“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you for reminding me of my responsibilities. It is part of your duties to make certain I get to appointments on time. Keep doing it.”
Leaving an astonished Mr. Quinn staring after him, Harry departed. By the time he arrived at Sheffield’s office a few minutes later, he had resolved to keep his mind on business matters, and for the next two hours, not a single thought of kissing a prim, innocent spinster entered his head. Not once did he have fantasies of unbuttoning her starched white shirtwaist or pulling up her plain wool skirt as he returned to his office. Not once did he imagine the scent of talcum powder or the feel of soft, white skin as he wrote his next editorial for The Bachelor’s Guide. Not once.
Then she showed up and ruined everything.
He had already bid good day to Quinn and was on his way out when the woman he’d been trying so hard to forget cannoned right into him, bringing both of them to a halt in the corridor outside his offices. Involuntarily, his hands came up to grasp her arms and keep her from falling.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said and looked up from the papers in her hand.
The momentary collision of her body against his sent arousal coursing through him like a jolt of electricity, and her upturned face with its pretty golden freckles and soft pink mouth served to vanquish two hours of carefully cultivated resolve in an instant.
“Lord Marlowe,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Harry realized he still had hold of her arms. He let go of her, stepped back, and forced himself to say something. “Well, I do own this building, you know,” he said, striving to sound offhand. “And this is my office. It’s not unheard of for me to come by on occasion.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, laughing a little as she touched a hand to her forehead. “That was a rather inane question, wasn’t it? It’s only that I was just thinking of…” She paused, gave a little cough, and gestured to the papers in her other hand. “That is to say, I was reading, and was not paying any heed to where I was going. Are you all right? I didn’t tread on your feet or anything?”
“No.” Even as he answered her, he wanted to shout that damn it, no, he wasn’t all right, not in the least, and it was all her fault. At this moment, his body was burning everywhere hers had touched him. Desperate, he tried to think of something ordinary to say. “So what are you reading that has you so preoccupied?”
She rustled the manuscript pages. “Outlines for our next issue. I thought I would bring them to your office, since I had to pass right by. I’m on my way to Inkberry’s, you see.”
Valiantly, he tried to carry on mundane conversation. “Inkberry’s Bookshop?” When she nodded, he went on, “I thought we were doing an entire issue on the topic of sweets. Have you changed your mind?”
“No, no,” she assured him. “I still intend the next issue to be all about sweets, as you’ll see from my outline.” She handed over the typewritten sheets to him. “I am going to Inkberry’s because I want to see if Mr. Inkberry has any books on the history of the…of the…” She paused and cleared her throat. “The history of…the, umm…chocolate trade.”
She thrust her gloved hand into her skirt pocket, the same hand he’d been kissing that day two weeks before, and a delicate flush came into her cheeks. Harry realized he wasn’t the only one who’d been thinking about that day, and with what he’d been going through, he found that fact very gratifying.
“Your sister, Lady Eversleigh, paid a call on me this afternoon.” She glanced around, then added in a whisper, “She guessed I was Mrs. Bartleby. She wanted help with her wedding plans.”
“Yes, I know. Diana has a talent for discovering secrets. But I’ve sworn her to keep mum.”
“Yes, she told me.” There was a long moment of silence, then Emma shifted her weight and glanced at her brooch watch. “It’s already past four o’clock. I should be going.”
“Wait a moment, and I’ll escort you down,” he said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. But he couldn’t take them back, and worse, he didn’t want to. He went into his office, dropped the sheaf of papers she’d given him onto his desk, then he returned to the corridor. He gestured to the stairs, and both of them began walking in that direction. “Does Mrs. Bartleby believe Inkberry’s is the finest bookshop in London?”
“Of course. Even if it weren’t, I shouldn’t dare say so,” she added as they went down the stairs. “The Inkberrys would be quite hurt were I to be so disloyal as to recommend a rival establishment.”
