“Do you promise?”
He kissed her again. “Absolutely.”
When their mouths broke apart at last, Maggie gathered hercommon sense, forcing herself to recall her initial reason for seeking him out.It wouldn’t do for them to become fodder for belowstairs gossip on their firstday in residence. She had never been treated as the lady of the house, and shevery much didn’t want to lose the tentative respect she’d won from herhousekeeper. As much as she wanted to allow him to drag her to the bedchamber,it simply wouldn’t do. Not now. “Your retribution will have to wait, I fear,for it’s likely nearly time for dinner by now. Will you join me?”
He inclined his head. “I shall.”
“Thank you.” She stepped away from him, smoothing her handsdown over her skirts. “Poor Mrs. Keynes must be beside herself wondering whatto send to table.”
“I’m certain she will find something suitably delicious.” Hetook her hand, lacing their fingers together in a startling show of solidarity.“I meant what I said, Maggie. Thank you for finding me.”
She squeezed his fingers, a pang of emotion shooting throughher. If she wasn’t careful, she would lose her heart to him entirely. And whentheir agreed-upon month was over, there was no telling where he would choose togo. She would do best to remember that their truce was not lifelong, she warnedherself. Her maudlin thoughts of moments before were just that, sentimentrather than reality. They didn’t know each other. Not at all.
But she couldn’t quite tamp down the desire to know himbetter. “You’re welcome,” she whispered past the tension that threatened toclose her throat.You mustn’t grow to care for him too much, shereminded herself as he escorted her from the chamber.
If only she hadn’t already begun to do so.
* * * * *
Maggie woke to find Simon had gone for a ride. A week hadpassed since their arrival at Denver House, and they had spent each night insensual abandon. Heartened by the note he’d taken care to leave her, sheenjoyed a small breakfast before deciding to further her explorations of DenverHouse. One room called to her more than all the others she had yet toured, andit was the library. She found it with the aid of the redoubtable Mrs. Keynes,and once inside its immense book-lined confines, she was quite in love.
The library was cavernous, its high ceiling and ornateshelves carved from luxurious walnut. Large gothic windows allowed brightsunlight to illuminate the room at its far end. A thick carpet ran the lengthof the room. Chairs and settees were scattered throughout, along with a massivedesk and a stunning marble fireplace. She could have happily lived in thisentire room alone. Rendered breathless by the entire effect, she strode to thenearest wall of shelves, curious to see what sorts of books might await herthere.
She discovered a great deal of Latin, as was to be expected.Nothing caught her eye until she moved on to the next set of shelving. Hepossessed a surprising number of poetry tomes, and it appeared that his tastewas modern rather than the typical collection of century-old poets. She ran herfinger idly across the spines, discovering that their interest in poetry wasmarkedly similar. And then she stopped, shocked at the name on a particularlysmall volume.
M.E. Desmond.
She knew the name very well, as well as she knew thecontents of the book itself. For she was M.E. Desmond, and the poems were herown. Had he actually read her poetry? It seemed impossible that he even ownedit, for the volume had been printed in New York with a very limited number ofvolumes. Curious despite herself, she plucked it from the shelf.
“Are you in need of entertainment, my dear?”
She gasped at the sound of Simon’s deep, velvety voicebehind her, and spun to face him. He was unfairly handsome in a pair of muddiedriding boots and tweed trousers and coat. A rakish air emanated from him withenough potency to make her drop the book from suddenly limp fingers.
Longing sliced through her, sending an ache directly to hercore. She entirely forgot what she’d been about. Forgot everything except thetall, lean man stalking across the study to her. He stopped a scant foot away,smelling of leather and outdoors and his familiar, beloved scent. His eyesburned into hers.
“Have you lost your ability to produce a sharp retort?” Hegrinned, melting her even more. “Let us mark this day down for perpetuity.”
He was teasing her, she realized, and she liked this side ofhim. It provoked a sense of intimacy and easiness between them that all thelovemaking in the world could not. She was staring as if she were a lovestruckgirl holding on to her mother’s skirts. Maggie attempted to gather her wits,wishing he weren’t so unutterably gorgeous, his grin not so infectious, that hedidn’t make her stomach feel as if it were about to drop straight to her toes.
“You’re a wit, aren’t you?” she forced herself to quip atlast, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless.
“Whenever possible,” he returned, bowing and retrieving thedropped book all in the same fluid motion. He looked down at the volume in hishand. “Ah, I see you’ve discovered an old favorite. Have you read Desmondbefore?”
She swallowed, uncertain of how she ought to answer. Withhonesty, she supposed at last. “I have, yes.”
He raised a brow, his interest clearly piqued. “What do youmake of him? He’s only ever put out the one collection, but I’ve rather enjoyedit.”
Oh dear. “Why do you suppose the author is a man?”
“Why do you suppose the author is a woman?” he countered,exhibiting perfectly flawless logic.
She wasn’t prepared to answer that particular question justyet. There was something that she wanted to know first. “What is your favoritepoem?”
“I’m especially fond ofEmpire,” he answered withouthesitation. “Though there are a great many pastoral poems I admire as well.He’s a clever fellow, to be sure.”
Empirewas one of her favorite poems she’d written aswell. It was a confluence of the world she knew in New York and the early daysof her childhood, the days when her father had been a man with the burningdream of building an empire instead of a man who owned one. As a young woman,she had many times wished to return to her life of simplicity, for the wealthher father had amassed with his hotels and stores had trapped her as surely asany gilded cage. With wealth had come responsibilities and ultimately a lifefar away from everything she’d ever known.
She stared at Simon, wondering if she should tell him thetruth. If he would even believe her. “I’ve always been fond of that poem aswell. I wrote it, after all.”
