There were times she cursed her own imagination. Tonight, however, it was bedeviling her as never before. Every time her head sank into her pillow and her eyes closed, she saw Arthur's face as he danced with Gwen. As he had looked when he had asked her to dance — a waltz as well. As he had looked at Gabriel Digby when the poor man stood in the drawing room right downstairs.
What was it that made him so sharp with Mr. Digby? She had asked him. And she believed he had intended to answer her. A moment more and she might have known why he had been so unkind to Gabriel Digby. Would he have confessed to tender feelings for her? She wished Miranda had not interrupted what he was going to say.
And then, as she lay there, her entire body flamed with shame. How had she dared ask him that question?
And what had she hoped he would say? That he had been rude to Digby because he wanted her for himself?
Absurd. Miranda may have won a duke, but Hero was not as extraordinary as her sister. Yet, now that he had come so unexpectedly back into her life, she found that the affection and longing that she thought contained well enough to her fantasies had burst into full bloom at the sight of him. Her feelings for Arthur were shockingly strong, no matter how misdirected. She did not know what to do about them. And as they seemed to be so impossible to ignore, she found herself questioning her reasons to do so.
What would he say if she confessed to him? Certainly, Arthur had never shown that kind of interest in her, despite how often they enjoyed discussing the classics or reading the tales of King Arthur or the poems of Lord Byron. And he had seemed to tolerate the men who courted her, even the ones who proposed and were not accepted. So why would he be put out by a suitor for her hand now?
You are dreaming again, she chided herself, sitting up in her bed, thoroughly disgusted with her wayward thoughts. He is all but betrothed, she reminded herself sternly.
No doubt the engagement would follow on the heels of Arthur's visit to London. Gwen's father had greeted him warmly. Probably the announcement would be in the paper in a week or two.
Unless something horrible happened to Gwen to prevent it. Hero put aside the uncharitable wish that the girl would somehow disgrace herself in society. But no, having seen firsthand what flirting near such an event did to her own sister Miranda, she could wish the fate on no one. Not even on the woman to whom Arthur's heart — and soon his name as well — belonged.
There was no question that Arthur needed a woman who could run his estates, preside over his table with elegance and grace, and handle society with the skills that Hero would never possess. She might know obscure historical facts, have a complete understanding of Old English, and have read the classics in their original Greek, but she could not pour tea without fearing that Lady Stirling's dislike of lemon would have slipped her mind, or the spoon in her hand would tumble to the floor with a clatter when she wasn't looking.
She wondered if Gwen Delagrace had ever tripped on her hem and sent a dance partner sprawling? Somehow, though, she doubted it. The girl had probably never tripped in her life.
With a sigh of exasperation, she gave up on the idea of sleep. Hastily, she flung back her covers and threw on her robe as she slid into her slippers. She knew well enough that she would be prey to her churning thoughts until she found something new to focus them upon.
Quietly, so as not to wake Juliet, she hurried out of her room, walking the familiar dark corridors of the London town house as she had done on previous sleepless nights. She could find her way to the library blindfolded. And she could do so silently, so as not to wake any of her sisters. How unfortunate that skill was not highly prized in a wife.
She halted as the door of the library came into view. Light came from under the doorway as she approached. Someone was in the library at this hour. There was only one other person who might be up at this hour, seeking the comfort of the library. For a moment she considered turning back, but she did not.
It seemed, to her fevered imagination, as if fate had intervened to give her an opportunity to speak her mind to Arthur.
She opened the door, her palm so damp it almost slipped from the cool metal of the latch, expecting to see Arthur bent over a book, lost in study. She was not disappointed.
He looked up at the sound of the door snicking closed. He stood guiltily, as if she had caught him stealing the silver. "Miss Fenster. I . . . I . . . I was just — "
"Cousin Arthur, you need not explain to me that you could not sleep and came down here to find solace in a good book." She laughed, proud of her unshakable calm. If she could help it, he would not know that being close to him made her heart beat faster. Not unless he clearly wanted to know that fact.
