Isabel tried the first door on the right, only to enter a drawing room. The instant chill in the air and the sheets draped over the furnishings told her it was rarely used. She shut the door and tried the next one along.
Easing it open, she peered through the gap and stilled. Mouth ajar, she pushed the door further and found herself rooted to the spot.
“Books,” she breathed.
Everywhere. Books, books, books. As far as the eye could see. Hand to the doorknob, she remained in the doorway as she took in the sight. The beautifully carved wooden bookshelves gleamed in the lamp light. Where most parts of the house looked dusty and unkempt, the library was polished and spotless.
She spied four ladders that climbed up to the top shelves. The room turned around a corner, offering the idea that there were yet more books to be discovered. She peered up at the very top shelves. There had to be thousands of books here. More than one could read in a lifetime.
“So many books,” she whispered to herself. “Oh my goodness.”
A smile worked its way across her face and she stepped into the library. Closing the door carefully, she took a few steps forward aware of her slippers gently tapping across the wooden floorboards.
Above her, gods and goddesses floated on the ceiling, carefully painted and maintained far better than the murals in other parts of the house. A chandelier occupied the center of the room and the crystals shone proudly, as though aware they were in a room of such magnitude.
Isabel paused to peer to the right of her. She ran a finger over the spines of several books, breathing in the leathery scent. She did not know these titles. To think there were so many books out there that she had never heard of, never read. It almost broke her heart to consider she might not see these books again.
Rounding the corner, she froze. The duke stood near three large rear windows that looked out onto the parkland. He had his back to her, his head bent over the book he held in his hand. Silhouetted against the grey light of the day, he struck an imposing figure. She supposed she could see why people might be scared of him but she could not be, even after their argument yesterday. Underneath that gruffness, there was something soft. There simply had to be. A man so passionate about his books could not be all rough manners and abruptness.
She watched him for too long. The way his shoulders moved with each breath fascinated. He turned a little, enough for her to see the fierce concentration on his brow. Her breath stilled in her chest. With the meagre daylight dappling around him, she saw a flash of the man he once was. Likely far too handsome for his own good. Even with the beard and the long hair, she knew that much.
He turned again and she stumbled backward in an attempt to hide herself but all she managed to do was knock into a bookcase.
“Timms, damn it, leave me in peace!” the duke bellowed, lifting his head at the noise.
Turning fully, Isabel dashed out of the library. Before she could reach the door, a hand latched around her arm and pulled her to a stop. She grimaced and glanced up at the duke.
“Forgive me,” she said meekly.
“No.” He released her arm. “No, forgive me. I thought—” He huffed out a breath. “I thought you were Timms. Not that I should be shouting at him, either.”
“I disturbed you. I can see that much. I’m sorry. I’ll just…” She went to turn away.
“Wait.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “You wanted to see the library, correct?”
She nodded slowly.
He offered his arm. “Come then, let me show it to you properly.”
Chapter Eight
Wilde had offered his arm out of habit. Albeit a habit that he had not used in a long time. He’d thought nothing of it. Nothing at all.
Until she looped her arm through his.
There had been times in his past when he’d partaken in many sordid activities. He saw enough female flesh to last a man many lifetimes. He had touched enough too. Yet nothing quite compared to the feeling of a woman’s arm through his. No, not just any woman. Isabel’s.
That simple gesture of trust had his heart racing like galloping horses. He longed to put his other hand over the carefully curled fingers that wrapped about his forearm so perfectly but he didn’t have the courage in him to do it.
Coward, he scolded himself. Always a coward.
He led her to the far corner of the library where the fireplace and his chair and table sat.
Turning, he gestured to the vast room. “This is the best view of the room.”
Wilde could not help watch as she gazed, wide-eyed at the library. She twisted her head this way and that, tilted it up to eye the top shelves. Then she glanced back at his reading nook.
“This is where you read?” She removed her arm from his and touched the open book upon the table.
“It has the best light, the best view, and is the warmest spot.”
“It’s perfect,” she breathed. “Just perfect.” Her eyes shone with so much excitement that he forgot his disappointment that he was no longer holding her arm.
“It is my favorite place to be,” he agreed.
“You spend most of your time here?”
He nodded. All of it, if truth be told. If he was not sleeping, he was here. Sometimes he even fell asleep on the chair too. Nowhere else provided the feeling that he could achieve here. In the library, he was no longer a beast who killed his wife. He was not hideous and deformed. Once he delved into those books, he was anything he wanted to be. Handsome again. Adventurous. Brave and strong. Honorable. He had never really been any of those—apart from handsome—even before the accident. It had taken him a while to realize that his indulgence of the rakish lifestyle had been one of cowardice—an unwillingness to take on his duties and make a success of them.
Well, he had paid dearly for his arrogance and cowardly behavior. Now he would only ever adventure through the pages of a book or find love through the eyes of a hero on the pages.
Love.
He scowled to himself. He did not think he had considered he was missing out on that before. Not until…
Wilde watched her once more. It was addictive, eyeing the arch of her neck while she gaped at the shelves and swept her fingers over the ornate carvings on each pillar.
