away from the tedium of the house party had gained a fascination of its own.
That reminded her of her errand to this dusty storeroom. However interesting the smaller books, she still had to collect the inventories, a task that had just become much easier. “Pardon me, sir but would you mind helping me with the other books up there?”
He gazed at her as if she really mattered to him, instead of forming a convenient distraction. His eyes radiated sincerity.
Did he look at all women that way? Was that part of his fabled charm?
“Alex,” he reminded her. He glanced up and his eyes widened. “You were planning to get them down by yourself?”
“Well, yes. I know Lady Downholland’s staff is rather busy just now. I had planned to take them down carefully and balance them on the steps of this ladder. I brought it from the large library, so I could be sure it was safe.”
“You brought it here on your own?” He seemed incredulous, his voice rising.
“It doesn’t weigh a great deal and it’s not far, if you take the short way.” She planted her hands on her hips. His attitude irritated her. As if a woman didn’t carry a can of hot water to his bedroom every morning. “I’m not entirely helpless. Women aren’t, you know.”
He grinned, the dimple at the corner of his mouth deepening. “I understand.” He executed a small bow. “And I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Alex shifted his attention to the books on the table. “Receipt books instead of inventories. History interests you?”
“Somewhat.” She shot him a brief glance, not wishing to prolong the moment and receive another of his penetrating gazes. “I shouldn’t say that, should I? My aunt has it that men don’t like women with too many opinions.”
He laughed. “I’ve just managed to escape a group of women who think that.”
Before he laughed again, she put her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. “If I could pass you the books I want, would that work? I don’t think it would do the other way about.”
“No indeed. If I dropped them they might squash you.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “I’m not that fragile.”
She levered out the first book with a great deal of care and even more dust. Without looking down, she called out, “I fear I’ll make an enemy of your valet. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize these had been here quite so long.”
He coughed. “It’s of no matter. I’m here and waiting.”
With the book balanced on the top of the ladder, she glanced down. He’d stood where he couldn’t see up her skirts. That alone warmed her to him, since another man might have taken advantage, although she had foregone her hoop today in favor of a quilted petticoat, so the task wouldn’t have been so easy. Neither would climbing ladders. “Thank you sir.”
Comprehension lit his eyes. “Think nothing of it. I don’t steal.”
It came as a shock to realize he’d known what she meant. Peeking would have been just that. She hadn’t given him any sign that she wanted him to, or shown any sign of not caring. So yes, it would have been stealing something from her. Her feelings for him shifted a tiny bit and she added respect for liking. Desire she must set aside. Not for her.
She concentrated on getting the book down the ladder. He took it from her when she’d gone down three rungs and he lifted it without seeming effort. It had taken a lot of work to get the book down even those three rungs. Without him, the task would have exhausted her.
There were four tomes in all. Each had collected its load of dust and she could do very little when she tipped the book and another tranche of the heavy, feathery stuff slid off the top.
A bout of coughing erupted from below. He had suffered worse than she. An old cobweb dangled from his wig at the back and grime streaked his face. Now he looked human, normal. “There,” he said. “Now we’re equal.”
Hardly, but she’d let that pass. “The others aren’t as bad. That one was the worst.”
He lifted his strong, capable hands and she let go of the second tome. Without a tremor, he hefted the sizable, heavy volume and laid it gently on the table.
The next book proved easier to shift. It slid off the stack without dislodging more than a cloud of dust and a dead spider, probably the previous inhabitant of the web now decorating Alex’s wig. Again he took it and laid it aside as if it weighed no more than a modern novel.
The fourth book held an unexpected treasure; another thick wedge of dust that had formed on the exposed corner of the tome. It landed on him, but apart from coughing until his eyes watered, he made no protest. “Please don’t concern yourself, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I find this experience much more to my taste than making polite conversation with the other guests.”
Shamefacedly, because she should really not keep the guest of honor here for herself, she headed for the door. She’d left a table on wheels there with a duster that was completely inadequate for the task. She passed the duster over the surfaces of the tomes, but they weren’t much better after she’d used it.
“I think,” he said gravely, “that we might use the tablecloth.”
“Oh you wonderful man!” she cried in delight.
From somewhere he’d produced a slightly grimy, plain linen cloth. “How do you know it’s a tablecloth?” she asked.
“It was in a small drawer at the end of the table.”
She couldn’t imagine why anyone would bother covering this cheap deal table but she was glad of it. She shook out the cloth and applied it to the books, managing to complete the task without raising more than one cloud of dust. When the books were reasonably clean, she wanted to peek inside them but her hands were filthy. She couldn’t risk it.
“If we take the books to the library, we can send a maid to finish the job and reconvene after we’ve washed and changed.” His cheeks were begrimed, his fashionable wig covered in a fine mist of grey and cobwebs hung from one sleeve.
“Oh Alex, you shouldn’t have helped me. Your beautiful clothes, I’m so sorry. I dressed in my oldest—”
He caught her hands and again a thrill of recognition went through her, a sensation she refused to give way to.
“You are a delightful sight, Connie.”
Her name had never sounded so good on anyone else’s lips. Stupid, she berated herself.
“Shall I tell you why? Because what I see is good, honest enthusiasm. No dissembling, no concern about how you look, how you might feel. It’s marvelous, especially after the artifice of London.” A shadow crossed his eyes.
“I’m unfamiliar with artifice. I can keep quiet, be tactful and polite but I never had much occasion to use it.”
“Did you not use it when your husband courted you?” His dimple returned, hinting at a smile.
She swallowed, pushing her memories back where they belonged. That was gone and done now. John was dead and she was here. “No. We’d known each other most of our lives. However, it turned out that I didn’t know him as well as I’d thought.” She snapped off her words and hastily passed on to a subject he couldn’t dispute, cutting off any possible questions about her last remark. She’d nearly betrayed something so intimate she’d never told anyone else. “He died from a fall from his horse. It was dark and he shouldn’t have been riding so fast. ”
“I see. When did that happen?” He didn’t say he was sorry, as convention required of him, but gave her a considered look.
Somehow that made it better, because John’s death hadn’t come as a tragedy to her. “Two years ago.”
“So you’re out of mourning and looking for love?”
“Out