Timeless Desire

Timeless Desire

By
Lucy Felthouse

Text
Copyright 2014 © Lucy Felthouse.

All
Rights Reserved.

With
the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or
used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from
the author.

Warning:
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the
Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written
permission.

This
book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is
purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination
and used fictitiously.

Cover
Art by Posh Gosh.

Please
note: this book is a revised and extended version of a previously published
short story,
Love
Through
Time
.

Chapter One

Emily received some strange looks and frowns from the
people she passed as she walked across the graveled drive toward the front
entrance of Westbury Hall. She could appreciate their confusion. It was closing
time for the stately home and the last of the visitors were being politely ushered
out of the building, yet she was heading inside. What’s more, she’d been
invited. She had a job to do.

An elderly lady stood in the porch smiling and nodding
as she held the door open for those departing. Most of them seemed in no hurry
to leave, stopping to make comments to the woman, thanking her for a lovely
visit and so on. Emily waited patiently, allowing the patrons to leave before
attempting to get in. When the staff member—most likely a volunteer, Emily
thought—caught sight of her, she gave her a polite nod of acknowledgment.

Finally, the last of Westbury Hall’s visitors moved out,
leaving Emily free to enter. Climbing the single stone step to the threshold of
the front porch, she took the hand that had already been offered to her.

Shaking Emily’s hand with a surprising firmness, the
woman said, “You must be Miss Stone.” Her smart appearance and the intelligence
in her eyes indicated that despite her advancing age, she was far from past it.
“I’m Mrs. Thompson, house supervisor.”

“I am,” replied Emily, dropping her hand back to her
side, “but please, call me Emily. It’s lovely to meet you. So, house supervisor?
Do you live on site?” Not a volunteer, then, but a paid member of staff.

Indicating Emily should step inside the entrance hall,
Mrs. Thompson proceeded to close and lock the porch and front doors of the
house, securing them in.

“I do,” the older woman said, turning back to face
Emily, “I have rooms in a separate building just off the back of this one. So
you needn’t worry about me disturbing you.”

“Oh no,” said Emily, worried she’d inadvertently
rubbed Mrs.
 
Thompson up the wrong way, “I
didn’t mean that. I was just curious, that’s all. You’re more than welcome to
see me at work, although I’m afraid you won’t see anything terribly exciting.”

The older woman smiled now, the warmth reaching her
eyes. Emily almost sagged with relief. She’d yet to see the extent of the work she
had to do, but she’d been told it was no easy task, so she could be here for
some time. The last thing she needed was to upset any of the staff.

“Oh, you’d be surprised, my dear. This is a
fascinating old place. Of course, all these old houses have history, but Westbury
Hall’s is particularly rich.”

Emily grinned. The woman’s enthusiasm was infectious.
“Well then,” she replied, “I can’t wait to learn more about it. I hope you’ll
feed me some historical tidbits throughout the time I’m here?”

Mrs. Thompson’s expression turned enigmatic. Then,
startling Emily somewhat, she turned smartly on her heel and walked deeper into
the house. “Come, my dear, I won’t hold you up any longer. I’ll show you to the
library, where you’ll soon start uncovering Westbury’s illustrious history for
yourself.”

Walking quickly to keep up with the deceptively
sprightly Mrs. Thompson, Emily looked at her surroundings as she dashed past
them. She hoped she’d be able to enjoy the property in a more leisurely manner
at some point, but for now she was actually glad of the old woman’s haste. It
was time to see her new project.

As they reached the library, at the end of a long,
creaky-
floorboarded
corridor, Mrs. Thompson grasped
the doorknobs and flung the double doors open. The move was somewhat
theatrical, and Emily had to bite her bottom lip in order to suppress a smile.
As she followed the house supervisor into the room, however, she quickly forgot
her mirth and her mouth dropped open in wonder.

Forgetting the old woman’s presence entirely, Emily
moved into the centre of the room and looked around her. As she slowly turned a
full three hundred and sixty degrees, gazing upon the beautiful room, Emily
felt like a small child at Christmas.