“You know the proprietors, I take it?”
“Oh, yes, I have been acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Inkberry since I first came to London. Mrs. Inkberry was my Aunt Lydia’s greatest friend.” She smiled. “And Mr. Inkberry is such a dear. If any books on etiquette come in, he always sets them aside for me. I like to see what other etiquette writers are advising.”
“Ah, keeping abreast of the competition, are you? That’s very wise.” He paused to open the front door for her. “And I understand it is a fine bookshop,” he said, following her out to the sidewalk, “with a fine collection of old, rare volumes. Is that true?”
“Have you never been there?” she asked.
“No, I have not had that pleasure.”
“Would you…” She paused and cleared her throat. “If you do not have another engagement, perhaps you would…that is, Inkberry’s truly is the best bookshop in London. There are others which are more famous. Hatchards, for instance. But Inkberry’s is superior in every way, at least, in my estimation. And…and besides, you ought to see it. I mean, being a publisher, and…and everything—” She broke off amid these ramblings and took a deep breath. “Would you care to accompany me?”
He shouldn’t. But he was going to. He’d known that before she’d even asked, because he’d never been very good at doing what he should. “It would be my pleasure.”
The bell jangled as Marlowe pushed open the door of Inkberry’s. He followed Emma as she went inside. The elderly man behind the counter smiled at the sight of her. “Emma!” he greeted warmly and came around from behind the counter.
“Good day to you, Mr. Inkberry. Are you well?”
“Well enough.” He wagged a finger at her. “Josephine has the opportunity to visit with you every Sunday afternoon at tea, but I am not so fortunate. It has been far too long since you’ve come to the shop, my dear.”
“I know, and I am sorry for it. Truly. But I shall do better in the future, I promise. How is Mrs. Inkberry?”
“Very well. She’s upstairs, so you must go up and have a visit before you leave. Take tea with us.” He glanced at the man beside her.
“Oh, Mr. Inkberry, this is Viscount Marlowe. I worked for Marlowe Publishing at one time, you know. My lord, this is Mr. Inkberry.”
“How do you do?” Marlowe bowed. “Your bookshop is the finest in London, I hear.”
“And I’ve no doubt who told you that.” Mr. Inkberry chuckled and gave Emma another fond glance. “I believe we’ve some new etiquette volumes in, and some cookery books, too.” He gestured to the doorway that led to the bookshop’s deeper interiors. “I’ve set them in the usual place for you.”
Emma walked through the doorway, making her way toward the back of the shop. Marlowe remained behind, talking to Mr. Inkberry, and the voices of the two men faded as she wandered through the rooms to the back. The windows were high, enabling light to filter in over the tall, overstuffed bookshelves, but the interior was still rather dim, and the air felt cool after the summer heat outside. The distinct scent of book dust permeated the air.
Emma went to the very back wall where Mr. Inkberry set aside books for certain favored patrons. The crates containing these books were located under the stairs that led up to the Inkberrys’ living quarters above the shop. She pulled the crate out into the light to have a look, but she found nothing of interest. A few of Mrs. Beeton’s cookery books she’d already read and some of Mrs. Humphrey’s etiquette volum
es, which were nothing extraordinary. There was also a copy of Everybody’s Book Of Correct Conduct, by M.C., and that most excellent standby, Manners and Rules of Good Society, by a Member of the Aristocracy.
Since she had read all of these, Emma pushed the crate back into place and decided to browse through the other books in this room, for this part of the shop was her favorite. It contained more exotic reading fare, travel guides from Baedeker and Cook’s, history texts of many lands, and heaps of maps. Anything Mr. Inkberry had on the history of the chocolate trade was sure to be somewhere in this room.
She perused the nearby shelves, noting with pleasure some fine volumes of Arabian poetry. She scanned the titles, her gaze moving upward shelf by shelf until she reached the top. There, a matching set of books in red leather caught her eye.
