to see the library here at Dartworth
—just for a minute? It’s right over there. You don’t need a chaperone with al these people mil ing about.”
Chloe hesitated. “I don’t want to miss the minuet, even though I have to sit it out.”
“You won’t. I promise.”
As excited as she was about the bal , this might be her last chance to see the Dartworth library. She stopped. “This isn’t code for showing me your etchings, is it?”
“Maybe.”
“Is this some kind of test? Because I won’t do anything to put my relationship with your brother in jeopardy. You must know, Mr. Wrightman, where my affections lie.”
“I do.”
Once Chloe walked into the library, she had to catch her breath. Hundreds and hundreds of candles had been lit and careful y placed around the room. The leather-bound books with gold- and silver-embossed titles on the bindings glistened in the candlelight. And, in tiny vases everywhere, were flowers from the heirloom cutting garden at Dartworth. Larkspur, snapdragons, bachelor’s buttons, lilies, and foxgloves perfumed the air and seemed to sprinkle their colors against the dark wood paneling.
“It’s—it’s amazing. Did Sebastian do this?”
“I did.”
“You did?”
Henry nodded. “I did it for you. And this is for you, too. I’l have a footman run them over tomorrow.”
He placed three leather-bound books in her hands. Jane Austen’s
She ran her gloved fingers along the letterpressed title.
“Someday our kids wil laugh about these things cal ed ‘books.’”
Chloe got stuck on his saying “our kids.”
“Good thing we’re both wearing gloves. It’s a first edition,” he said.
Chloe handed the books back to him. “I can’t accept them. They’re worth a fortune. I can’t accept
“The books may be worth a fortune, but I never planned on sel ing them. I don’t think you wil either.”
He looked at her with so much passion in his eyes that she—she swooned—and had to lean against the writing desk. “Henry. You have to stop.”
“I must warn you that this goes against al the rules, but some things are better expressed without words.” He gently but firmly nudged her against the bookshelves, the section labeled FANTASY, and he trapped her there with his arms. Their bodies crushed together as he kissed her deftly and deliciously. He stopped for a moment, and desire ricocheted through her.
“You real y are quite accomplished, Miss Parker,” he said. “Very talented.”
He rendered her speechless. He cupped her cheek in his hand. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know how ardently I admire you.”
The room spun a little around her, but the light-headedness could’ve been due to a lack of oxygen. She hadn’t been kissed like that in a long time.
Why was he doing this to her? Was this another test?
He checked his watch fob, which happened to be dangerously near his bulging breeches. “The minuet wil be starting soon.”
Chloe’s mouth dropped open a little. He didn’t want anything more than a kiss? Surely she did. But “Miss Parker” did not. Miss Parker had already gone too far.
“Perhaps, sometime, when there isn’t a grand bal going on, you would like to accompany me back to the library?”
Chloe looked around at the candles, the flowers, the books, drinking it al in. Al of it was slipping away already, like a good dream you only remember pieces of when you wake.
“You don’t have to answer. I’ve read it al on your face.”
She buzzed into the bal room on Henry’s arm. She felt as if she’d drunk a couple of glasses of wine. People approached Henry with smiles and swarmed around him. The height of the room, the gilded ceiling, the candlelight, orchestra, and gowns intoxicated Chloe even more than she already was. Cook made her way toward them.
Henry pul ed out chairs for the two women. He motioned a flourish with his hand for them to sit. “Ladies, if you please?”
“I’m much obliged. Thank you, sir.” Chloe sat, her vision of the evening torn asunder. She was bedazzled and bewildered al at once.
Henry said something about supper at midnight, lemonade, tea, coffee, and even wine, which, God knows she would’ve given her last soap bal for a glass of. She half expected to see Colin Firth or Hugh Grant mingling in the crowd. Chloe caught a sudden whiff of beeswax and a drop of something from above fel into the crook of her arm just above her glove. It hardened into a warm white circle. She rubbed it off with her gloved finger.
Henry pointed to the ceiling. “Wax from the candles.”
She squinted up at a gold chandelier hanging high above her like an oversized halo. The ceiling itself was