“This is beautiful.” Her gaze finally met his. “I had heard that you had one of the best libraries in England but I could never have imagined….” She grinned. “How many books do you have?”
“I could not say for sure. We have not counted them for generations. My great-grandfather started the collection with around five thousand.”
“Golly. That would keep me going forever. Have you a favorite book?”
“Many.” He felt a smile ease across his face, entirely of its own accord. Her enthusiasm for books and his library was infectious. “The Count of Monte Cristo is a particular favorite, though.” He tapped the book in question which he kept on a shelf near his reading spot for easy access. “I keep the books I will read again here.”
Miss Beaumonte came to his side and peered at the titles. “I’ve read a few of these but some I have not. My father buys me books when he can but they were not easily available in our quiet part of the country.”
He tried not to think about her words last night. The simple fact was, he could never give away any of these books. It would be like…like giving away a brick in the wall. Or a vital organ. These books belonged here, in this library.
“Do you have a favorite book?” he asked quickly.
“Evelina,” she said firmly, her gaze challenging him.
“Ah. A tale of love and society.”
“I read it when I was a young girl visiting with my aunt. I could not help but love it.”
“You are a romantic, Miss Beaumonte.”
“You should call me Isabel. And, while I think all girls are romantic, it was the humor that I enjoyed.”
“The humor?”
“You have not read it, Your Grace?”
“I will confess I
have not. I thought it was considered women’s literature.”
“And therefore you cannot read it?” Her smile teased.
“Very well, I simply do not have a copy. Or at least, I do not think I do.”
“You have no record of the books?”
He shook his head. “My great-grandfather began recording them but his collection grew to quickly and his father and my father were too busy to try.”
“I would wager you have some rare books in here. It would be wonderful if you could make a record of them.”
“Perhaps I shall try, Isabel.” He tried her name deliberately, to see how it felt.
Too good, he discovered. She liked it too. Or at least he thought she did. She shot him a smile and her eyes twinkled further. Glancing at his open book, she gave a great sigh.
“Can I call you by your first name?”
He grunted. “Call me ‘the beast’. Everyone else does.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I suppose I shall just have to call you ‘the duke’ forever.”
He shrugged.
“I should leave you to your reading.”
“No,” he blurted out. “I mean, why do you not join me?” He snatched a chair from the other corner of the library and dragged it over. “It would not bother me. I’m sure you’re a quiet reader.”
Her smile turned into a wide flash of teeth, like a child who had just been offered sweetmeats. The look was so charming that he had the unerring urge to fall to her feet and offer her up his soul or anything else she wanted. Even, perhaps, a book.
He shook his head to himself. No, never a book. Anything but a book.
Isabel did indeed prove to be a quiet reader. In fact, she was no bother at all. There was something mildly comforting about her quiet presence and the way she pottered around the library. Even if it did mean he could not concentrate on his book. No matter how engrossing the words were, he found himself watching her as she climbed the ladders to stare at the books or when she put a thumb to her mouth when she flicked over a page.
For the first time in a long time, something other than books held his interest. It was…disturbing and yet pleasant. Very little could distract him from his past and current life and the more Isabel did indeed distract, the more he had to wonder if it was all worth it.
If he remained isolated for the rest of his life and avoided the gossip and cruel comments, would it be worth it? Or did he deserve any and all of it for what he did to his wife? He had always thought so but Isabel made him wonder differently. Was the loss of his eyesight, his looks, his confidence not enough?
He still pondered this as Timms and Lighthall entered with lunch. Laden with trays and a jug of lemonade, they had clearly gone too far more effort for Isabel’s sake than they would have done for him. Delicate sandwiches and cakes were piled high alongside pastries dripping with sugar and honey.
“Mrs. Potter has been busy,” Wilde commented, his tone dry.
Mrs. Potter was an excellent cook but she rarely had the time to create such feasts. Apparently, she was keen to impress their guest.
Foolishly, he found he was too.
“Mrs. Potter assumed you would be hungry after your, um, light breakfast,” Lighthall said, placing one tray on the table.
Isabel eyed the feast. “This looks wonderful. I shall have to thank her later.”
“As will I, by the looks of it,” Wilde added. Though he was not sure whether he really should. After all, his meddling servants were going out of their way to ensure Isabel enjoyed every second of her time here, and he had a good inkling why.
It was pointless, though. Isabel would be gone as soon as the weather cleared and she would forget all about him soon enough. They would never see her again.
She put back the book she’d been holding and joined him on the chair he had pulled over for her.
“A picnic in a library,” she exclaimed, “how wonderful.”
Timms gave Wilde a look. It was the sort of look that said she’s the one who is wonderful. Don’t mess this up.
Wilde snorted. He didn’t need to mess this up. There was nothing to mess up. Why would he even consider that a beautiful, charming woman like Isabel would be interested in the company of a half-blind, world-weary duke with little to recommend him but an excellent library?
