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Page 18 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

The evening following Viscount Pembroke's unwelcome departure brought with it the sort of oppressive quiet that seemed to settle over Ravenshollow Manor like a shroud, emphasizing the isolation that had become Evangeline's constant companion during these first tumultuous days of marriage.

The dinner conversation had been even more stilted than usual, both she and Lucian apparently lost in contemplation of the threats and implications that their visitor had so elegantly deposited upon their doorstep like some particularly venomous calling card.

It was while seeking refuge from her own troubled thoughts that Evangeline found herself drawn once again to the library, that vast repository of knowledge and learning that seemed to represent the most appealing aspect of her new circumstances.

The room held a particular fascination for her, not merely because of its impressive collection but because it offered glimpses into the mind and character of the enigmatic man she had married.

"Your Grace?" Higgins appeared in the doorway with his customary discretion, bearing a tea service that suggested Mrs. Cromwell had anticipated her retreat to this sanctuary.

"His Grace has retired to his study for the evening.

I thought you might appreciate some refreshment as you pursue your literary endeavours. "

"Thank you, Higgins. That is most considerate.

" She accepted the tea with genuine gratitude, noting how the elderly butler's manner had grown warmer since her arrival, as though her presence had somehow reminded the household staff of more civilized times.

"Tell me, has this library always been so extensively maintained? "

"Oh yes, Your Grace. His Grace's father was a great collector of books, as was his grandfather before him. The current Duke has added considerably to the collection himself, particularly works on military history and poetry, though he would not thank me for mentioning the latter."

The unexpected intelligence that her formidable husband possessed an interest in poetry struck Evangeline as delightfully incongruous, offering another small crack in the armor of bitter cynicism he wore so consistently.

"Poetry? How fascinating. I would not have expected such aesthetic sensibilities from a gentleman of his practical nature. "

"His Grace was quite different before the war, Your Grace. Quite different indeed." Higgins's expression grew wistful, as though he were remembering a person who had been lost rather than merely changed. "He was fond of music as well, though the pianoforte has remained silent since his return."

After the butler departed, Evangeline found herself examining the library's contents with renewed interest, searching for evidence of the man Lucian had been before war and injury had transformed him into the harsh, intimidating figure she knew.

The poetry collection, when she located it, proved to be both extensive and revealing—Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley, their pages marked with annotations in Lucian's distinctive hand.

She was absorbed in studying his marginal notes when the sound of approaching footsteps announced an unexpected interruption to her solitary evening.

Lucian appeared in the doorway, his expression suggesting he had not anticipated finding the library occupied, though he showed no inclination to withdraw despite the obvious awkwardness of the situation.

"I beg your pardon," he said with formal courtesy that did nothing to mask his discomfort. "I was not aware that you had claimed the library for your evening's entertainment. I shall leave you to your reading."

"Please do not leave on my account," Evangeline replied, gesturing toward the vast collection that surrounded them.

"Surely there is sufficient literature here to accommodate both our interests without conflict.

I was merely investigating the scope of your collection and find myself quite impressed by its breadth and quality. "

"You sound surprised by such evidence of intellectual pursuit. Perhaps you expected to find nothing but agricultural treatises and military manuals?"

The slight edge in his voice suggested that her comment had touched upon some particular sensitivity, though she could not determine whether he was offended by the implication that she had underestimated his education or simply uncomfortable with any acknowledgment of his scholarly interests.

"On the contrary, I am delighted to discover such evidence of learning and refinement. I confess myself particularly intrigued by your collection of contemporary poetry, which seems rather extensive for a gentleman who professes such practical inclinations."

"Poetry serves certain purposes for those who have witnessed the realities that inspired much of it," he replied with the sort of harsh disdain that characterized his treatment of any subject that might reveal his more vulnerable aspects.

"Byron's descriptions of battle possess a particular authenticity for those who have experienced similar circumstances. "

"Indeed? And what of Wordsworth's observations on nature and the human condition? Do you find similar authenticity in his more pastoral reflections?"

The question seemed to catch him off guard, as though he had not expected her to demonstrate familiarity with poetry beyond the most superficial level.

His dark eyes studied her face with the sort of intense scrutiny that she had learned to associate with his attempts to gauge the sincerity of her statements.

"Wordsworth possesses certain insights into the restorative qualities of natural beauty that some might find applicable to their circumstances," he admitted with obvious reluctance. "Though I suspect his optimistic philosophy would be difficult to maintain under more challenging conditions."

"Perhaps. Though I have always found his poem 'Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey' to be particularly moving in its exploration of memory and the passage of time.

'For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes the still sad music of humanity. '"

Her recitation of the familiar lines seemed to affect him more powerfully than she had anticipated, his scarred features growing still with what might have been recognition or perhaps painful memory.

For a moment, the harsh mask he wore so consistently slipped sufficiently to reveal something approaching vulnerability beneath.

"You quote him with considerable accuracy," he observed finally, settling himself in the chair opposite hers with the careful movement that spoke of ongoing physical discomfort. "Are you perhaps a devotee of the Lake Poets?"

"My father was very fond of Wordsworth's work, particularly his reflections on the relationship between past and present experience. He often said that poetry provided a language for emotions that ordinary discourse could not adequately express."

"Your father sounds to have been a man of considerable sensitivity as well as courage. Such a combination is unusual in military circles."

"He believed that sensitivity and strength were not mutually exclusive qualities, though he acknowledged that many of his colleagues found such views eccentric.

Perhaps that is why he valued his friendship with you so highly, he recognized a kindred spirit beneath the requirements of military service. "

The suggestion that he and her father had shared philosophical as well as professional bonds seemed to both, please and pain him, as though he found comfort in such connections while simultaneously doubting his worthiness to claim them.

"Captain Hartwell possessed qualities that I could only admire from a distance," he said with characteristic self-deprecation. "His ability to maintain faith in human decency despite the horrors he witnessed was remarkable."

"And do you believe such faith was misplaced?"

"I believe such faith was admirable but ultimately naive. The world is considerably darker than optimistic poetry would suggest."

"Mayhap. Yet here we sit in a library filled with books that celebrate the human capacity for beauty, learning, and moral growth. Surely such works would not endure across centuries if they held no truth about our fundamental nature?"

Her challenge was delivered with the sort of intellectual directness that had characterized their best conversations, and she noted with satisfaction that he seemed to find such discourse engaging despite his professed cynicism.

"You argue with considerable skill for someone who claims no particular education in philosophy."

"I argue with the education that my father provided and the experience that circumstances have forced upon me. Perhaps that combination lacks academic rigour, but it possesses certain practical advantages."

"Indeed, it does. Tell me, what other authors have shaped your particular perspective on life and human nature?"

The question opened a conversation that continued for nearly two hours, ranging across literature, philosophy, politics, and history with the sort of intellectual freedom that Evangeline had not experienced since her father's death.

She discovered that beneath Lucian's harsh exterior lay a mind of remarkable breadth and sophistication, capable of discussing everything from Aristotelian ethics to contemporary economic theory with equal facility.

More surprisingly, she found that he possessed a sharp wit that occasionally surfaced when he forgot to maintain his customary emotional distance, offering observations that made her laugh despite herself and revealing glimpses of the man he must have been before war had carved such deep furrows of pain into his character.

"You find Miss Austen's social commentary amusing?" he asked after she had quoted a particularly pointed passage from Pride and Prejudice regarding the relationship between marriage and financial security.