She stood on tiptoe, squinting as she tried to discern the titles high above her head. When she realized what she was looking at, Emma gave an exclamation of delighted surprise. Mr. Inkberry hadn’t told her about these. Of course not. She began to count them, and her delight only increased when she had confirmed that it was a complete set, with all ten original volumes intact.
Not that it mattered, really, she thought, gazing at them with longing. She couldn’t possibly buy them. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm to have a look. She reached up, stretching, but even standing on the very tips of her toes with her arm extended as far as possible, the books remained beyond her grasp. She lowered her arm and dropped back onto her heels with an exasperated sigh.
“Allow me,” a deep voice spoke from behind her.
Emma froze at the sound of Marlowe’s voice right behind her. Startled by his closeness, she hadn’t even heard him enter this room of the shop. As he lifted his arm overhead to remove one of the books for her, his chest brushed against the back of her shoulder, and she caught the scent of sandalwood.
He pulled the volume down, but when she turned to face him and held out her hand, he did not give the book to her. Instead, he paused to read the title, much to her dismay.
“The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night,” he read, “by Sir Richard Burton. Volume Ten.” He looked at her in amusement. “And all this time you have been lecturing me on propriety?”
Caught, Emma lifted her chin to what she deemed a dignified angle. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He tapped the book against his palm. “I wonder,” he murmured, “would Mrs. Bartleby deem this to be acceptable reading for a proper young woman such as yourself?”
It wasn’t proper at all. It was Burton’s unexpurgated version of the tales, and said to be downright salacious. Emma tried to divert the conversation. “I may be proper, my lord, but I am hardly young.”
“No? You look about nineteen.” He reached out with his free hand and touched his fingertips to her cheek. “Must be the freckles.”
Emma’s tummy dipped with a strange, weightless sensation as he traced his fingers lightly across her cheekbone. His hand fell away before she could even think of telling him not to touch her like that, and he stepped back, presenting the book to her with a bow.
She did not take it. There was no point. She could never buy it, and had only intended to have a quick peek. Now she couldn’t even do that, not with him standing there, watching her, knowing what it was. She shook her head in refusal. “Put it back with the others, please.”
Instead of complying, he opened the book to read the imprint, then he glanced at the other books above. “These are originals from the first printing in 1850,” he said, returning his gaze to her face. “All ten volumes together, a rare find in these days. Do you not want them?”
She wanted them terribly. “No,” she lied. “As you said, Burton’s version is not appropriate reading for…for someone such as myself.”
“So? Buy them anyway. I shan’t tell anyone you read naughty books.”
“They are not naughty,” she protested.
“Read them already, have you?”
“Not Burton’s version! But I have read Galland’s.” She swallowed hard. “I was looking at these because I…I wanted a…a comparison.”
“For research purposes, no doubt.” The amused curve of his lips told her he wasn’t the least bit fooled by her explanation, but to her relief, he returned the book to its place without probing her motives any further. “So did you enjoy Galland’s version of the tales?”
“Yes, I did. Though had I been in Scheherazade’s position, I doubt I would have survived.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I hardly think the sultan would have been so impressed with discussions of etiquette that he would have spared my life. To a man, tales of genies and flying carpets would be much more exciting than tableware.”
“I am forced to agree with the sultan about etiquette and tableware, but as for your fate…” He paused, his gaze raking over her. “You underestimate your charms, Emma.”
pleasure flared up inside her at those words, but when his gaze paused at her mouth, the bookshop suddenly felt much too warm, and she turned her back. Facing the shelves, she ran her fingers along the spines of books as if perusing their titles, but her thoughts were not on volumes of Persian poetry.
I should very much like to kiss you.
She felt a dizzying throb of excitement. With Marlowe right behind her, she closed her eyes and once again imagined his mouth on hers. Oh, what would it be like to be kissed by him?