Timms finished arranging the table to his liking and took away the trays. “Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, that will be all.” He waved a dismissive hand. The sooner the servants left them in peace the better. He could do without them observing his clumsy attempts at civility. Over a decade of isolation did not do one many favors when it came to polite company.
“I did not find it, you know,” Isabel declared as she picked up a sandwich.
“Find what?”
“Evelina.”
“It may well not be here. If it is, it will take you a lifetime of searching to find it.”
“A lifetime in this library. How wonderful that sounds.”
He chuckled and she swung her gaze up at him as though surprised by the sound. “I have had nearly half a lifetime here. I do not think you are the sort to remain cloistered in a room for too long.”
“I shall admit there is something perfect about reading outdoors.” She glanced out of the window. “When the weather is right, of course.” She took a sip of lemonade. “Do you ever read outside?”
“Never.”
“You should. Sunlight is a wonderful cure for...” She clamped her mouth shut.
“For?”
“Well, melancholy.”
“You think I am melancholy?”
She shrugged. “I am no doctor.”
“If it were mere melancholy, I would be pleased, Isabel. But when one is cursed with a face like this, there is more to it than that.”
“You fear people seeing you,” she stated.
“I am not the one who is scared.” He drew up his shoulders. How could this woman understand him already? If anything was terrifying, it was that.
“So you would not mind if people saw you? It would go a long way, you know, to dispelling all the rumors.”
He shook his head. “I care little for rumors or foolish gossip. I would rather remain in my library than deal with fools who cannot tell the difference between a story and fact.”
“I think you must care or else you would not hide away.”
“I do not hide away,” he snapped. “I merely choose to enjoy my own company. Is that so strange?”
She offered a smile that had any annoyance melting away. “Not at all. I quite like my own company too. However, it is nice when one finds another whose company you can enjoy too, is it not?”
He gave a grunt and aggressively bit into a pastry. If she was trying to infer she liked his company, she had to be lying. No woman had enjoyed his company in a long time. Isabel was no different.
Chapter Nine
“It’s sunny,” Isabel told Mrs. Potter as the housekeeper bustled into her room.
A little more prepared than the previous morning, Isabel had washed and dressed before Mrs. Potter could wake her. She did not want the poor woman slaving over her any more than she already did. No doubt the evening meals and delicious lunches were taking up all her time without a team of kitchen maids to help.
“Yes, so it is, my love.”
The morning sun streamed in through the window, leaving a delicate rainbow pattern on the bed. At first, Isabel had been delighted to awaken to such a sight. That was until she realized…she would have to leave.
How could she leave so soon? Not after yesterday, not after getting a glimpse into the man behind these elegant walls.
“I had better check your leg,” Mrs. Potter offered after flinging the washbowl contents out of the window and placing it by the door.
“I just had a quick peek and all looks well.”
The woman paused and eyed her. She tilted her head.
“What is it?” Isabel asked.
“You l
ook a little pale. I should check, just to be on the safe side.”
“Oh, very well.” Isabel flopped onto the bed and hitched up her skirts. “I think you’ll find it’s quite—” Mrs. Potter drew in a sharp breath that made Isabel’s heart freeze. She gripped the bedding beside her. “What is it?”
“I’ve seen this before.” Mrs. Potter pursed her lips. “Oh dear, yes. I recognize this.”
“Mrs. Potter,” she pleaded.
“It’s not dangerous. At least as long as you rest. But you must not get it wet. Oh goodness no. Or let the dressings rub. Walking is out of the question, to be sure.”
Isabel scowled. “It cannot be that bad, surely?”
“If you do not treat this carefully it shall infect.”
“But it looked just fine.”
Mrs. Potter shook her head and pressed the dressing back over the cut. “Looks can be deceiving. I have seen this before. It’s best you rest, my love.” She patted Isabel’s hand. “Stay another day or so. It can’t hurt.”
“But—”
“His Grace would never forgive himself if you keeled over all because he did not look after the garden.” Mrs. Potter shuddered. “Oh goodness, no. It would be the death of him, to be certain.”
“Well, I…” Isabel glanced around the room. It was not that she wanted to leave but how long could she impose for? It was getting to the point of being rude, surely?
“Stay,” the housekeeper insisted.
“I suppose I must.”
Mrs. Potter beamed at her. “Excellent. I shall make a lovely dinner full of hearty foods to ensure your full recovery.”
Before the housekeeper left, Isabel called her name. “You said I cannot walk. Am I allowed in the gardens at least?”
“Oh yes, indeed. Just not long journeys. Those of a mile or two. A little stroll around the garden will do no harm.”
“So no long journeys like the trip to the village perhaps?”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Potter frowned. “I think I hear Lighthall calling for me. Do go and enjoy the sunshine.”
Isabel eyed the doorway in which Mrs. Potter had been standing. The housekeeper had talked of Isabel falling in love with the duke but Isabel had not taken it seriously. However, it did seem as though the woman was trying her best to keep her here. Did she still hold hope that such a thing could happen?
The Beast Who Loved Me: A Fairytale Retelling (Regency Fairy Twists Book 2) Page 5