The place was
incredible.
As a book conservator, naturally Emily’s work carried her all over the UK—and
sometimes beyond—into hundreds of libraries, but in the last five years or so that
she’d been doing the job, she’d never seen anything quite like this.

Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat loudly, yanking Emily
out of her reverie. “I can see you’re rather taken with the place already.”
Without giving her a chance to reply, she continued, “I’ll be retiring to my
rooms soon. Can I get you anything before I go, to set you up for the evening?”

Emily floundered for a minute, her fascination with
her surroundings and eagerness to explore having thoroughly commandeered her
brain. “Um…yes please. Could I get a pot of tea? I have drinks and some food with
me, but a hot drink would be wonderful.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Thompson replied, moving toward the
door. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted with your new workplace.”

And she was gone.

Work.
Yes, of course. Emily had almost forgotten why she
was here. She hadn’t even touched a book and yet somehow this room had gotten
under her skin. Looking around her once more, Emily decided not to be too hard
on
herself
. After all, this was a book lover’s
ultimate dream library.

It had high ceilings, making the already huge room
seem bigger. Other than the area allotted for the marble fireplace, and two
large bay windows at either end of the room, every inch of wall space was taken
up by books.
Hundreds and hundreds of books.

Now Emily knew what the administrators back at the office
had meant when they’d said this would be no easy task. She walked around the
edge of the room, examining the great oak bookshelves and the precious tomes
housed within them. Up to about waist height, the shelves were more like
cabinets, protruding farther into the room and fixed with wire-fronted doors
designed to protect the contents. This resulted in there being a shelf running
around the perimeter of the room, interrupted only by the door, windows and
fireplace. In true stately home style, the space was cluttered with various
items, including old framed photographs, ornaments and a particularly
attractive clock.

Having done a full circuit of the room, Emily turned
her attention to the rest of the vast space. The nooks at each end, with their
large windows, were perfect for reading. Emily guessed this was intentional in
the design of the place, and the previous owners had certainly taken advantage
of that fact, placing comfortable-looking sofas in each one. Had she not been
there to work, Emily would have loved to curl up in one of them and read a good
book. Depending on how old the sofas were, of course. She didn’t want to end up
in a pile of debris on the floor.

Toward one end of the room, with its back to the nook
farthest from the door, was a beautiful desk. It was large and solidly built,
and Emily quickly surmised that this was the only suitable surface in the room
on which she could work. She’d have to get permission from Mrs. Thompson, of
course, but she was sure it would be okay. Working at this big, impressive desk
would be much nicer than the usual fold up tables she usually got lumbered
with. Though, truth be told, when Emily became engrossed in what she was doing,
she could be in the middle of an earthquake and she wouldn’t notice, so her
work surface wasn’t really all that important. She’d manage with whatever she
was given.

Just then, Mrs. Thompson returned with a tea tray in
her hands. She broke into a smile when she saw Emily standing by the desk and
walked toward her.

“Should I clear a space, Mrs. Thompson?” Emily asked.
“I mean, is it okay to move some of these things to make room…and I was hoping
I’d be able to work here, too.”

“Of course, my
dear.
I know you’ll
be careful. You wouldn’t very well be doing the job you do if you weren’t,
would you?”

Emily beamed at the old woman,
then
set about gently removing things from the desk. This included the usual sheaves
of paper, letter tray and inkwell, as well as an ornate clock, some small
statues and an old photograph of the hall. She cleared a space on one of the
shelves at the edge of the room and placed everything there. She’d just have to
remember to put everything back before she left, ready for when the house
re-opened to visitors in the morning.

She moved as quickly as she could, aware that Mrs.
Thompson was still standing holding the tray. Once the desk was clear, the
other woman made to put the tray down, but Emily stopped her.
“Just a second.
Let me just put my coverings down. I’ll be
as quick as I can.”

Dashing across the room to where she’d dumped her bags
by the door, Emily grabbed them and moved them to the floor by the desk. Within
seconds she’d pulled out a surface cover and protected the desk.

