Page 4 of Diamond in the Rough (The Carmichael Saga #1)

S ometime between yesterday’s meeting with Mr. Grimoire and this very moment, Glain had lost her mind. There was no other way of explaining it.

Pure madness was all that could account for the agreement she’d made with the fiercely handsome librarian, at a circulating library so scandalous for the people it catered to, and the shocking selection offered.

Standing across the street from the modest establishment, Glain peered at the cheerful front window, adorned with a ring of garland and a bright crimson bow at the center. When was the last the halls of her family’s household had been decked so for the holiday season?

Her eyes slid shut, as a buried memory from many winters past slipped in: Glain and her mother, hanging garland, and as they did, singing Christ Was Born on Christmas Day so very loudly they’d not heard the duke. Until they had. Until his shouts had drown out their revelry.

“Decorating? As if you are bloody servants! And we do not celebrate as the plebians do? Is that—?”

“ Ahem .”

Glain came whirring quickly back to the present.

Kenneth, her family’s driver, stared at her with a concerned gaze. “Do you… require anything, my lady?”

She gave her head a slight shake, clearing the cobwebs of unwanted memories. “No. Nothing, Kenneth. Thank you. I’ll be along shortly.”

With that, Glain gathered the hem of her cloak and dress, and continued the rest of the way to Mr. Grimoire’s library. The sooner she got this over, the better she’d be.

Only, as she found herself on the stoop, staring at a wreath entirely too big for the door, she braced for the expected rush of horror or panic that came from being here. But it didn’t come. Instead, there was a stirring of excitement inside.

It had been so long—longer than she could remember—since she’d done anything she wasn’t supposed to. She’d been unfailingly prim and proper and conducted herself at all times above reproach. Until now.

Now, she’d set out on her own, without even the benefit of a maid all so Glain might read whatever unsanctioned books it was she pulled from Chetham’s Subscription Library shelf, where anyone could come.

Or is it the prospect of seeing him? Is it really that you have never met a man so bold, so insolent, and so dangerously handsome?

Her breathing increased. The warmth of it stirred a little cloud of white in the winter air and she pressed a gloved palm to her chest in a bid to slow her suddenly pounding heart.

Stop. He is just a man, and these are just ridiculous, silly books he’d have you read, and there is absolutely nothing at all seductive about him or this forbidden visit. At all.

A pair of nearly obsidian eyes met hers through the circle made by the wreath, and she shrieked. Glain buried the remainder of that startlement in her gloved fingers.

As if to put the final nails upon the coffin of her flighty musings, the proprietor lifted his watch fob, and pointed to the timepiece. “You’re late,” he mouthed perfectly. Slightly mocking, and more than slightly condescending, and also absolutely the perfect killer to whatever nonsense had previously been filling her head.

And here you were, waxing on romantic, forbidden thoughts.

Grateful for the cold that would no doubt conceal her blush, she clasped the handle, and let herself inside.

“As we failed to determine a specific time,” she said, pushing the hood of her cloak all the way down. “I’ll have you know, I’m not late.”

He lounged a lean hip against a nearby display table and Glain’s heart did a double-time beat. How could a man in such a casual repose.

“There’s a difference between arriving and sitting outside for the whole of the agreed upon hour,” he said. “Either way, given your aversion to this place, I’ll attribute the delay to you working up the courage to be here.” He straightened and held out a heavily callused, ink-stained palm.

Glain unfastened the silver fastenings of her cloak.

“I’ll have you know,” she repeated, placing the velvet-lined garment in his waiting hands. “I am quite punctual, always…except when circumstances require a delayed entrance. This, however, was not one of those times.”

“What are?”

Confused, she stared at him.

“What circumstances require you to disregard a person’s time?”

“I’m not someone who disregards a person’s time, Mr. Grimoire,” she said.

For some reason, for reasons she didn’t know or understand, it just seemed important he didn’t believe her one of those superior beings who that he didn’t think she was the manner of person who didn’t value another’s time. “There are expectations, however, when attending certain events that one arrives fashionably late.”

He snorted. “Likely so some self-important people can be sure there are more eyes on them. Sounds a touch self-important. Doesn’t it?”

Glain made a show of removing her gloves, refusing to let herself be bothered at how easily he judged her.

Let Mr. Grimoire have his unfavorable opinion of her. It was better this way. The last thing she either needed or wanted was to have some manner of friendship with him.

“Despite your opinion, my adherence to that way of thinking—” She’d always quite despised it. Suddenly, for reasons she didn’t understand, it seemed very important this man who continued to judge her know that. “Is one insisted upon by my father, Mr. Grimoire.”

Her father would not have it any other way. He had insisted she be on display for the crowded ballrooms so that she could attract the notice of all.

“I take it he’s a powerful, self-important man.”

She waited for him to tack on: who raised a self-important daughter. This time, however, that insult did not come. “He is a very powerful, self-important man.” She hesitated, withholding that final detail that would at last cement this man’s respect. As all people were summarily impressed and awed by that title. “He is a duke.”

“Ahh,” he said, stretching out that singular syllable in a way befitting the discovery that her father was in fact a step away from royalty.

She braced for the change.

