The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (13 page)

“That was my father for you,” he replied, his fingers moving to glide over the padlock. “Bloody brilliant.”

Miss Barnes watched as he tried to force the padlock. “I’m afraid the lock requires a specific combination of numbers—eight in total.”

She turned the box toward her and stared hard at the lock. “I’ve tried prime numbers, combinations in relation to the Greek alphabet. Anything that might appeal to a learned man,” Miss Barnes offered, pushing her mass of mahogany brown curls over her shoulder. “But I’ve yet to discover the answer.”

Dash mentally reviewed his father’s favorite areas of
scholarly interest, his Corinthian cases, even his most treasured books. They had discussed numbers in relation to patterns, but none that seemed more important than any others.

Miss Barnes worried her ripe lower lip in concentration. Dash found the act mesmerizing.

She was visibly easing, her shoulders relaxing until her wrapper fell open, revealing her gauzy night rail beneath.

Miss Barnes looked up and he realized she’d caught his heated appraisal. A faint rose blush colored her cheeks, but she did not look away. “Well, have you figured it out, Lord Carrington?”

Dash knew it was selfish of him. But he wanted badly to kiss Miss Elena Barnes at that very moment. Not because he needed her gone. But because he wanted her to stay.

Elena’s breath caught when Lord Carrington leaned in until his face was no more than a hairbreadth away. “Not the lock, Miss Barnes,” he murmured. “But I have figured out
you
.”

Elena felt a trickle of perspiration slide between her breasts. “Whatever do you mean?” she managed to ask, holding his gaze, though she felt it was dangerous to do so.

The viscount knelt, his big frame boxing her in. He placed a hand on the damask seat cushion on either side of her hips, his gaze never leaving hers.

Elena fought the urge to reach out and run her finger along the soft, supple seam of his lips.

“I believe you already know.” His deep voice was dark silk over gravel.

He bent his head and his breath grazed her breasts beneath the fine cotton lawn of her nightgown. The heated, inviting brush sent a wave of want coursing through her. “I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, my lord,” she managed to say, her voice quavering.

“Don’t lie, Elena,” he growled.

She balled her fists at her sides, desperate to hold on. But there was something so raw in his request. Something so like the base need threatening to devour her that Elena could no longer fight him. And in all honesty, she didn’t want to.

She tentatively relaxed her hands and reached up, cupping his face in her palms.

He raised his head and captured her with a soul-searing gaze.

Elena’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, and she felt buffeted by a crest of emotion, desire, and fear that hammered her.

Lord Carrington slowly closed the space between them and tenderly touched his lips to Elena’s.

His hands caught her waist, drawing her closer to him until her breasts pressed against his chest. He deepened the kiss and gently nudged her lips apart, his tongue seeking out hers.

Her first kiss. It was warm and wet, the welcoming heat kindling fires of desire throughout her body. Elena’s tongue hesitantly matched the pace of the viscount’s with inexperienced yet earnest enthusiasm. One of his hands left her waist and inched lower, until he palmed her derrière. He squeezed with such delicious pressure that Elena gasped. She gripped his waistcoat to pull him closer, then hitched her left leg up and around his waist, eliciting a growl of pleasure from him. He broke the heated kiss and moved down her throat, leaving a trail of white-hot kisses that surely branded her skin. He licked torturously at the sensitive skin just above her neckline, first the top of her left breast and then the right. Elena pulled feverishly at his waistcoat in a vain attempt to press closer and relieve the growing sweet pang of anticipation rising within her.

His teeth tugged at her bodice and she moaned with pleasure, straining at the fabric of her gown to give him more of her. He dropped feverish kisses back up the length of her exposed neck and took her ear with his tongue, lightly sucking the sensitive lobe, then teasing the shell with quick, darting attention.

Elena reveled in the wash of heady, earthy pleasure. Her body responded to his touch with whimpers and moans, her back arching while her hands begged him for more. No longer was she the awkward, undesirable bluestocking. She was wanted. Needed.

And it was a revelation.

“Why,” she whispered urgently, passion’s flames threatening to engulf her. “Why now?”

Lord Carrington suddenly stilled. “Because I wanted to,” he said, his head lowering once again to her breasts.

Knuckles rapped loudly on the door and Elena jerked away from him, instinctively curling down in the chair to hide.

“Miss Barnes,” Bell’s voice called. “One of the maids thought she heard a scream.”

Lord Carrington raised his head and gestured for Elena to remain quiet. “The house is riddled with secret passageways and doors—one of which is connected to your dressing room,” he whispered. “Give me thirty seconds, and then see to Bell.”

He pressed one last, hard kiss to her lips before grabbing the puzzle box and disappearing into the dark.

“Miss Barnes,” Bell called again. “Are you all right?”

“Not in the slightest,” Elena replied in a shaken voice, low enough so that she was sure the butler could not hear. “Nor will I ever be again.”

“Beg your pardon, Miss, but didn’t we come to town for the books back at Carrington House?” Rowena
asked, picking up her step when Elena linked her arm with hers and urged the maid on.

“Lord Carrington’s library does not contain the volume I desire,” Elena replied simply, dodging to avoid a flower cart as they crossed Crown Street and headed toward Finsbury Square.

Elena hadn’t slept last night, and yet she felt oddly energized. She’d remained seated in the peach damask chair for a long time after calling out to Bell and assuring him that she was perfectly fine. She’d run her fingers over every last square inch of skin that Lord Carrington had touched, some with his eyes, others with his hands, and many with his mouth. One moment he’d been caressing her, and the next, he’d disappeared. She’d needed to assure herself that it hadn’t been her imagination.

Rowena sighed in understanding. “And the walk doesn’t hurt a bit, now does it?”

“A walk never hurts,” Elena answered, looking up the cobbled street to where the square opened before them. “Especially on a fine day such as this.”

