abashed. “I like the smell of paper.”

  “I do as well,” he said, walking toward her.

  Her dark lashes swept down as she turned her attention to the book. “Sometimes I imagine eve
n the letters have their own scent. These are bold and black, like a strong tea.” She reached for another book and opened it. “These are old, and the ink is fading. They remind me of my grandmother. She was so brittle with age, yet she was still a force to be reckoned with. We all did exactly as she expected.”

  “You must read a great deal of the poets,” Fyclan said.

  Color rose to her cheeks. “I do go on. My family teases me when they think I am silly, especially when I start quoting philosophers. ‘The opinions of dead men,’ is what my father says.” She’d gruffed up her voice to ape her sire, an amusing bit, but the smile left her face as quickly as it had come, almost as if the thought of her father troubled her.

  He took the book from her. “Reading is not always valued,” he murmured. “It takes discipline. Concentration. Intelligence.” He shelved the book of grandmotherly letters, and added, “I admire your ability to enjoy the very moment of life, to see pleasure in the small things.”

  His compliment was sincere, and he had hoped to please her.

  Instead, a sadness came to her eyes. It was there in the depths.

  “I meant no insult, Miss Tarleton.”

  His apology startled her. “I took no insult, sir. Indeed I’m—­” She stopped as if reconsidering her words. Her brows came together. “I must not tarry. I’ve already taken much of your time.”

  He could have told her she could have all his time, every golden minute of it. He wanted to keep her forever.

  Her gaze fell on a book sitting halfway out on a lower shelf. She leaned and pulled it out. She opened to the title page, and said with some surprise, “Sir David wrote this book. It is a journal.”

  Fyclan remembered reading it. “Is it the tale of his time in Ceylon?”

  She smiled, without the shadows in her eyes. “Ceylon Sojourn,” she agreed. “His personal journal. Do you believe he’d let me borrow it?”

  “Of course he will. He let me do so. This collection is to share. If you like reading about exotic places, you will enjoy it. Sir David is an excellent writer although he can be a bit salty.”

  “Salty?”

  “He’s a blunt man and enjoys sharing his experiences. All of them. Some of them are very dramatic.”

  She laughed her happiness. “I enjoy drama, when it is in books.” She wrapped her arms around the journal. “Then this is the one I would like to borrow. My father was once in Ceylon.”

  “Then Colonel Tarleton should approve.” The words came out of his mouth because he approved, and he was ridiculously happy over the book she’d chosen. He’d watched as she’d lingered over the biographies and maps. She hadn’t even looked at the volumes of fiction. He himself enjoyed a piece of literature now and then. Stories could be fascinating, but the world was a big place, as Fyclan knew firsthand, and he often thought real tales more interesting. Her intellectual curiosity only added to her allure.

  Yes, she was the one.

  “You know that my father was in the military?” she asked, having caught his slip, revealing knowledge of her sire.

  “Of course I’ve heard of the valiant Colonel Tarleton.” At another time, Fyclan would have choked on the words in speaking them. He wondered what she thought of the colonel. Did she worship him as a hero? Could he stomach such a thought?

  If he wooed and won Miss Tarleton, the colonel would be related to him by marriage. There was a thought to give a man pause—­

  Suddenly, the library clock chimed . . .

  “Oh dear, the time is passing. I must leave,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry to be so abrupt. I am supposed to attend a musicale this evening. Thank you, again, Mr. Morris. Thank you.” She had already started moving to the door as she spoke, holding the book out to Childs to record. She sounded rattled, as if Fyclan’s mention of her father had reminded her of where she was, what she was doing.

  He wanted to stop her from leaving. He wanted her to stay here with him until he knew her every secret, want, and desire—­which would take a lifetime.

  Instead, he came to stand by her side. The scent of her pleased him. She smelled of field flowers as they warmed in the summer sun . . . apparently she brought out the poet in him as well.

  “I shall read Sir David’s book and return it forthright,” she promised Fyclan, taking the book from Childs.

  And then she did the most amazing thing. She touched Fyclan. Her gloved fingers lightly brushed his arm, the barest hint of a caress, but it sparked a hunger in him. He wanted more.

  Instinctively, he reached for her, but she’d already moved away, her arms around her book. She was out the double doors in a blink and moving rapidly down the hall.

  “Come, Mandy,” she called. Her maid fell into step behind her. Childs raced to reach the front door and open it for her.