She heard a sound and opened her eyes. Glancing up over her shoulder, she realized he was still standing behind her and was scanning the shelves above her head. Emma gathered her thoughts and forced herself to make ordinary conversation. “What do you like to read, my lord?”
He pulled a book out, glanced at it, shoved it back. “I don’t like to read at all, truth be told.”
“You don’t read? But you publish books.”
“Exactly so. I enjoyed reading when I was a boy, but these days, I read all the time and it has rather taken the pleasure out of it for me. When I am at leisure, reading is the last thing I want to do.”
“That makes sense, I suppose. But for me, reading is an adventure. It makes me an armchair traveler and takes me places I shall never be able to go.”
“And if you could be more than an armchair traveler?” He leaned down close to her ear. “If you possessed a magical flying carpet, and you could journey to any place, where would you go?”
He was so near, she could feel the heat of his body behind her in the cool shadows of the bookshop. His arms came up on either side of her shoulders, trapping her without even touching her. She stirred, then stilled, staring at his hands and the strong fingers that gripped the shelf in front of her. Her breathing began to quicken.
“Where would you go?” he repeated, his warm breath brushing her ear, making her shiver. “The sultan’s harem?”
“Certainly not,” she said primly and pulled a book from the shelf, opened it, and pretended to read The Rubaiyat.
He was not deterred. Peering over her shoulder, he saw the title printed at the top of the page. “So the Persian garden of Omar Khayyám is your destination of choice, is it?” He laughed low in his throat. “I believe that beneath Miss Emmaline Dove’s protective shield of propriety, there beats the heart of a hedonist.”
“What?” She snapped the book shut, shoved it back into place, and turned, bristling at that description. “I am no such thing!” Realizing she had spoken too loudly, she cast a quick glance around, but much to her relief, they were alone in this part of the shop. “Please refrain from insulting me.”
“I meant no insult. Quite the contrary. I find this hidden aspect of your character fascinating.”
“How could such an egregious description of me be fascinating?”
“It is not egregious. And it is fascinating because I have known you five years and never dreamt this side of you existed. The more time I spend in your company, the more surprising you become.”
He leaned toward her, and she pushed at his ar
m to extricate herself from what could only be described as an embrace, but he didn’t move. Failing in her attempt to escape, she tilted her head back to look him in the eye and frowned at him. “You have no right to call me such things. Hedonist, indeed!”
“There is nothing wrong with enjoying the pleasures of life. God knows, there’s enough pain. And I am basing my conclusion about your character upon what I have seen of your preferences.”
“My preferences? I have no idea what you mean.”
“Liqueur chocolates, ripe juicy peaches, tiny red strawberries. The tales of Scheherazade and the Persian poetry of Khayyám. It seems to me that you enjoy some very fleshly pleasures.”
“I don’t!” she denied in a fierce whisper. “You make a fondness for chocolate and fruit sound like de cadence. Like…like carnality.”
“Food can be very carnal, believe me.” His lashes lowered. “Attribute that opinion to my dissolute nature.”
He was doing it again. She lifted her fingers to her lips, then stopped and pulled her hand down. He smiled at that, as if he knew what she was thinking. As if he’d been thinking it, too. As if, when he stared at her mouth, he was thinking about kissing her, and doing other things, too, carnal things. She had only the vaguest idea what those might be, but before she could stop it, Emma’s whole body stirred with a delicious, answering thrill.
“By the way, Emma, I must contradict what you said earlier.”
She tried to think, but his closeness and his words were making that impossible. “What I said?”
“If you had faced the sultan armed with a box of chocolates, you would most certainly have survived.”
The reminder of what had happened two weeks before at Au Chocolat heightened her excitement even as it embarrassed her, and Emma turned her face away. Of course he thought her a hedonist. What else could a gentleman think of a woman when she allowed him to rub his leg against hers in a park? When she allowed him to suck chocolate off her fingers? When she allowed him to take the liberty of embracing her in a bookshop?
And Then He Kissed Her Page 17