"I have indeed," he said, relaxing almost imperceptibly. She noted that he had loosed his cravat and left off his jacket at the same moment his eyes widened and he hastily reached for his jacket.
She waved a hand for him to cease his scramble to make himself presentable. "Please, do not let me disturb your comfort."
He stopped, jacket in hand, clearly unsure whether to accommodate her request, or the dictates of propriety.
She added calmly, wondering at her own nerve, "I perfectly understand the desire to retreat here. As I share it." To prove her words, and conceal her face just in case she was not as good at masking her emotions as she hoped, she went quickly to a bookshelf deep in the shadows.
He draped his jacket over the back of his chair once again, but did not return to his book. "I'm surprised to find you still awake after all the dancing you did tonight."
She wondered if he knew the soft glow of the lamp made the white of his shirt shimmer, and gave his skin a golden hue? Was that what made her feel as though she were shimmering inside, too? Or was it his acknowledgement that he had noted her activities? Had he been watching her closely? "I could say the same of you." He had danced with Gwen twice. Only once with Hero, once with Juliet, once with Miranda.
"And yet, here we are, neither of us sleeping." His voice was warm in the intimacy of the night quiet room, reaching through the shadows to make the shimmery feeling inside her leap with each word. "It is the urgency of my business that keeps me awake. What is there that troubles you?"
You, she wanted to say. "Just a slight case of overexcitement tonight, I suppose. I'm certain that after a few pages of Donne, I shall be able to sleep peacefully enough." She laughed.
"A lady's nightcap, then?" He laughed along with her.
She tripped over an object on the floor — a toy that one of her sisters must have left behind — and caught herself before she could fall. "Oh, bother!"
"Are you all right?" He took a half step toward her, but she waved him away.
"Just a doll of Kate's where it doesn't belong," she said in embarrassment, lifting it and waving it in the dark so that he would not think her unbearably clumsy.
"Shall I bring the light?" His offer was the offer any other gentleman she knew might make — any gentleman who had searched many a dark shelf himself in search of a good book.
"No need," she answered hastily before he could make good his offer.
She doubted in strong light she could hide her mortification at her own gracelessness. "I know these shelves so well that I could find what I want with my eyes closed."
He sighed. "I envy you, then. I know my own library that well, but the duke's is still a delightful mystery to me — "
Hero, putting her hand upon the very book she sought as he spoke, stood still. She liked it here, in the shadows, with Arthur glowing just beyond her reach. He had run his fingers through his hair as he concentrated over his book. He looked as she imagined he must look freshly risen from his bed. She brushed her fingers over the rough worn cover of the Donne, and moved to a new part of the library, even deeper in the shadows. "I know just what you mean. My first Season, I spent every waking moment here, just working my way slowly through the shelves."
"I would hardly have thought you'd have time with all the invitations you must have received."
"I would rather spend two hours with a book than at a ball, I suppose. It is a good thing that the duke has been so indulgent of Juliet and me, bringing us here year after year, even though we fail to come away with a husband each time."
She wanted to bite her tongue off as soon as the words left her mouth. Too late. She had said the dreadful words. Did he think she was hinting for a declaration from him. Oh, she hoped not. A straight-forward, sensible question was one thing, but to have him believe she would try to manipulate him into — no, the thought was too horrible to complete.
He did not seem to think her words terrible though. "As to your sister, however, I confess I despair of her ever marrying — I cannot see the fair Juliet ever choosing just one man to adore her." His smile seemed forced — or else her imagination made it so, however, when he added, "Mr. Digby appears very fond of you. Perhaps this year will have a different ending for you."
She laughed. He had skewered Juliet so wryly — and so accurately — she could not be offended for her sister's sake. "Mr. Digby has been most kind in his attentions."
His expression stiffened slightly. For some reason, she had no wish to hurry to advise him that she did not share Gabriel Digby's hopes, so she added with a smile, "Which is great comfort when all the other callers seem to be in Juliet's court."