This moment where he treated her differently because of that discovery.

Glain stared at him.

He stared pointedly back.

She bowed her head slightly.

He matched that movement. “What?” he asked, confusion wreathing his voice. “What is it?”

And then it hit her—he didn’t care. He didn’t reveal the slightest hint of awe or reverence. He didn’t treat her at all differently, rather, he treated her precisely as he had since they’d crossed paths yesterday. “Nothing,” she said, feeling a lightness inside. “I…it is just people behave a certain way towards me when they discover that detail.”

“I’m not most people, darling…”

“No, you aren’t, Mr. Grimoire,” she murmured, hopeless to stop herself from trailing her gaze over those sharp, angular planes of his face, nicked and marred with small scars she’d failed to note before now. They only leant an air of raw realness to his otherwise perfectly beautiful face.

He flashed a half-grin. “I’m sorry, Glain ,” he corrected, and this time, she didn’t correct him. This time, she also felt more than a trace of regret at his dropping that familiar endearment of ‘darling’.

“You still intend to use my Christian name.”

His smile widened. “Absolutely and every time.”

“Very well,” she said, tipping her chin up a fraction. “What is it?”

“What is what ?”

“Given you intend to address me so informally, it is only fair I return that familiarity.”

His dark eyebrows went shooting up.

She couldn’t tamp down a triumphant smile. He’d thought her too lofty to ever dare such a boldness. Good. It felt wondrous, unnerving a person—that was, for different reasons than the icy demeanor she’d adopted.

He grunted. “Abaddon.”

That dark angel of the abyss.

“Abaddon, then,” she murmured, tasting and testing the feel of it upon her lips.

It was a sinister name, perfectly suited to a man who called for her to challenge everything she knew.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said, pulling her from her musings.

“Yes.” The sooner they did this, the faster the time went, and the sooner she’d be free to leave, return home, and forget him and this outrageous arrangement.

He stared at her.

“What is it, Mr.… Abaddon?” she asked impatiently.

“Start looking.”

Glain did just that, glancing around. “What exactly is it, I’m looking for?”

Abaddon gave her an incredulous look. “You’re jesting?”

“I assure you, I do not ‘kid’ or make jests,” she said impatiently.

The unlikeliest of circulating library owners snorted. “Now, that I can believe.”

She bristled. He’s just trying to get you riled up. You’ve perfected being unaffected. You’ve come to embody a cool ice princess with everyone. This man was…or should be no different. “Why, don’t you just tell me what the problem—”

“The problem is, you’re in a library. You look. You read some of the pages. You determine what stories you like to read.”

He wanted her to peruse the shelves, then. Very well. This she could do.

Glain inclined her head. “If you might point me to the copies on elocution and—”

“The hell I will.”

Heat exploded on her cheeks. “Cursing as you do, and in front of a lady, you’d do well to not only have a section, but to read those books yourself.”

Abaddon dropped a broad, powerful shoulder against the end of the shelf. “Oh, I have those books. Smallest section I’ve got, and actually the least read by my patrons.”

Annoyance ran through her. “And yet you won’t direct me to them?” She fought the urge to stamp her feet, and instead made herself take a deep, steadying, and more importantly, calming breath. Always be in control. Always be coldly indifferent and polite to the point of impolite. “Very well, sir. Is that to be my test for the day? You shall find yourself disappointed as I can find the section well enough on my own.”

He slid into her path. “That’s not your test.”

Which implied there was a different one he was putting to her.

“Well?” she snapped, drawing back as soon as that curt one-word syllable exploded from her usually-always-controlled lips.

“You’re going to peruse the shelves, looking at different books than those stuffy ones you usually read, darling.”

Darling.

Despite herself, a thrill of warmth invaded her chest and seeped out to every other corner of her being. It shouldn’t. His was just a flippant endearment, and yet, she was hopeless to control the way her belly danced inside.

As if to highlight just how unaffected he was by her, in return, Abaddon removed his fob and let the gold chain dangle in front of her nose.

Glain instantly went cross-eyed as she attempted to bring those close numbers into focus.

The gleaming gold cylinder twisted and turned before her face, too quickly for her to either make sense of the item carved upon the back or make out the numbers there, and she found herself intrigued about the object of clear value and how he’d come by it. It looked old, but well taken care of and she wondered what it meant to him.

And worse, why she should care. She didn’t. She drew back. She was just curious about this odd, gruff, lightly coarse-speaking fellow who challenged her at every turn. That was it, and certainly nothing m—

“Time’s a’ wasting, darling,” he said, pocketing that item once more, and the spell was broken.

Grateful for the reprieve and welcoming the opportunity of putting some much needed distance between the, Glain found her legs and turned dismissively in the opposite direction. She continued a quick march to the end of the aisle and without pausing looped around the next row of shelving so that she was away from Abaddon Grimoire.

Closing her eyes briefly, she pressed her head against the row of musty-smelling books. He is just a man. A rude, condescending man. Whatever interest you have in him is solely and strictly that.

Glain took several more moments to repeat that mantra before opening her eyes once more and giving her head a hard, clearing shake. “Let’s get on with it,” she muttered under her breath, and grabbed the closest volume.