Page 69 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

Fairhrim put both hands on her heart and said, “Oh.”

It was the correct reaction. Distant Mordaunt forebears, with more taste and wisdom than Osric’s immediate ancestry, had made this library beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows, giving onto Juliette balconies, dominated one side of it. The walls were panelled in ornate oak joinery; the ceiling was vaulted plaster and gilt cornices, upon which danced ancient Roman deities.

Velvet and leather spines sat on the shelves in orderly rows, interspersed by Osric over the years with antique prints, silk paintings, folios, and the occasional scandalous French novel.

Given the ceiling, he had decided to make Ovid’sMetamorphosesthe theme, and so had acquired marble sculptures to ornament the spaces between shelves. Now Arachne wove, Io transformed, Bacchus capered, and Apollo chased Daphne among tomes and sliding ladders.

Fairhrim was delighted by all of it. Her delight delighted Osric.

“This is so lovely,” she sighed, tracing her fingers along shelves as she passed.

“Many a life’s works, finished and forgotten,” said Osric.

“Books have a way of outlasting the hands that wrote them.”

At the far end of the library was a hearth, unlit, around which plush chairs with gilt paws clustered. On a low table there, Osric had stacked the books on the Dreor Order. They had sat there untouched since his quarrel with Fairhrim.

“Those are for you,” said Osric.

Fairhrim took a step towards him—a step that brought her close enough for him to feel her breasts against his chest. The next thing he knew, she had pressed her lips to his left cheek, then his right cheek. She backed away before he could gather himself to react. He reeled. He tried to be nonchalant, but Fairhrim had just kissed him on both cheeks with an affection that she had hitherto reserved for men who were not Osric.

She knelt on the rug next to the low table and flipped through the books. Her eyes were riveted to the pages, Osric’s to her profile. Her kisses and her happiness gave him pleasure, pleasure far beyond the small hit of satisfaction that came with pretty new things.

If he truly was in love with her—not that he was, butif—then what would be the procedure? Drown? Poison himself? Walk off the balcony? He preferred not to dwell on it.

Her hair, still unpinned, fell over the pages. Osric came behind her and drew it over her shoulder. His fingers lingered at the side of her neck too long, at the place where he would like to put his mouth.

Fairhrim looked up at him. Osric waited for his tongue to supply some cheeky remark, or at least a plausible excuse, for his tenderness, but none came. He found himself instead fighting a blush, because he was acting like a smitten imbecile. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

Fairhrim collected the books into her arms. “Thank you ever so much. I’ll have a look at these when I’m back at Swanstone and returnthem straight away. These books may be of enormous importance working out the why. Now I’ve got to figure out thewho.”

“You know who could tell you?” asked Osric.

Fairhrim regarded him inquisitively.

“Tristane,” said Osric. “But you went and got her sentenced to death, didn’t you?”

“The Wardens have interrogated her. She refused to talk.”

“She’ll refuse to talk even more when she’s dead.”

Fairhrim narrowed her eyes at him. She looked dangerously as though she was calculating something. She did not share the calculation with Osric.

Osric narrowed his eyes in turn. “What are you thinking of?”

“Nothing.”

“Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I promise,” said Fairhrim, and Osric was well aware that the promise was worth precisely nothing.

“That wasn’t a promise. That was an anti-promise, Fairhrim. An unpromise.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Fairhrim.

She held the books to her chest. That the books, rather than Osric’s face, should be pressed to her breasts was a matter of profound unfairness. Osric met the injustice with resolute courage.

Fairhrim said, “I’d better be off.”