"More fool them." There was no hint of teasing in his voice, and her hopes rose. But then he blinked and quickly added, "That one's heart is fully armored against any but the most stalwart attempt to win it for more than a moment. You, I imagine, would be more than reward to the man who dared to try to win your heart. Digby is a fortunate man."
She could say nothing in reply. He thought her love would be a reward for any man. He had said so aloud. She felt almost dizzy from the intimacy of this moment. And then she laughed silently at herself. Only she would consider a moment where she stood halfway across a room from a man, clutching a book amid the deepest of shadows, intimate.
His next question sobered her completely. "Has he proposed yet?"
It was a most personal question. She knew she should not answer it. But there was something about the shadowed room that compelled her to honesty. "No."
"He will. I am certain."
She made herself ask lightly, "'Then you believe I should accept his offer if he does indeed make one? You do not think I should hold out for another man?"
The silence of the darkened library deepened. It was time to ask the question fate had given her the opportunity to pose to him. For a moment she had a burning desire to cross the room, to come out of the shadows and stand close enough that he could see the expression in her eyes. Surely if he saw the love that lay resident deep within her, he would feel how strong and true it was — and he would not be able to turn her away.
But she did not have the courage. If he saw, and still thought of her only as a friend, she could not bear it. Her feet were firmly rooted to the floor, her soul too comfortable lingering outside the light of discovery, while he shimmered it its full glow.
His voice cleaved the shadows of her thoughts. "What have you chosen?"
She started, momentarily thinking he referred to her choice to come close to him, to let him see how deeply she regarded him. But then she realized he asked after the title of the book she had selected from the shelf. She realized she did not know what book she clutched. She ran her fingers along the binding, the worn leather of the cover, she breathed in the scent of the book. "
Le Morte d'Arthur
, she answered, her voice as steady as she could make it.
At first she thought he had not heard. There was a prolonged silence, with his eyes focused on the dark corner in which she stood shadowed from him.
And then he said the most extraordinary thing. "What would you say if I told you I have heard rumors that Malory's original manuscript still exists?"
The question was so unexpected, she spent no time softening her answer. "After five hundred years? Impossible." Hearing her words, she reversed herself, feeling as if she were being too harsh. She moved toward him, stopping just outside the glow of lamplight. "Not impossible, of course; we have found written records older than that."
He nodded. "Still, you think it highly unlikely."
She wondered if she had offended him. "Perhaps I spoke too soon. I am no expert. But I do know that for the manuscript to have survived, someone would have needed to preserve it with the utmost care. Perhaps even bringing it to Egypt or Africa, where the dry air might prevent the damage our moist English days can cause." She moved closer, so that she could see into his eyes. "It would be a virtual miracle."
His breath caught in a sharp gasp and he stared at her as if she spoke nonsense, his eyes heavy lidded. And then he scrambled for his jacket and quickly donned it.
She looked down, and saw that her the bit of her nightshift visible under her robe glowed as his shirt did. She fought her instinct to retreat. Not when they were speaking of miracles.
He did not quite look at her as he nodded and fiddled hopelessly with his cravat. "My thoughts exactly. Without someone's care and intent, the manuscript's survival is just a myth."
"How marvelous, though, if it were true," she said quietly, the shimmer inside her dying as he slowly transformed to the formal Arthur once again. "Do you know who might have it?"
He shifted, his voice strained as he said, "I believe I might, tomorrow. If it is not a myth."
"How . . ." The appropriate word eluded her. Exciting? Astonishing? Marvelous? Impossible? She finished tritely, "How interesting."
He chuckled, dispelling his air of formality, and he moved a step closer to her. "You sound as if you don't believe it possible."
"I'm afraid I could not bring myself to believe it without seeing it myself. After all, miracles are far and few between." Especially the kind that would give a shy mouse the chance to be loved by a man who was not only a great scholar but might one day be a duke.