Rexanne Becnel Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    She scanned the titles, trailing her fingers along the shelves. A Journey to the Islands of Scotland, by Samuel Johnson. Account of Corsica, by James Boswell. Voltaire’s Treatise on Religious Tolerance. All serious, practical tomes. A High Street bookseller would be impressed with the choices.
    “But no poetry,” she mused aloud. She set her journal on a side table. “Hmm. Debrett’s Peerage of England, Scotland and Ireland. No drama or plays either.”
    “Is there no drama among the peerage?”.
    Olivia whirled around at those startling words. From the sheltering embrace of a deep upholstered chair turned toward the window, a man leaned over the arm, staring at her. “It seems,” he continued, “that the peerage is all about drama. Drama and little else.”

    For a moment Olivia remained too shocked to speak, for she’d believed herself to be alone. Nor did she recognize the man from the guests she’d previously met. His face was shadowed by the night as well as by the dark tint of his unshaven cheeks and jaw, as if he’d been sleeping in that chair before the window.
    She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. Before she could find her voice, however, his eyes ran slowly over her, head to toe and everywhere in-between. It was out-and-out scrutiny, a bold perusal the like she’d never before suffered, and it unsettled her to the core. Then he spoke in a voice that was dark and low, and vibrating with warmth.
    “If there was no poetry in this library before, there most certainly is now.”

CHAPTER 3
    NEVILLE could hardly believe his eyes, nor his immense good fortune. If this was a dream, it was a damn sight better than the visions that usually beset him. She was an angel, shining in the lamplight, with the most sumptuous auburn hair spilling around her shoulders. Her eyes glittered wide and amber-green; her lashes swept over them, a dark brown velvet. Her skin was pale and lustrous, and would be soft to the touch. Dressed in a simply adorned gown of flowing muslin, she clutched a flimsy shawl to her chest as she stared back at him.
    Neville swallowed hard. She was the picture of grace and beauty, yet with a hint of wildness about her, like a startled doe, lovely yet tensed to bolt. But he did not want her to bolt. He wanted her to stay if only so he could continue staring at her.
    He ran his eyes over her, admiring everything he saw and wanting to see more. The full breasts beneath the snug bodice, the long legs beneath the fluid gown. Was she a servant? Though she did not wear a uniform, she must be one of the staff, for who else would be up before dawn? A slow smile lifted one side of his mouth. Had he known Cummings kept such a lovely household staff, he would have arranged to arrive sooner in the evening and not wasted this long, torturous night in solitude.
    He had planned deliberately to arrive late, for he’d been unready for the company of society folk. He needed to do business with Cummings and his friends, and so he’d had to come. But he’d timed his arrival for past midnight. By the time he’d settled the horses and dismissed his grooms, everyone
else had been asleep, leaving him only a few hours to wait out the night. The library had suited his purpose, providing him with east-facing windows. And now it had provided him with this pretty young maid or governess or whoever she was.
    He gave her an appreciative smile. “No ode to beauty has yet been written which does credit to the beauty I see before me now,” he murmured, meaning every word. When she blushed in response his grin increased. He must be more drunk than he thought, he told himself, though he’d not delved very deeply into the bottle of brandy he’d found on a tray on a bow-fronted commode. He must be drunk or else damned lucky that such a delectable little baggage was up and about so early in the day.
    “Tell me, what is your name?” he asked as he rose to his feet. He did not sway, and his head hardly spun—a good