Page 42 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

But Amanda’s surprise at the mention of the knighthood had turned to narrow-eyed scrutiny. She looked as if she were trying to sort out whether he were telling the truth—about any of it.

Would she demand an explanation?

Would she be satisfied by the one he was prepared to give?

Abruptly he waved off dessert, nearly knocking the glass of custard from the footman’s hand as he bent to place it in front of Langley. “Nothing for me, thank you. I’ve little taste for sweets. If you’ll excuse me, ma’am.” He pushed to his feet, bowed first to Mrs. West, and then Amanda. “Your ladyship. I’ll bid you all good night.”

“Tomorrow’s lessons to prepare, Mr. Stanhope?” Amanda tilted her head at a slight angle, a pose at once of curiosity and challenge. For just a moment, he thought she meant to tell him he hadn’t permission to leave.

Dinner. Then…

“That’s right,” he agreed.

He should say nothing more. Go upstairs to his garret and call the match between them a draw.

Instead, he boldly met her eye. “And I’ve just remembered I need something from the library.” After all, he was supposed to be focused on finding a book.

With that, he turned and strode from the room.

Cheating, perhaps. But he played to win.

Your move, my lady.

Chapter 10

No matter how tempted, Amanda could not very well jump to her feet and follow him from the dining room without raising suspicions.

So she finished her custard, careful to scrape every last dollop from the cup as she always did; she bid the boys goodnight and sent them upstairs with a kiss on each cheek, following the usual rounds of protest and professions of indignation; she sipped a leisurely cup of tea with her mother in the drawing room, then announced her intention to write a note of thanks to the Hursts before she retired.

Finally, she stood, hand on the library door, foolishly hesitant about what she might find on its other side.

When she entered, Langley was standing with his back to her, examining the bookshelves, a candlestick held aloft in one hand. Other candles had been lit at that end of the room, and a small, lopsided pile of the volumes he had already collected threatened to topple from one corner of the desk. At the sound of the door, he turned.

Whether his spectacles had slid slightly down his nose, or whether he had adjusted them so, the better to aide his search, he looked over their top rim at her, just as she had imagined him doing earlier that day. And just as she had known would happen, her insides went slightly wobbly at the sight, though his expression was more amused than reproving.

His dark brows lifted as he looked her up and down. “I win.”

“I—I beg your pardon?” she stammered.

“The game of push and pull we’ve been playing all day. Cat and mouse. You’ve walked right into the trap I set at dinner.”

Clearly, Langley imagined himself as the cat.

She mustered a tinkling laugh. “Have I? Oh, dear. Well, the boys will tell you I’m not very good at games.”

Having declared victory, he seemed to expect she would accept defeat and go. He half turned toward the bookshelf again.

Instead, she glided toward the desk, squaring the books into a stack as she passed. Then she went to the bookcase next to the one on which he was ostensibly searching—he’d gone perfectly still at her approach—and ran her hand into the narrow crevice above a row of books about seafaring expeditions, exploration, and travel. The shelf on which they sat formed part of a ledge across that end of the room.

With the soft snick of a lever being pressed and the mechanical cre-e-eak of infrequent use, the entire shelf, books and all, swung forward to reveal a hollow space behind, filled with crystal decanters and matching tumblers. She picked up a tumbler, blew away the dust—not even Mr. Matthews or Mrs. Hepplewythe knew of the existence of her late husband’s secret liquor cabinet—and turned toward Langley, who was, as she had intended, now watching her every move.

“May I offer you a drink?”

With unnecessary force, he thumped down the candlestick he still held. “No. Thank you.”

She shrugged. “As you wish.” She trailed one fingertip over the collection of stoppers, at last pausing to pluck one from its bottle. Lifting the decanter, she splashed a generous swallow of amber liquid into the glass she still held. After returning the bottle to its place, she nudged the cabinet closed with her hip.

Langley watched that movement too—or so she thought. The gleam on his spectacles made his eyes impossible to read.