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THE AFTERNOON PROGRESSED splendidly. Jasper was not surprised. His festivities were consistently successful. The key was to plan sufficiently in advance so one might maintain a jovial demeanor. Sour expressions destroyed elaborate events with disturbing ease.
His friends might have been baffled by the appearance of Miss Carberry and her parents as well as the vanishing Lady Juliet, the latter whom Margaret’s mother had seemed compelled to flaunt, but it didn’t matter. Not every man shared his quickness of mind. Without doubt Sandridge still mused above the waves off the cliffs of his beloved Cornwall. He remained oblivious that there was someone present who could be his companion in all things coastal, all things in general.
Most likely Sandridge assumed he could get around to heir-making in a few years, but the journey to London from Cornwall was long. If Sandridge married Margaret, he’d spare himself from missing more time on his beloved coast. Given Miss Carberry’s discomfort with London seasons, she’d hardly pine about for them. Sandridge would not be subjected to any guilt generated by a lack of good local haberdashers or balls in which one might flaunt one’s tasteful ribbon selections.
But then, Miss Carberry would be equally well-suited to any of his other friends. Ainsworth enjoyed books, a hobby Jasper was certain he shared with Miss Carberry. Hammett could be intimidating, given his love for boxing, but the normal women of the ton did not suit him. He imagined Miss Carberry would be much more relaxed about torn shirts, and no one could question Hammett’s sweetness. And as for Brightling—well, everyone adored him.
Mr. Carberry was wealthy. The man’s only vice seemed to be the passion to procure more, and Jasper hardly thought that ruled Mr. Carberry out as an inappropriate father-in-law.
Indeed, some of his friends were conscious of the costs of running a large estate. Things were rather different in past decades when one could pop over to the continent at one’s leisure, nab a few priceless treasures in the name of Britain’s most currently favored religion, then spend the next year happily enjoying its profits. In fact, some of the ton had profited from the Napoleonic Wars and were known to stare glumly at world maps, pondering which countries might require their governments to be toppled.
A marriage to Miss Carberry would solve those problems. She possessed a sensible air, and she was unlikely to allocate any freshly stabilized funds to the purchase of gilded furniture, construction of new castle wings, or a newfound desire to have a horse win the Derby. Similarly, she was hardly likely to declare herself a patroness of the arts, and decide to fund the lifestyles of the poets and artists most fueled by expensive drink and desirous of vast clothing budgets to express their personalities in an astonishing and never repeating manner. No, Miss Carberry was a reasonable sort of woman. Her name might not have appeared in the various top debutante lists, but that was an obvious oversight: he could not think of a more suitable wife.
For his friends, he amended.
Obviously, Jasper himself was in no rush to procure a duchess. Life was not everlasting, and he’d planned to maintain a dashing bachelorhood until he reached the age of thirty-five. Parties were not yet dull. At least, not that dull. When one spent too much time musing, one was apt to muse about strange things. The quality of one’s musings was difficult to keep in order, since the chief admirable quality of musing was its unpredictable manner.
He rounded the corner and entered the reception room.
Unfortunately, his friends were absent, and he raked his hand through his hair. “They—er—were here.”
Damnation. They couldn’t have got far. This was Dorset, after all.
A footman coughed. “I am to inform you that your friends took the liberty of going upstairs to change into more athletic attire.”
He blinked.
“They expressed a desire to play cricket.”
“Oh.” He frowned and cast a guilty glance at Miss Carberry.
“They don’t know the true purpose of the house party.” Her eyes shimmered and sparkled, and even though she should be berating him for having failed in retaining the prospective husbands for her, she didn’t.
He shook his head miserably.
Her dark eyes sparkled, and the light played in an interesting manner on her round cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky. “We can go find them...”
“I don’t want to interrupt anyone’s cricket game. I’ll see them this evening.”
Right.
That was a sensible plan.
“Before sunset,” he said.
“Before sunset,” she agreed.
