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

is in solid shape. There’s no need to remove it, unless you need windows in your study or more in the guest room.”

She felt a flutter of relief at that assessment. “His wife was a librarian, and he was an engineer of sorts, mostly mining, though. There is reference to a keystone that saved some structure. I don’t know why his journal is in this library and not wherever his is.”

He looked at the date of it. “This journal is well over a hundred years old. If his descendants did not keep up the property, the books may have been unsafe. Or they may have overwhelmed a normal library and been moved here.”

“He was an Ives. You are likely related to his descendants,” she said dryly. “That is probably why the book caught my eye.”

“Caught your eye, did it?” he asked, raising a knowing dark eyebrow. “Out of the thousands of volumes in there, the one about my engineering ancestor and his librarian wife simply leaped out at you?”

“Singular, but not useful.” With disappointment, she set the volume down and returned to dressing.

“You don’t analyze, do you?” Max buttoned his waistcoat. “You take everything at face value, not taking time to wonder why one book would catch your eye. You’re waiting for magic to happen. But that’s not how it works.”

Lydia hoped the corset she was wearing was tight enough for the new bodice and began struggling into the narrow sleeves. “How am I supposed to analyze an enormous library of whispering books?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read, remember? That’s your talent. I never saw anyone read and comprehend a book as swiftly as you just did.” He helped her with the stiff bodice, then shrugged into his tailored coat. It was country wear and not a fancy tailed coat, but the black emphasized his weathered bronzed complexion.

“Then I’ll just read the entire library. Although what good that will do if I can’t read Gaelic, I can’t say.” In a huff, she started pulling the pins from her hair so she might brush it into some semblance of order.

“How many languages does the library contain?” Max took the brush from her and gently pulled at the tangles. “I love your hair. It’s like holding sunshine.”

She wanted to melt at his romantic flattery, but she was too agitated. Her entire life, her home, depended on understanding a library that wouldn’t speak to her. “I don’t know. Mr. C could read Gaelic, Latin, Greek, and some Italian and French. I know Latin and Greek and can figure out many phrases in Italian and French, but I’ve not run across them often in the books I’ve seen. Gaelic is a problem. And if that is the basis of this library, then I don’t belong here. I will be found out any day and cast from the castle.”

Max grabbed a handful of hair and tugged her around to face him. He was large enough to almost make her feel small. Almost. He touched his nose to hers. “You belong here. Hire a steward. Live in the stacks. Figure it out. But do not leave, not ever. Understood?”

Never leave? While he traipsed the world with women falling at his feet.

She crushed his cravat in her fist, stood on her toes, and nipped his nosy nose.

Twenty-one

Max threaded Lydia’s hand through the crook of his arm as they strolled toward the enormous drawing room in what once had been the great hall. He’d like to appreciate the gas-lit chandelier and sconces and the pegged oak floors littered with carpets from Persia and Turkey, but the people swiveling to watch their entrance had him fighting the urge to bolt.

He’d attended occasions like this as an eighteen-year-old. They had turned out very badly. Of course, back then, he hadn’t known not to study the bon-bon box of female confections. He ignored them now, instead, attempting to recognize the gentlemen guests from Lydia’s descriptions.

His mother rushed to greet them. “You look so much like your father that I have to hug you!”

Max was fairly certain his father had never turned up with bite marks on his nose. He shot Lydia a look as he hugged his mother. Lydia demurely smiled as if they hadn’t just been shouting at each other. The bruised memory distracted him from the gathering crowd.

“Come along, Maxwell, let me introduce you.” His mother tugged his arm.

Despite the argument, he preferred Lydia’s no-nonsense company. Actually, he was trying to picture his betrothed flinging lusty ladies against the armament-covered walls, but he hoped he could defend himself well enough that she needn’t do so.

“I think Lydia can manage, Mother. Why don’t you take a seat by the fire and sip your ratafia?” He supposed that was mean, but he had to start asserting himself with females sometime.

“It’s only proper I act as hostess, my lady,” Lydia said in a pacifying tone. “Is my new gown too violent a color?”

“Oh, no,” Lady Agnes declared, easily distracted. “With your hair, it’s absolutely ravishing. Perhaps you should do color instead of white for your wedding gown.”

“Ivory, perhaps,” Lydia suggested. “Would you ask Lady Dare about color while I introduce Max to the gentlemen? She’s an artist with an eye for these things.”

Interesting. Distraction worked, at least with his mother. He needed to learn Lydia’s technique for isolating herself, because he had a feeling she did that regularly. Nose biting might not be the preferred method.

“Can the gentlemen escape to another room?” Max murmured as she led him toward the table where decanters and glasses waited. “There is a pretty young thing sailing in from starboard.”

Lydia’s bow lips didn’t curve, but he caught mischief in the blue of her eyes as she slanted him a look. “A mere child. Surely you can handle her?”

“Miss Wystan, thank you so much for allowing me to see your magnificent home. I’m over the moon delighted to be photographing your wedding.” Fair-haired, blue-eyed, obviously one of his mother’s students, the child looked at Max as