Mrs. Thompson put the tray down. “You are a
perfectionist, child.
My very favorite kind of person.”

Then, winking at Emily, she made to take her leave. “The
night guard, George, works from six until six, so he’ll be here to let you out
whenever you’re finished for the day.
Night.”
She
glanced at her watch. “He’s probably here now, actually. He knows you’re
coming, so no need to worry about him pouncing on you. Knowing him, he’ll pop
in just to say hello, but he won’t bother you for long. He’ll be off on his
rounds, keeping his eye out for the many criminals and cat burglars we get
lurking in our grounds.”

Seeing Emily’s dumbfounded look, Mrs. Thompson chuckled.
The resulting expression on her face made her look like the sweet old lady
Emily was sure she was once you got to know her. “I’m just pulling your leg, my
dear. Not about George, of course, but about the cat burglars. We don’t get any
trouble around here. The security is just a precaution. Anyway, I’ll leave you
to get on. If you should need anything urgently, please come and find me. I’m
in the cottage on the other side of the kitchen gardens.”

Walking to the door, she turned just inside the frame.
“Good night. If I do not see you before, I shall see you when you arrive
tomorrow evening.”

“Good night, Mrs. Thompson. And thank you.”

But the old lady was gone, leaving Emily alone in the
library once more. She set about pouring herself a cup of tea and by the time
she’d added the milk and sugar, Emily had a frustrating thought. She hadn’t
asked about the ladder. Her usual way of working was from top to bottom, left
to right. But to get anywhere near the top, Emily was going to need a ladder.
Even the tallest person would not be able to reach those high shelves without
help. They were right up by the ceiling, for heaven’s sake!

Kicking herself, Emily made to chase after the house
supervisor. But as she drew closer to the library doors, a figure stepped through
them. Emily almost screamed when she saw the figure dressed all in black—thinking
back to Mrs. Thompson’s talk of cat burglars—then her brain clicked into gear.
Of course.
This must be George.

He wasn’t quite what she’d expected, however. Emily
had envisioned a gray or white haired old fellow with a comb-over and a flashlight.
In actual fact, George looked as though he wasn’t much older than her, and his full
head of hair was a rich chocolate brown that matched his eyes. Judging by his
physique, Emily suspected he could also drop any potential burglars without so
much as breaking a sweat.
Yum.

Dragging her gaze back to his face, Emily smiled and
held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emily. You must be George.”

He grasped her small hand in his large, strong one and
Emily had to force herself not to look down. She had a real thing about hands.
Fingers, in particular.
For all her bookish appearance and
her literally bookish job, Emily had quite the libido and the fertile imagination
to go with it. So she was determined not to add fuel to that particular fire by
examining his hands and wondering how they’d look and feel on—and in—her body.
It had been a while since she’d had sex, unfortunately, so it wouldn’t take
much to get her going.

“That’s me,” George replied, smiling back at her. He
had a dimple in one cheek which Emily thought was both adorable and sexy at the
same time. He released her hand. “So you’re our book girl, are you? How are you
getting on?”

“Well,” said Emily, a slight blush coming to her
cheeks. Whether it was because of his question, and her answer to it, or the
fact she found him ridiculously attractive, she wasn’t sure. “I’m not. I haven’t
been here long, and Mrs. Thompson only just left. Then not long after she’d
gone, I realized I hadn’t asked where the ladder was. I was just about to go
after her when you turned up. I don’t suppose you can help?”

“My lady,” he said, giving a mock bow, “you are in
luck. Come with me.”

Expecting George to leave the room, Emily was
surprised when he walked farther into the library and toward the fireplace.
Once there, he turned and beckoned to her.

She went and stood beside him, and watched as he firmly
pressed his hand to a slim wooden panel which ran from floor to ceiling. Emily
heard a click, and a gap appeared between one side of the panel and the wall. Slipping
his fingers—this time Emily couldn’t help but look at them—into the space,
George pulled open what was clearly a hidden door.