“Splendid.” He nodded, multiple times. Somehow his head seemed heavy, moving more slowly than customary. He was less certain around her, as if his body were fighting the urge to stand nearer her, to tuck the loose strand of fallen hair behind her ear, and perhaps, just perhaps, to press his lips against her throat, against her ear, against her lips.
*
THE DUKE STIFFENED and stepped away from her. “I should change as well, then find my friends.”
“Naturally.”
For some reason the man’s face had paled, and his manner had become overly formal and rigid.
Indubitably, he was regretting inviting her. Most likely now that she was standing in daylight and now that he’d met all of her family, he’d realized the impossibility of any match.
A vile taste invaded her mouth, and she swallowed hard.
Perhaps the duke had told his friends he saw her as a potential wife for them. Perhaps they’d disappeared because they’d found her unappealing.
“Goodbye,” she said hastily.
“Er—yes.” He avoided eye contact with her, seeming to find his shoes more interesting than her face. “Well, this place is at your disposal. There’s a library at the other end of the corridor.”
“Splendid,” she squeaked.
She strode hastily away, before she remembered she would prefer to visit the coast.
Still, perhaps she could visit the library. Her mother hadn’t allowed Margaret to take any books with her, seeing them as a poor use of the coach’s limited space.
Margaret wandered through the corridor. Heavy Tudor furniture that looked like they could withstand anything dotted the hallway. Margaret had never taken much interest in furniture, merely appreciating those that fulfilled their practical functions, but these pieces could be considered art. Gilt frames sparkled and shimmered and shone, even in the waning afternoon light.
Corridor walking shouldn’t be a cause for nervousness. Yet everything was so immaculate, that even though the duke had assured her to feel at home, her spine prickled, as if she might suddenly veer into one of the delicate oriental vases perched on the sideboards and smash it onto the floor.
She peeked inside an open door. Books stretched to the top of the high ceiling. Their leather bindings gleamed, like rows of rubies. Stained-glass windows sprinkled jeweled-colored light over the room, and she stepped inside.
She craned her head, admiring the library in all its glory. Though they’d taken their books when they’d moved from Scotland, her family’s collection remained meager: clearly, it took generations to build a collection like this. Wood paneled the ceiling, lending the room warmth.
The mezzanine seemed particularly tempting, and this library deserved to be seen from all angles. She ascended the narrow staircase to the mezzanine. The view met all her expectations: leather-bound tomes gleamed under the light spilling from the stained-glass windows, and their gold titles sparkled.
Margaret brushed her fingers tentatively over them. After perusing the collection, she selected three books, one for each day of her stay, and proceeded down the steps.
Three books might be an excessive number, but she wasn’t certain if she could sneak in here easily again. Her mother wouldn’t be exhausted from travel every day.
“Excuse me!” A voice startled her, and she jumped, remembering to tighten her grip around her books.
Unfortunately, she did not remember she was on a staircase, and her feet slid.
And slid.
And slid.
The world tilted, and though she’d admired the ceiling when she’d entered the library, she’d hardly required such a rapid view.
Her bottom crashed against the step, and she tumbled downward, her bottom slamming against each additional step in rapid motion.
Finally, her descent ended, and she stared at the ceiling.
It was coffered and sensational, just like everything else.
She felt exceptionally out of place.
Her sentiment was not eased by the sound of footsteps padding toward her at a quick speed.
“Miss? Miss?” a male voice asked.
Margaret sighed and braced herself for inspection by some passing footman, but when she lifted her head, she didn’t see a man in uniform. She saw a man who could not be much older than herself in a tweed coat. Leather pads covered his elbows, and he raised his eye monocle.
“Heavens,” the man said, and she noted approvingly the selection of a mild exclamation. “Are you quite well? That was a tumble.”
“Er—yes.” Margaret’s face heated.
“Let me—er—help you.” The man extended his hand, and she gripped cold skin.
She scrambled up quickly, managing to not drop the books.
“I’m afraid I startled you,” the man apologized.
“No, no.” She shook her head politely. “I shouldn’t have been startled. This is a library after all. It is bound to have people.”
Now that she was standing, she could properly scrutinize him.