The sky was ominously gray, as though it might turn an angry, deep black at any moment and let loose raindrops the size of spring lambs.

“Not exactly ‘fine,’ I suppose,” Elena amended, steering Rowena toward the address she’d gotten from Bell. “But still, weren’t you just complaining about the limited size of the parks? And this gives you an excellent opportunity to see more of the city.”

By the time Elena had dressed and made her way downstairs to breakfast, the viscount had already left for his club. She’d been both disappointed and relieved by his absence.

And desperately in need of a walk to clear her mind. So far, she was as hopelessly confused as when she’d awoken. But the day wasn’t over, she assured herself. Not yet.

The Temple of the Muses shop front appeared and Elena’s step quickened. “Well, the rain will have to wait, as we have reached our destination.”

“Right,” Rowena said enthusiastically, reaching for the ornate door handle and gently pushing. “You’ve something on your mind—or should I say, someone?” she added, a knowing smile on her beautiful face.

Elena stepped in and waited for Rowena to follow. “I can’t answer such questions
here
, Rowena.”

“Of course, Miss,” the young woman replied apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Elena instantly regretted the slight reprimand—especially since Rowena had been correct in her assumptions. Even now, hours after her encounter with Lord Carrington and with many city blocks between them, she continued to turn last night’s events over and over in her mind.

“No, Rowena, it is I who should be sorry,” she corrected herself in a reassuring tone. “I’ve simply far too much on my mind,” she continued, lowering her voice as she beckoned for her friend to follow her. “But do note that I neither said ‘something’ nor ‘someone.’ It is too much, and we will leave it at that. Agreed?”

Rowena nodded solemnly, just a hint of mischief in her eyes.

Elena dearly loved Rowena. But she was not about to unburden herself in the middle of a bookshop.

Elena glanced about the interior of the Temple of the Muses bookshop and temporarily forgot all about burdens and the casting off of such things.

Before her, down three wide steps and past rows upon rows of books, stood a circular wooden counter where a number of clerks busily addressed the needs of several customers. Elena took the steps quickly, still staring at the counter—or to be more precise, the ceiling above where the counter stood.

Elena belatedly realized with delight as she drew
nearer to the backs of the customers that it wasn’t a ceiling at all. Rather, a massive circular opening revealed what must have been at least two additional floors above, iron railings the only thing standing between Elena and literally thousands more books.

The volumes were housed in what appeared to be curved bookcases that mirrored the circular nature of the top of the building, making Elena feel as though she were surrounded by nothing but books.

“Elysium,” she murmured, leaning even more forward and examining the candelabra that was suspended from the center of the tower.

“Miss!” Rowena whispered urgently. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

Elena rolled her eyes in response, realizing belatedly that a clerk stood just in front of her, a quizzical look on his face.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, looking entirely too ready to flee at the sight of her.

There were times when Elena wondered whether she bore a badge emblazoned with the letter “B” upon her breast. She straightened and clasped her hands at her waist. “As a matter of fact, yes. I’m looking for a book on burr puzzles.”

The clerk leveled a supercilious stare at her. “I’m sorry, but why would
you
need a book such as that?” he asked, his tone suddenly contemptuous.

Rowena took a step forward and squared her shoulders. “That’s none of your business, is it? Just fetch my lady’s book—or better yet, tell us where we might find it so that you’ll not be touching it one whit.”

Elena knew she should swiftly step in to rectify the situation, given Rowena’s cheeky response.

And yet, she just stared at the clerk for a moment, relishing his discomfort.

Aware her behavior was verging on the impolite, she cleared her throat and took hold of Rowena’s arm. But when the man’s thin mouth curved into a dismissive smile, she hesitated. “Mr.,” she paused, waiting for the man to offer his name.

“Tinyrod,” he replied quietly.

Rowena giggled and Elena tightened her grip. “I’m sorry?” she queried, sure that she’d misheard the man.

“Tinyrod,” he repeated, his smile disappearing.

Elena bit the inside of her cheek until she feared it would bleed. “Very well, Mr. Tinyrod,” she managed to say without laughing. “I do believe I would prefer to fetch the book myself. So, be a good man, and tell us where we might find the volume in question.”

Elena could feel Rowena begin to shake from the effort of holding in a second giggle. She squeezed her friend’s arm harder. “Now, if you please.”

Mr. Tinyrod retrieved a square of pasteboard and a quill. “On the third floor, just beyond drawings and games,” he answered, bending down to write out instructions for the women.

“There will be no need for directions,” Elena assured him, then tapped her finger upon her temple. “It’s all in here.”

Elena noticed that his fingers clenched until the quill looked ready to snap. She nodded regally in dismissal and shooed Rowena toward a broad set of stairs near the back of the room.

“You’d think silly men like Mr. Tinyrod would have been warned about you, Miss,” Rowena commented, stepping to the side and allowing Elena to ascend the stairs first.

“Perhaps news travels slowly from Dorset. Besides, I never offered the man my name,” Elena answered, struggling, albeit weakly, with a smidge of guilt over Tinyrod. After all, his rather rude and forward assumption
that a woman could have no interest in a topic such as burr puzzles was, unfortunately, too commonplace. At home in Dorset, she’d even taken to ordering books in her father’s name, the bother of doing anything else having quickly grown tiresome.

Rowena’s boots clicked on the oaken stairs just behind her, the quick, rhythmic tap soothing to Elena’s ears. “Not that Mr. Tinyrod had any right to put up such a stink, but this book … Well, it’s not even got the tasty bits that those histories of yours do. Just puzzles? Is that right?” Rowena added.

The tapping of Rowena’s shoes slowly faded until all Elena could hear was her mind as it circled, again, and again, and again around the real reason for their visit to the bookshop.