Luckily, the library is empty. I turn on the lamp on the mahogany table, pull the door shut, and take a slow, meditative walk around the room.
On my second round, I trail the tips of my fingers along the wall-to-wall shelves, feeling the wood. It’s polished to a shine and smooth to the touch. A little cold though. This room would be perfect if a fire were in that gorgeous hearth, no doubt as old as the house. I squat in front of the cast-iron grate and imagine flames behind it, crackling and spitting. On the other hand, it’s probably safer this way. Would be a shame if the precious volumes in this room went up in flames.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here,” someone says behind me.
Jonas!It’s his voice.
I rise to my feet. “I thought you were partying with everyone else…”
“You stay,” we say in chorus, moving to the door and bumping into each other. “I’ll leave!”
Awkward smiles and apologies ensue. I finally take a proper look at him. Gone are Mr. Darcy’s linen shirt, silk vest, and breeches. Jonas is now wearing a crisp white cotton shirt tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans. I can’t help but soak in the delicious sight of him as he stands there against the backdrop of rows of books. His shirt gives off a subtle sheen in the light of the table lamp, drawing attention to his V-shaped torso that tapers to narrow hips and long, strong legs.
Sharply, I look up at his face.
His dark hair is still artfully curled from the show, adding an air of romantic, Byronesque sophistication to his already tantalizing look.
The fake sideburns are no more.
Hi there, evening stubble!How remarkably you accentuate the jawline which I declare chiseled uncommonly well!
Oh, great.Now I’m drooling over his jawline and expressing myself like Caroline.
Embarrassed, I break the silence. “Jonas, this is your home, and there is no way I’m chasing you from your own library. You’ve been gracious enough.”
I take a step toward the door, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back. “Stay.”
CHAPTER12
MARGOT
My mind flounders. The skin of my wrist, where Jonas is holding me, feels like it’s on fire. His throaty command—or was it a plea—rings in my ears.
What should I do?How should I react to Jonas’s unexpected move? Should I yank my hand away? Should I leave it in his firm grip?
What should I say?It’s equally daunting to find words as it is to decide on a gesture.
While I dither, he releases my wrist. “I just wanted to say that I was impressed by how neatly you inserted your lines and caught up after your accident.”
“Thank you.” I draw in a breath. “And, since we’re talking about it, thank you for what you did there, saving me from further humiliation.”
“Very few people had noticed anything by the time we waltzed out.”
I give him a lopsided smile. “More than a few! I caught their looks. It just didn’t occur to mewhythey were looking at me like that.”
“It’s probably going to ruin whatever little reputation I have with you, but I’ve got to say…” Pausing, he scrunches up his face in a sexy way that triggers all sorts of unwanted reactions in me.
“Go on, say it.”
“I’m so glad I’m not a woman,” he blurts. “Bleeding every month? For days on end? Sometimes ahead of schedule, sometimes late?” He winces. “My sister Celeste abhors her periods.”
“As do I.”
“Really?”
The surprise in his eyes makes me laugh. “Just because I’m a feminist doesn’t mean I love every aspect of womanhood.”
He heads to the plush settee in the nook and settles at one end. “Is there an aspect besides menstruation that you don’t love?”
