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

castle door. Suffering a rush of embarrassing congratulations, Lydia was distracted by an odd commotion in the corridor. Lady Dare’s photography student must have heard also, for she studied the doorway with avid interest. The only unmarried woman in the group noticing. . .

Max.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Lydia murmured, rising.

The ladies had brought all her boxes of new clothes with them, and she’d tried on this one they’d called a visiting gown. The light fabric felt heavenly, and the bows and ribbons made her feel feminine, but for practical purposes, it was a nuisance. The long train required lifting and maneuvering and ladylike steps so she didn’t show her ankles while doing so.

Lydia knew perfectly well that her guests were dying of curiosity but were too polite to follow her. They were Malcolms, after all. Lady Agnes had apparently sent invitations to all her local family to help plan her son’s nuptials. While Lydia delighted in the company, she was terrified at how quickly the reality of a ceremony was coming together.

She was similarly terrified that perceptive Malcolms would discern her inadequacy as a librarian if she gave them too much of her time. Would they demand she be tested?

She rustled down the corridor to where Beryl waited between the guest bath and bedroom. The maid looked a little bewildered.

“Are you lost?” Lydia asked, equally confused. “Doesn’t Mrs. Folkston need you to help set up the guest chambers in the main house?”

Beryl blushed and curtsied. “I finished moving your clothes to the tower and put fresh linens on Mr. Ives’ bed and carried up his laundry. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Thank you, Beryl. With all these guests, we’ll have to hire more help, I know.” Lydia watched the maid rush away.

Lloyd should have been tending Max’s laundry and chamber.

Lydia tapped tentatively on the bathing room door. “Max? She’s gone.”

He stuck out his dusty head and leaned against the jamb in all his filth. “The guest room won’t work,” he said angrily.

“I can’t send Lloyd to move your clothes back upstairs,” she whispered. “You’ll have to do it. Your mother is interfering again.”

His expression didn’t soften. “Fine. I’ll do it, but I’m not coming down until all the women are gone.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Phoebe and Azmin won’t attack you. Their husbands are about somewhere. Find them once you’re decent or your mother will put together a wedding involving fireworks, the queen, and an army of pipers.” She abandoned him to return to her guests.

Max would abandon her soon enough, Lydia knew. She had to learn to keep their lives separate. And if his mother meant to move in while planning a circus, then he could very well play the part of son or host or whatever he was.

After everyone departed to their rooms to dress for dinner, with still no sign of Max, Lydia took the inside library stairs to her room—Mr. C’s room, Max’s room, her room. . . a blamed hotel suite. Had Max run away again? Terrified she—or the maids or her company—had driven him off, she stifled panic with anger. Her head was about to explode with all the tasks she must accomplish. Entertaining his family—his family, mind you—shouldn’t have to be her duty.

As she climbed the spiral stairs, the stacks whistled, whispered, and beckoned, taunting her, like bullies. She grabbed a volume sticking out from a shelf and stalked up in a fine snit.

She slammed into the suite’s parlor to find Max on the floor, sketching on a news sheet with black ink over the dense print, as if he were Bakari drawing the universe. He wore a clean shirt but most definitely wasn’t dressed for dinner. He’d left the shirt open at the throat, wore no coat or waistcoat, and his hair still hung in damp ringlets on his brow. She flung the book down at him. “I am not dressing for dinner with your relations if you’re not.”

She stalked back through the study—her study—now littered with Bakari’s drawings and Max’s scribbling. The globe had been relegated to the floor and the desk had become a playground of books stacked presumably to replicate the supports of the cellar. This was what it would be like to be married.

She swung on her heel and strode back to the parlor, where Max sat, rumpling his hair, holding the book she’d thrown, and looking puzzled. “I am to expect that you take over my house, my rooms, my person, unload all your family and problems, while you do nothing but play in mud because you’re afraid of the maids?”

He shoved up from the floor holding the book and looking as grim as she felt. “I am afraid of hurting you, shaming my family, and causing your friends to look at me in disgust and at you with pity. I am not suited for. . .” He gestured helplessly at the fussy parlor with its floral draperies and velvet couch.

Lydia almost softened at the thought of this big, confident man not wanting to hurt impervious her. Unfortunately, Max continued speaking.

“I can carve my way through a jungle with a machete, but I cannot carve my way through your maidservants and friends without harm. I cannot sit at your dinner table and converse about the latest news in the paper or novels or any of those other things civilized people do. I came to this place because I thought I wouldn’t have to.”

“Fine, then don’t.” Lydia snatched the book from his hand and swept out again. She’d known all this. It was her own fault for not understanding that it meant she’d have to do everything herself, as always. She hated being rushed into things because she never had time to think them through. Upheaval and chaos were always the result.

She would change out of this foolish gown and back into her old wool, forget their guests, and go down and work on correspondence as she was meant to do. Or read every book in the damned library so she knew where