***
“No, no, no …” Diana muttered as she searched through her bedchamber another time. Her own story was not where she thought she had left it. She dropped down to her knees, searching under the bed to seek out where the loose pages could have fallen, but there was nothing except clear floorboards staring at her. “No,” she said with finality, standing to her feet again. “Where is it?”
With her hands on her hips, she left the room and began to retrace the steps she had taken that morning. She walked through the corridors, down the stairs, and went back into the dining room, but no scrawled pages were there to greet her. The only paper in that room was the broadsheet that bore the news of the fire in Bradford Leigh.
She turned and walked out again when she found the door to the library was slightly ajar. Tiptoeing towards it, she listened at the door, hearing pages being turned. She opened the door hurriedly.
“That’s mine,” she declared as she found her written story at last, only the pages weren’t bundled together on the pedestal desk. They were in Owen’s hands as he leafed between them. He looked up with wide eyes and smiled like a dog who knew he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Owen …” She adopted a warning tone, returning her hands to her hips. “Are you reading it?”
“Was I not supposed to?” he asked innocently.
She laughed and walked into her room, trying to take it out of his hands.
“It’s a wonder people downstairs don’t notice you missing from your post these days.” Before she could grab it, he snatched it away and stood to his feet, holding it high above her head, out of her reach, much to his delight.
“Fortunately, your husband’s lack of wanting to entertain means all of our duties are very light at the moment. If anyone thinks I am missing, it seems Tommie has inventive answers for my absence.”
“Collusion?” she asked, trying to jump and snatch the paper from the air, but she was far off, leading Owen to laugh again. He tauntingly held the papers within reach, then moved them higher again as she jumped, trying to take them.
“Call it assistance.”
“Does Tommie know?” she asked suddenly, falling still in her attempt.
“He suspects, but I have never confirmed anything,” Owen said with a reassuring tone. “Though you can rest assured, Tommie would never say anything.”
“Good, now. Give me my story back!” she said and reached for the story again. He laughed at her ineptitude to take it back.
“There is an advantage to being the taller of the two of us.”
“By some way,” she said, pointing to his superior height. “Perhaps I just need to be artful in the way I retrieve it.” She crossed her arms and bit her lip in thought.
“Oh? And you think I will fall victim to such artfulness?” he said, still holding it high.
An idea formed in her mind, one that seemed too good to pass up on. She strolled to the door of the library and closed it firmly before walking back to Owen.
“What are you going to – mff!”
She cut him off before he could get any further by reaching up and stealing a kiss. His response was instant and full of passion, kissing her back with so much ardent need that he was soon bending her backwards, with one arm looped around her waist, in the effort to claim her tongue with his own. She loved every second of it and nearly grew distracted from her purpose.
I will win this particular game!
She reached up with one hand, pretending to loop it around his neck, when she, in fact, reached for the papers that he was still holding above his head. He had lowered them enough in his distraction to allow her to grab hold of them. She stole them from his grasp and parted from the kiss, cheering in delight as she rounded the desk. He laughed instantly.
“That is hardly fair.”
“Why not? I was artful.”
“You were devious,” he said with a playful tone. “You have me basically under a spell, just like a fairy, and I am incapable of escaping it when you kiss me.” She giggled, remembering the sketch she had found. That drawing of her as a fairy was now locked away in her room, deep within a box along with the pressed snowdrop, where she hoped no maid would ever find it.
“You will have to keep up your guard next time,” she said and placed the pages back down on the desk. “You read it then?”
“I am only part way through what you have done,” he said, standing on the other side of the desk and gesturing to it. “I am not sure you realize how good it is.”
“Pardon?” Her surprise was acute, making her snap her head up so sharply that she cricked her neck and had to lift a hand to the curve of her neck to soothe the pain. “You thought it was good?”
“I thought it was more than good,” he said with an eager nod. “I understand what you mean about it needing a few tweaks here and there, but I genuinely think it an excellent thing. Could you get it published?”
“Published?” she repeated in surprise. “I … erm …” She looked down, away from his enquiring gaze and at the papers. He leaned towards her across the desk, nearly touching her forehead with his own. “Diana, love, I thought I told you, you do not need to hide from me in such a way.”
