The famed Roseleighlibrary did not disappoint. Soaring a full two stories, it contained books lining three walls, broken in the center by a balcony reached by stairs on each of the two ends. One of the book-lined walls sheltered a fireplace—an Adam, she suspected—with a valiantly, if ineffectively, burning fire. She wrapped her woolen shawl tighter.
The fourth wall had a foundation of low bookcases over which soared three towering mullioned windows, their blocks of clear glass were interspersed with frosted and stained-glass panes. Each of the panes of colored glass was a five-petaled rose—red, of course. The Bradley family wasn’t shy about proclaiming their prizewinning ways.
Chairs and tables broke up the broad room into conversational groupings or, more likely, comfortable spaces for reading. Upon closer examination, she noticed that the shelves on the wall facing the windows were open on the lower half to accommodate a nook of sorts. Not wide enough for seating, it created a shelf on which were presented recent newspapers and magazines.
The dark paneling above the shelf featured a grid of nine paintings, each eighteen inches square. She gave a wry laugh. They were, of course, paintings of roses. In this case, the most famous of Roseleigh’s winners in the York Rose Show. Small metal plates on the bottom of each proudly revealed its name. Passion’s Dream. Her Majesty’s Ruby. Scarlet Princess. Bradley’s Cardinal. And of course, Blood Red, the queen of them all. In recent years, Roseleigh had been breeding for dark red. Perhaps they had gone too far. Midnight Wine had lost last year to Margaret’s father’s Innocent Sprite, a lovely little ecru-white province rose with tight blossoms, to the earl’s everlasting delight.
She scanned the publications and found them a predictable collection of political and horticultural titles. She picked upCurtis’s Botanical Magazinewith a fond smile. Her most recent article, a description of the preciousAnemone pratensis, more common in the north than previously believed, wouldn’t be published for another month. What would the Bradleys think if they knew? Since it wasn’t about roses nor in her true name, they would never notice. She set the magazine back down and gave it a fond pat.
Margaret was surprised to find that the bank of shelves to the left of the nook was devoted broadly to agriculture and horticulture rather than merely to rose cultivation, although all the classic titles and some surprising, more obscure titles on rose cultivation also caught her eye. The collection had been assembled with great care, by someone who knew what they were doing. They had every edition of Abbé Rozier’sCours complet d’agriculture, including the latest. From what she’d heard moments before about his woes, including spring planting, the duke could benefit from that one.Dare I point it out?She wondered if he read French. If he was to continue the family tradition, he would be well advised to learn. The best modern books on rose cultivation were in French.
She ran her hands over familiar titles, pleased to see the latest edition of H. C. Andrew’sMonograph of the Genus Rosaas well as his other horticultural writings. A lower shelf held annual editions ofLe bon jardinier, the great French almanac. The books near to hand were current and practical. She cast her eyes upward, wondering what obscure treasures, ancient and foreign, regarding roses and gardens, she might find on the upper levels.
“If you are looking for novels, they are hidden on the top level to the right,” Lady Mary Eckelston, her Scottish thistle, said as she waddled in.
Caught snooping?Margaret grinned. “What is to the left?”
Lady Mary waved her hand airily. “Who knows.”
The treasures must be shelved there, above the horticulture collection. An itch to explore overtook Margaret, quickly squashed. The very pregnant Lady Mary might feel obliged to trail up the stairs after her.
The duke’s sister continued, “There are fine-art prints to the right of the windows, though, and ladies’ magazines just below them. History on the other side.”
History would do for a long afternoon in the library. Margaret scanned the shelves, slipping past books from ancient Rome to Britannia to West Africa until she spied a stretch of books just above eye level dedicated to Lancashire. She pulled off a general history of the Lonsdale Hundred and another on the Ribble Valley, both of which dug deep into prehistory for their starting points. She replaced them and settled onLancashire: Summary History and Description.
She glanced over at Lady Mary impatiently paging throughLa belle assemblée. A summary history seemed to promise a skim along the high points, perfect for what promised to be a distracting time.
Margaret adjusted a chair near enough to benefit from the fire but turned so that it also received the sun beaming down from the windows. The smile she sent Lady Mary felt a bit tight, but her shadow had become tiresome.In any other household, I’d guess they thought I planned to steal the silver. They guard their roses as tightly as Castlereagh guards state secrets. As if I know nothing and need their wisdom to cultivate ours.
She set her eyes to the book and refused to glance around again. She plodded through sheep and cotton, sea and sands, mills and fields, rewarded when she came to descriptions of the great houses. She paged over to Roseleigh. An artist’s conception of a Norman keep, the central block of the house, decorated the first page. The conqueror’s minion Henri Bradleigh, appointed Earl of Roseleigh, had built it as a part of the Norman campaign of terror. Soon she was absorbed in various sides in assorted conflicts and their impact on the family fortunes as well as the house. The Bradleys seemed to land on their feet no matter what happened.
At some point, she must have dozed off. When she opened her eyes, the sun had sunk too low to warm her chair. Lady Mary was gone. She blinked twice at the man leaning on the mantel, Roseleigh himself. Watching her. She realized to her horror that sometime in the afternoon, her slippers had come off; her feet were tucked under her skirts, and her gown was askew. She froze.
“I—That is, I’m sorry if I woke you. I came in for a book,” he said. She found his discomfort at being caught out ogling her reassuring. She sat up slowly and wrapped her shawl around herself, crossing her arms while she tucked her toes in her slippers.
Reassuring and adorable. His hair was mussed as if he’d run his fingers through it in frustration. His waistcoat was crooked, his cravat askew. He had obviously come directly from his desk, hadn’t seen to his appearance, and hadn’t expected to find her. He hadn’t left her or made his presence known either.
“I, ah, I’ll just…,” he stuttered.
“Take your time, Your Grace. It is your library.” She bit back her grin. When she stood, a bit of mischief overtook her. She stretched, her arms up over her head in a most unladylike move. If the man was going to look, she may as well give him something to see.
When their eyes met, his were dancing. “If your reading put you to sleep, perhaps I should take care. I’m too busy for a nap.”
“Fetch your book, then, and be quick. I can recommend a few.”
His brows rose.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the shelves covered with agriculture, husbandry, and horticulture. She handed him Rozier’sCours complet.“How is your French?”
“Well enough, madam.” He took the book from her. “Agriculture, Lady Margaret? Are you an expert in estate management?”
“My dear duke, you would be surprised.”
He caught his bottom lip in his teeth and studied her face before he said, “I begin to think nothing you do would surprise me.”
His dancing eyes did strange things to her midsection, and she found she couldn’t look away.
Lady Eckelston chose that unfortunate moment to return. “Henry! I didn’t expect to find you here.” She darted glances between the two of them, both disheveled, hair disturbed, and cheeks pink.
