The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (reading eggs books TXT) 📕

She dumped her load on the long, polished mahogany library table and Max did the same. “I know you don’t want to read these. I can. I don’t know if I can go directly to the right page or not. But just being able to find the books. . .” She closed her eyes and offered a prayer of gratitude to Whoever was watching over her.

“Combining resources,” he said in admiration. “I like it. I hate taking up your time. I saw all that correspondence on your desk. . .”

She waved away the thought. “I read quickly. You need to go back to your son, while I look for Lloyd and see if I can persuade him to be a temporary tutor. Tomorrow will be a busy day, and there will be visitors everywhere. You might want to hide beneath the tower or in your suite.”

Max caught her waist and spun her around. Without any warning, he dipped his head—

And kissed her.

Bliss, absolute bliss. Max savored the sweet taste of lips that had nibbled on oatcakes and berries, inhaled the spring freshness of lavender, and fell into a cauldron of desire before he knew he was tipping over. He pulled the librarian tighter, relished feminine curves crushed against him, and ran his hands over her unencumbered backside. He hated bustles. She was all woman beneath his hands—a woman who melted into him as if she belonged there, who didn’t push away his whiskered jaw or complain that he stank of horse, which he probably did. She kissed him with enthusiasm and with every appearance of enjoying the moment as much as he did.

A loud harrumph brought him back to his senses. Cursing, Max glanced over his shoulder—a large, bespectacled business man stood there. That could only be Hugh Morgan.

“Perhaps we should wait in the parlor, Mr. Morgan.” A feminine voice confirmed Max’s supposition.

Lydia shoved away, brushing her hair from her face, and ducking her head to hide her blushing cheeks. Max wanted to smack his associate and whisk Lydia away and. . . He rubbed his forehead. “Yes, Morgan,” he snarled. “Maybe you should wait in the parlor.”

“Don’t be rude.” Lydia straightened her gown and her shoulders.

Stepping past Max to greet their guests, Lydia looked like a regal queen—Elizabeth came to mind, with all the royal red hair. A relation to the Tudor dynasty might explain his hostess’s ruthlessness in emerging from an abyss of pleasure with no evidence of the confusion Max felt.

“Hugh Morgan? I’ve heard of you from Lady Phoebe. Pleased to meet you. I’m Lydia Wystan.” She held out her hand.

Morgan took it. Uncouth Glaswegian that he was, he didn’t look certain whether to shake or kiss it.

Lydia shook his hand and turned to his companion. “I don’t suppose you’d be Miss Trivedi? The ladies have told me of you and your admirable mathematical expertise. Perhaps if we return to the parlor, I can call for tea. You must have traveled quickly!”

“Back to the parlor,” Max muttered, punching Morgan’s shoulder. “And thanks for bringing a female with you. You might as well have brought my mother and her entire contingent.”

“Miss Trivedi isn’t a Malcolm. She’s an accountant. And you need an accountant who can explain things better than I can. You’re in bigger trouble than you know.” Morgan turned and followed the women, taking no umbrage at Max’s accusation.

“And you ascertained that in what, a single day? You’ve developed my mother’s prescience?” Max stopped and peered into his room, where his son slept soundly, his pillow scrunched beneath his face. He left the door open so he could hear if the boy called.

“I’ve been looking into your mother’s affairs ever since Lady Phoebe mentioned a problem. I just couldn’t do anything while you were gallivanting the world. Everything is tied up, and you’re the only one who can step in. Have you decided to return from the dead?”

Max hadn’t decided any such thing, but Morgan had loyally kept his secret all this time, so he shouldn’t begrudge the question.

Lydia pulled the bell rope. Max cringed, hoping Lloyd or a footman would heed the call.

He waited until the ladies had taken their seats. He’d been yanked from bliss to hell in a few short seconds. He needed time to regroup. Lydia spread her skirt on a settee. After waiting to see where Miss Trivedi sat, Max took the seat beside Lydia on the opposite side of the fireplace. He needed her solid proximity to remind him the world wasn’t entirely insane. He had a wild hope that she might act as his magnetic shield.

Morgan settled his large frame beside Miss Trivedi. That lady studied Max with interest, but she seemed firmly affixed to Morgan. It happened that way sometimes. Max breathed a little easier and warily watched the door for maids.

“I’m sorry you’ve come this distance at a time like this,” Lydia apologized. “Mr. Cadwallader passed away last night, and we’re making funeral arrangements. We’re not at our best, I fear.”

To Max’s relief, Marta appeared with a tea tray as if she’d been lurking close by.

“Is Beryl busy?” Lydia asked her cook in surprise. “You shouldn’t have to be waiting on us.”

“I had a moment, miss, and thought it best.” The servant cast Max a glance, and he vowed to tip her well.

Apparently, older women didn’t fall under his weird spell. Maybe he could arrange to live in a house with old crones and never go outside.

At least he hadn’t had to answer Morgan’s question yet. It seemed forgotten over the traditional distribution of cups and cakes. He could see Lydia fretting and surmised it was over where to put their visitors for the night.

“I should check to see if my trunks have arrived. I’ll carry them up to the tower, as you suggested,” Max murmured as he took his teacup. “Morgan can have my room.”

“I don’t wish to put Miss Trivedi in a cubicle,” she whispered back. “I need to have another room opened and cleaned.”

She turned to Marta. “Do