“I am Mr. Octavius Owens. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“I am Miss Margaret Carberry.”
“Ah.” The man’s face did not flicker at recognition at her surname, but he dipped into a polite bow, flashing rounded cheeks and a fringe that seemed too long for his forehead. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Thank you.”
He glanced at her books. “You read.”
“Indeed.”
“A sensible occupation in a young woman like yourself. Though might I suggest you read some botany books?”
“You are fond of the subject?”
“Most. Learning about the natural world is important. After all, it is the world we live in.”
She nodded politely.
“Gulliver’s Travels is a work of fantasy. One might worry that a young lady like yourself might confuse it with reality. I am afraid these authors are most mischievous.”
“Mr. Owens, I am not under the impression that giants and flying islands exist.”
He lifted his brows. “It is not your first encounter with Swift?”
“Indeed not. Reading is one of my favorite occupations.”
“Ah. Most remarkable.” Mr. Owens gave her an approving smile and adjusted his eye monocle.
She beamed. She’d made this grumpy man smile.
Unlike the assortment of strapping dukes in the drawing room, this man was not intimidating. His height could not be likened to towers and mountains. In fact, his height mirrored hers. His cravat was tied simply, without the flourish of a man who’d delegated the task to his valet.
“What brings you to this manor house, Miss Carberry?” Mr. Owens asked.
“I am visiting the Duke of Jevington with my parents.”
“Ah. Then you are not related to a duke.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Few people are I suppose.”
“And what brings you here?” Margaret asked, remembering it was polite to carry a conversation, always pressing for new things.
“Ah.” The man beamed. “I am here with the Duke of Ainsworth. I work with him on scientific research. It’s all quite important.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “You mean you’re a scientist?”
He gave a lackadaisical shrug. “I’m doing my bit to advance knowledge.”
“How lovely,” Margaret said, still scrutinizing whether the man’s chest had been smaller before. He certainly hadn’t been grinning to quite that extent, though she supposed she was unfamiliar with the magnitude of the man’s accomplishments.
This man also adored books. After all, he’d found her in a library. Moreover, he’d dedicated his life to science.
Men had so many options in their lives, and yet he’d chosen a life of the mind. A life of the scientific mind.
She tilted her head. “Would you like to accompany me to the coast?”
Her heartbeat quickened, but it was too late to take the words back now.
“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “You require an escort.” He glanced at the clock. “I hadn’t anticipated that question.”
“Well, we’ve just met.” Her cheeks warmed. “It was just a thought.”
“A not entirely appropriate one.” He scrutinized her.
“Perhaps not,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks warm.
“But you do have a Scottish accent,” he said in an understanding tone.
She waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t.
“What does my accent have to do with it?” she asked finally.
“Ah, young lady. Everyone in England knows you Scots are all quite wild.”
She drew back.
He gave a lackadaisical shrug. “But you can’t help it. It’s in your nature.”
Her breath vanished.
“You mustn’t worry about it,” he said in an unctuous voice. “I can accompany you, if you would like.”
“I-I think I’ll go on my own,” she squeaked.
He nodded gravely, clasping his eye monocle. “I look forward to seeing you again. You bring much amusement.”
Well.
That was almost a compliment.
She nodded farewell rapidly and sped from the library, then hesitated.
Perhaps the man hadn’t said precisely the correct thing, but wasn’t everyone always saying she was saying the wrong thing? Had she unwittingly insulted people here when she’d first arrived in London?
She chewed on her bottom lip.
Perhaps.
She couldn’t be certain she had not done so.
At any rate, he was a scientist and he was a far more appropriate match than anyone else at the castle. Unlike the Duke of Jevington, who had seemed cold when she’d last seen him, as if forcing himself to be unfriendly, even though unfriendliness was not a trait he commonly practiced, this man had made continuous eye contact.
Besides, Margaret tended to be proper herself. A man who was also proper, who was perhaps even more proper, could hardly be undesirable.
She rounded the corner, traversed the foyer and exited the castle, still musing on this fact.