The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (11 page)

The man’s jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth. He said nothing.

Oh, that wouldn’t do at all.

Elena tilted her head slightly to one side and arched her brows inquiringly as though she hadn’t a clue as to what the marchioness meant. “I beg your pardon, Lady Mowbray?”

“Really, my girl, don’t play coy with me,” the marchioness replied, sipping her tea. She watched both Elena and Viscount Carrington over the rim of her cup, her eyes twinkling with suppressed amusement.

The viscount emitted a deep sigh. “One of your spies has been busy, I assume?” he asked.

“They are your servants, and it is their job to ensure the safety of all those who dwell within Carrington House,” she replied simply, stirring a third teaspoon of sugar into her tea.

“It’s not at all what you—or the servants, for that matter—may be thinking. Assuming—really either … Well, actually …” Elena fumbled to a halt and set her fork down. “I couldn’t sleep last night, that part is true. So I thought to visit the library. Only, I became lost.”

Lady Mowbray nodded in acceptance of Elena’s explanation, though a hint of amusement remained.

“And I came to her rescue,” the viscount added, quickly holding up his hand. “That is, I found her, returned her to her suite, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Really?” the marchioness said mildly, the gleam fading with each passing moment.

“Honestly,” Elena promptly added.

The marchioness pursed her lips and set her cup down in its saucer, clearly completely put off her tea. “Well, that’s a disappointment.”

A wicked voice in Elena’s head agreed, while the pragmatic side of her brain tsk-tsked at the very idea. Really, the marchioness was as misguided as Elena, hoping that there was more to the story.

“Lady Mowbray, you are my chaperone, are you not?” Elena asked, folding her hands in her lap.

Lady Mowbray did the same, a supreme look of defeat upon her face. “I am.”

“Should you not be relieved to hear that nothing …” Her words trailed off, as they were wont to do when speaking of something she’d rather not.

“Really, my dear girl, I feel you may be confused as to a chaperone’s duties.” The woman’s voice was feminine but firm. “Let me explain. Midnight meetings with just anyone are cause for alarm. But Dash is a viscount—a viscount, my dear,” she said with emphasis. “They do not come along every day.”

Lord Carrington visibly cringed at Lady Mowbray’s words.

Elena’s face felt hot. She drew a deep breath, her fingertips gripping the edge of the table. “No, Lady Mowbray. I say this with all due respect, but I believe you are the one that is confused.”

“I disagree,” the older woman promptly shot back. “You have come to London to retrieve your father’s books. But would it be such a hardship to return to Dorset with a viscount in tow?”

“But only hours ago, you spoke of guarding my well-being,” Elena said, clearly bewildered. “I cannot … That is to say, I will not …”

“Bessie, do have a care,” the viscount admonished Lady Mowbray. “Miss Barnes is uncomfortable with the conversation, as am I.”

“All right, then.” Lady Mowbray squared her shoulders and took up her tea. “I did not mean to offend you, Miss Barnes. I simply want what is best for you. And when I believed there may be a spark—”

“Bessie!” Lord Carrington growled.

“Have I done it again, then?” Lady Mowbray asked, looking apologetically at Elena.

Elena could not be angry with the marchioness. She was too busy fighting back the wave of humiliation caused by the viscount’s obvious disdain for the very idea. “It is all right, Lady Mowbray. Do not give it a second thought.”

“Thank you, my dear girl. But do not think for a moment that this means the social invitations are forgotten.”

“Did you not just agree that the pursuit of eligible bachelors was, as they say, off the table?” Elena responded, gently rubbing her temples with her fingertips.

Lady Mowbray beckoned the footman stationed near the door. He nodded and disappeared, only to reappear a moment later with a silver tray, a number of invitations stacked tidily upon the gleaming surface. He set the tray at Lady Mowbray’s elbow and returned to his position.

“Now then,” the marchioness continued. “I did not agree to such terms, not in the slightest.”

Elena rubbed her temples harder.

“I did not dismiss the idea of your seeking a husband altogether,” the woman added. “I agreed to dismiss any designs I may have harbored concerning the viscount.”

Elena’s head ached. She felt warm all over and completely out of place. And it really did not help matters that the marchioness was correct.

“I cannot argue,” she said succinctly, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Lady Mowbray nodded in agreement, setting her china teacup onto the matching saucer with a definitive click. “Splendid. Now, do come sit here beside me and we will discuss these,” she urged. Her fingertip tapped the stack of thick, creamy paper.

“Of course,” Elena replied, hesitating for a moment at the edge of her chair.

“Well, it looks as though I’m no longer needed,” the viscount announced, tossing his serviette next to his plate and standing.

Lady Mowbray peered down the length of the table at him somberly. “No, my lord. You are of little use to me now, I’m afraid.” She winked at him, then shooed him away with her hand. “Go, then. Off to your club, or wherever it is you men wander off to during the day.”

Lord Carrington turned to Elena and nodded. “Miss Barnes.”

“Lord Carrington,” Elena replied, lowering her chin a touch in farewell.

“Honestly, a quarter of the invitations will be outdated by the time you’re through,” Lady Mowbray scolded. “Perhaps I’ll confirm our attendance at all of the events and be done with it.”

“You wouldn’t,” Elena uttered disbelievingly.

“She would,” the viscount replied dryly, then turned and walked from the room.

Lady Mowbray cleared her throat and tapped on the invitations a second time.

“Of course you would,” Elena muttered to herself, then went to join the marchioness.

“
This
is where I belong,” Elena addressed a delicate shepherdess figurine that stood prettily atop a slender oak table near one of the windows in the Carrington library. “A place for everything, and everything in its place.”

Unlike her fevered dreams last night that had found her in the arms of Lord Carrington.

