But he had not come for just a brief while. Even as she had watched, frozen and horrified, he had picked a book from a lower shelf and sat down with it in the leather chair. And if there had been any doubt about his intent, it had fled when his valet followed him into the room after a few minutes, bringing a full decanter and a glass on a tray. He had poured liquor into the glass after setting down the tray at the earl’s elbow.
It had been too late after the valet’s withdrawal to make her presence known. If she had been going to do that, she should have done so immediately. She should have kept her candle burning, descended the steps with as much dignity as she could muster, murmured an apology, and left the Earl of Dearborne to his leather chair and his book and his brandy.
Oh, how she wished now that she had done just that.
It took her perhaps ten minutes—it felt more like an hour—to set her candlestick silently down on a shelf and to lower herself into a sitting position on the library steps. She sat there, hardly daring to move a muscle, for what seemed hours longer, though perhaps it was only another ten or fifteen minutes. No, surely it was longer than that. The edge of the step was digging awkwardly into the top of her legs, causing increased pain until she was almost screaming with it. But she dared not move. She clutched the unopened book with both hands to her bosom.
She wanted to cough. There was dust floating in the air close to the ceiling, dust that perhaps she had dislodged with the exploration of the books on the top shelf—why, oh why had the top shelf always fascinated her when she could as easily have found something readable at ground level? She swallowed three times in succession, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to cough.
And then she jumped and was almost dislodged from her precarious position at the sound of a voice. A man’s voice, speaking quietly and conversationally. His voice, though there was no one else in the room to answer him.
Except her.
“It would probably be the wise thing to do,” his voice said, “to come down from there. It must be a rather uncomfortable perch.”
It was obvious, as soon as she had fully digested his words, that they had been addressed to her.
He knew!
He had known all along.
She rose slowly to her feet and descended the steps with care. But her nostrils flared with anger. He had been toying with her. How he must have been enjoying her predicament.
But when her bare feet finally made contact with the warm safety of the carpet on the floor, anger fled and humiliation took its place. She was in her nightclothes, without even a dressing gown for decency. And she had been hiding on top of the steps for goodness knew how long, believing herself unobserved.
“Are you down?” the voice asked, sounding faintly bored. “Come and stand where l can see you.”
She circled to the side of the chair, keeping to the shadows, keeping as much distance between his chair and her person as she was able. He was looking down at his book, apparently reading it. She wondered if he would come in pursuit of her if she kept going toward the door. Doubtless she would be relieved of her employment in the morning. But then her employment was probably forfeit anyway.
“Closer,” he said, his eyes still on his book. “Much closer. Within the circle of light cast by the candles.”
The light of the candles really did not radiate very far at all. She was forced to move within three feet of his chair. She stood slightly to the front and side of it. She resisted the urge to hang her head, though she doubted that she had ever in her life felt so embarrassed. She looked steadily at his bowed head until at last, after several minutes, he closed the book quietly and unhurriedly, set it on the tray next to the decanter, and looked up at her.
She had to make a conscious effort to stop herself from taking a step back. Those pale, rather heavy-lidded eyes seemed to penetrate straight through hers to the back of her skull. Or rather, they seemed to peer straight into her soul.
It became quickly apparent—had it not already been so—that he was a man accustomed to having and to wielding authority. He said nothing for so long that she could almost feel herself shrinking in size, and she wondered foolishly if she was expected to say something or perhaps to go down on her knees and beg for mercy. She had to remind herself that she was a gentlewoman, even if Papa was impoverished and she was forced to earn her own living. Her chin lifted a fraction.
“Ah,” he said at last, still sounding rather bored, “I wondered if you came equipped with a temper. It would be strange if you did not.”
He was referring, of course, to her hair, dark in shade but still unmistakably red. Every strand of it was visible to his eye, from root to tip. What awful humiliation. She would not let her mind stray to her nightgown and bare feet.
“Might I be permitted to ask what you are doing wandering about my home in a state of such, ah, inviting dishabille?” he asked, and his eyes slid down her body and back up again, peeling away garments as they did so, much as they had done in the schoolroom earlier. She could feel her toes clenching into the carpet. “In pursuit of willing footmen?”
She felt her nostrils flare again. “If that were my intention, my lord,” she said, “I would hardly be searching in the library and at the top of the steps, would I? Unless I was determined on a lonely night,” she added outrageously. She listened to the echo of her own words, scarcely believing that she had spoken them.
“A good point,” he said, raising arrogant eyebrows. “But you would be well advised to put your claws away, Miss—Melfort? You would not enjoy the consequences of digging them into me.” He leaned forward suddenly and reached out to take the book she held clasped to her bosom. She felt his fingers, now bare of rings, against one breast and relinquished the unknown volume in some haste.
He sat back in his chair and looked at the cover and spine of the book before opening it and turning the pages with some care.
“You enjoy romance?” he asked her.
Her steady gaze became a glare at his lowered head. “My lord,” she said, “I would remind you that even though I am in your employ, I am a lady.”
Blue ice from his eyes impaled her. “If that was what I was asking of you, Miss Melfort,” he said, “I would not be calling it romance. I would call it something altogether more earthy. I was inquiring about your reading tastes.”
If the library floor had just opened up at her feet to reveal a yawning cavern, she would gladly have jumped in, even if she had spotted demons and pitchforks down there. She had misunderstood him. How wretchedly mortifying!
She licked her lips and watched his eyes follow the gesture.