  Fyclan rushed forward as if to stop her, but Miss Tarleton did not linger on the front step. By the time he reached the door, she was moving with her customary purpose toward the busy main thoroughfare, rushing as if to an appointment and fearing she would be late.

  For a little more than a quarter of an hour, he had basked in the presence of his destiny, and now she was walking away.

  But then, at the corner, she stopped and looked back. Her gaze found his. She raised a hand and gave him a small wave before disappearing from his view.

  Yes, she had looked for him.

  He struggled with the urge to chase after her. Then again, half the men in London probably shared that same struggle.

  But she was his. He knew it all the way to his bones. She would be the mother of his children. You chose well, Gran.

  “She is stunning, isn’t she, sir?” Childs remarked.

  Fyclan was not surprised that Jennifer Tarleton had made an impact on even the taciturn manservant. She had completely changed his life.

  “More than stunning,” Fyclan answered. He pulled a guinea from his pocket. “When she returns the book, send someone for me. My offices are around the corner. You know where.”

  Childs palmed the coin. “I will do so, sir.”

  But that wasn’t going to be enough for Fyclan. No, if an Irish mongrel like him wanted to win the heart of a woman with such sparkling intelligence, he needed to be more clever than her other suitors. And he could not be shy.

  Then he remembered what Bishard had said. The betting books across the city were weighted heavily in favor of Stowe, the man his superiors in the Company were seeking as an investor.

  Stowe was a pompous fool. He also had a gut the size of a whale. A man like him should not consider himself worthy of a jewel like Miss Tarleton although he had no doubt Stowe and the colonel meshed together very well.

  If it was money Tarleton wanted for his daughter, Fyclan had plenty of it and would receive even more when he was named director. However, if it was a title and prestige, well, Fyclan could be out of the running.

  Then there was the problem that he and Tarleton were the bitterest of enemies.

  “This one is up to you, Gran,” he said under his breath. “If she’s meant for me, then I’ll need your help.” With those words, he walked to the Company’s offices. It was not unusual for him to ask for his gypsy grandmother’s help. There had been many a time when Fyclan had been in a tight spot and sent her a prayer. She always delivered.

  And today was no different.

  Bishard was waiting for Fyclan at his desk. “Where the bloody hell have you been? The Old Cracker has been asking for you. I have assured him you were out on business—­”

  “Mr. Morris, it is about time you honored us with your presence,” Mr. Charles Tillbury, also known as the Old Cracker, as in whip, said from the door of his office. “Come here.”

  When the Old Cracker used his senatorial tone, one didn’t know what to expect. Fyclan exchanged a wary glance with Bishard before approaching his superior.

  “Yes, sir?�
��

  Tillbury had a military bearing although he also enjoyed the soft life. He wore a dark brown bag wig that was at odds with the lines of age on his face. “The Marquess of Stowe has finally condescended to read the proposal you prepared about the Sumatra voyage.”

  “That was six months ago.”

  “He now says he is interested.”

  “But you have doubts?”

  “No one can afford doubts with a man whose purse is as fat as Stowe’s. I want to tap his pocket, Mr. Morris. If not Sumatra, then something else. He needs a nudge, but he says he doesn’t have time for a meeting to discuss the matter.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “That we take our interests to him. Dangle them in front of him like bait. He will be at Lord and Lady Nestor’s musicale this evening. You remember Lord Nestor?”

  “I do. You went to school with him.”

  “Aye, and he has given me invitations for this evening. Put on your dancing shoes, Mr. Morris, we are going out in society. But you’d best be sharp. We’ve wanted Stowe’s backing for a long time. This is your chance to bring him in for us.”

  “Mine alone?”

  “What do I know of Sumatra? However, do this, and you will have earned you director’s seat. The youngest man ever elected. Go on with you. Be ready. This might be the most important night of your life.”

  He was right.

  Jennifer Tarleton was attending a musicale that evening. She had told him so in the library.

  “I appreciate the opportunity, sir,” Fyclan said, meaning those words.

  “See that you make the most of it,” Mr. Tillbury advised.

  “Oh, I shall.”

  Chapter Four

  MR. MORRIS HAD been watching her leave.

  Elation brought heat to Jenny’s cheeks as she ducked her head, turned the corner, and jigged in triumph right there in the street.

  Scurrying behind her, Mandy almost collided with her. “Oh, sorry, Miss.”

  “Don’t be sorry, be happy,” Jenny answered generously, wanting to share her good mood. “Come, Lorry, let’s hurry before my absence is noticed.”