She looked beyond the shepherdess to the window itself, where the shadowed blues and grays of dusk were beginning to darken the mullioned panes. From the looks of it, night was ready to fall, and she was still thinking about the viscount.

Shameful, really
, Elena chided herself, wiping haphazardly at the dust smudges on the bodice of her gown. She turned her attention back to the books and sighed.

Normally, the library would have absorbed her attention entirely. The very act of entering one such as Carrington House’s was like attending church on Christmas Eve for Elena: holy, a touch mysterious, and completely awe-inspiring. But she’d been distracted.

She reached out and caressed a well-worn copy of
The Lais of Marie de France
, the once-stiff spine now soft and supple in her hands. It was more than mere distraction. She couldn’t stop her mind from mulling over last night’s interlude, or her heart from cringing at the pain and embarrassment of the viscount’s indifference.

Elena returned the volume to its shelf and walked toward the second aisle.
Kinship
. While she’d been overcome by his scent and lost in his piercing stare, Lord Carrington had been thinking of her … What? Sisterly qualities? That is, if he’d been thinking of her at all.

She pressed her fingertips against her lips, then covered her face with both hands. She never should have come to London.

Elena clenched her teeth and willed herself not to cry. Yes, she should have stayed home. But she hadn’t. There was nothing to be done about that now.

No, now, she would tend to the books and avoid Lord Carrington. She would make the best of her situation, including Lady Mowbray’s blasted engagements.

“One in particular,” she whispered to herself. Lord Elgin’s ball was sure to be a horrific crush. But the marbles on display there? The very thought buoyed Elena’s spirit.

Elgin’s Marbles
. Distracted, she stopped in the middle of the aisle and stared down at the Aubusson carpet, her head full of the most beautiful images. The imposing figure of Iris; the powerful horse of Selene, the Moon Goddess; a noble river-god reclining against a rock. She was not particularly pleased with Lord Elgin’s removal of the art from its Greek homeland, but there was little that could be done about that now. The least she could do was offer it homage here in London.

Would she be allowed to touch the cold, ancient marble? Place her fingers upon the finely crafted statues and feel the years of history embedded in their every curve and line?

“Miss Barnes.”

The glorious figures faded from Elena’s mind’s eye until all that remained were two perfectly polished boots. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and counted to four, then hesitantly opened first one eye, and then the other.

The boots remained.

She inhaled deeply and slowly tipped her head up, taking in the full length of Lord Carrington. Somewhere around his expansive chest, which was covered perfectly in a dark blue silk waistcoat and matching superfine coat, a tickle teased her throat. She swallowed and her
gaze continued upward, reaching his strong yet perfectly proportioned chin, then his chiseled cheekbones and nose, and finally his piercing, ice-blue eyes.

Her heart constricted. She could not help but take note of his likeness to Elgin’s stolen treasures. Hard, muscular, beautiful, perfectly proportioned.

No more than three seconds had passed since her resolution to avoid the man and put him completely from her mind, and she’d already failed.

The tickle in her throat tormented her and she coughed. Hard.

“Are you all right?” Lord Carrington asked quizzically.

Elena clapped her hand over her mouth and coughed again.

Lord Carrington spun her about and thumped her on the back, his aid so forceful Elena had to brace herself against the polished bookshelf. Two more hacking coughs followed and then the tickle ceased—as did the thumping.

“Miss Barnes.” Lord Carrington’s hand settled on the small of her back, his voice unsettlingly close to her ear. “Are you all right
now
?”

Elena hadn’t the faintest clue how to respond. Her face felt hot, salty tears mixing with perspiration on her skin. Her neat chignon was askew. Her dress was twisted uncomfortably about her waist. Her chest burned. Her pride stung. And her throat ached.

Actually, it wasn’t only her throat. The exact expanse of skin where the viscount’s hand rested literally pulsed. As did a spot just below her neckline—and just below her waist.

“Stop,” she commanded herself.

Lord Carrington quickly withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Not you,” Elena protested, realizing belatedly that the demand
should
have been for the viscount—and she was immediately irritated by the fact that she’d not thought of it first.

She released the shelf and swiped at her hair, tucking the tendrils behind her ears and attempting to repair her face with her handkerchief. It was hopeless, of course, and she resolved not to care.

Elena slowly turned toward the man with all the confidence she could muster. “I apologize, Lord Carrington. And after you came to my aid. It was really quite dreadful of me to …”

She couldn’t bring herself to say it, so instead Elena pasted a friendly smile upon her lips. “Well, that is, thank you.”

She awkwardly stepped around the viscount and continued down the aisle. “What brings you to the library, my lord?”

“You.”

Elena stopped abruptly and turned to face the man. She searched his eyes, hopeful for some hint of the depths she’d discovered last night. There was nothing there.

Stupid, delusional woman
.

The viscount stared back at her and smiled cheerfully. “You haven’t left the library all day, Miss Barnes. It can’t be good for a person to concentrate in such a manner. Perhaps a walk in the garden with your maid would do you good.”

“My lord, I must focus on the task at hand if I want to return to Dorset—which I do, most fervently,” Elena replied, though distractedly.

It wasn’t that the volumes sitting on the shelf just past the viscount’s right shoulder were out of place. Quite the contrary, they were exactly where one should keep
Froissart’s
Chronicles
—that is, if one were at all concerned with a well-ordered and sensible library.

Which Elena knew the late viscount was not. She’d spent a relatively short amount of time in the Carrington library, but one detail had made itself glaringly clear from the start: the man may have valued his books, but he had not valued order.

“Miss Barnes?”

Elena ignored Lord Carrington’s voice and squeezed past him, stopping in front of the volumes.