Page 3 of My Lady Melisende (Ladies Least Likely #6)

CHAPTER TWO

H e was accustomed to being correct about people, and Philip saw in an instant that he’d been correct in his suspicions about Melisende of Merania.

She was beautiful, undeniably so. Hers was a sultry beauty that punched a man in the throat every time he looked at her. A queenly air, an imperial elegance that evoked an ice-capped mountain, then that sleepy slant to her eyes and the puckered curve of her lips that made a mortal man able to think of nothing but beds, and her in them.

She was beautiful, and she knew it, and she wielded her beauty like a weapon, the way beautiful women always did.

She was formidably intelligent. At an exhibition hosted by the Duchess of Hunsdon he’d heard her discussing the French strategy in the war against the colonies with the Russian ambassador, Count Voronsky, with more clarity than any British secretary had ever exhibited. Proof that all along, instead of culling the German territories for mercenaries and getting belligerent with the Dutch, George and his ministers ought to have been plotting war councils with the Habsburg archdukes, who knew all about expanding and retaining an empire, not losing possessions to unruly patriots.

And she was playing a deep game. He’d been right about that, too.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she told him. “Go have some more punch.”

She turned back to the shelves and their rows of snug spines, some so fresh they smelled yet of the tannery, others fading in their cheap half-calf.

A woman dismissing him. That, he was not accustomed to.

Philip watched as she scanned her eyes, then her fingers, along the tidy rows, whispering to herself. Candlelight warmed her face, sketched in bold, precise lines like the finest Greek statuary. Her lips were the dark pink of bogbean buds before they bloomed in the marshes around his family’s estate. Sturdy little plant, useful for everything from flavoring beer to brewing the noxious remedies his nurse made the children drink for every ailment, but one forgot the resourcefulness of the plant when the flowers unfurled in all their starry beauty.

So with Melisende. She dazzled with her gorgeous show, and beneath, roots snaked deep through the water, reaching for something.

“The Duchess of Portland’s salon,” he said. “You disappeared for a time into the library.”

“The duke possesses an interesting map of North America. I was curious about the wars your people have been fighting there.”

Interested in the movement of the British troops? Or of the French?

“I have an affection for old maps in general,” she added. “Harry brought me here to show me the atlas his father acquired.”

“At the recent auction.” Devlin nodded. “I saw you there. You didn’t bid on the atlas, though.”

“You have no way of knowing what I bid on.”

“You had that nervous little clergyman bidding for you. Quite drove up the price for Fitzwilliam on that tapestry he wanted.”

Her eyelid flickered. So. Had she had more than just the starving would-be vicar in her web? Was the tapestry the item she sought, or was the bid meant to distract from her main goal, if she’d guessed that the British were watching her?

He’d been right to keep tabs on her. In truth he’d been unable to tear his eyes away from the moment she stepped into London society, a foreign duke’s daughter, an exotic new arrival. She’d made a stir, and Philip, like everyone else, had stood about gaping at her Continental ways and amused grace.

It was only because he’d been watching so very closely that he’d begun to see the glint of more in her depths, the currents moving beneath the seemingly still surface.

“The Marchioness of Rockingham’s card party.” Perhaps he oughtn’t show his hand so early. But it was clear she didn’t expect anyone to keep up with her. She was a horse lap ahead in a race no one else knew had begun.

Philip was having the damnedest time keeping up with her, but he wanted her to know he was in the room.

He moved closer. “You disappeared into the library then, too.”

She ticked her head to the side, as if listening for something. Her hair was only lightly powdered, bound up in loose waves held in place by a braided bandeau, as if she had stepped out of a study on the Muses.

She would be Calliope, queen among the sisters, the companion of kings and emperors, the ruling force of justice and serenity. She would insist on order and absolute obedience to her will.

“Are you the keeper of something? The foot patrol of London’s libraries, perhaps? I hadn’t been aware such a position had been created. What an honor that must be.”

No, he mustn’t show his hand. She’d been watching him, too, and he had an idea those velvety brown eyes missed nothing.

“Let me guess what might interest the Lady Melisende.” This could be entertaining. She was a worthy opponent, far more interesting than the drunken double-crossers he spent his time running to ground in seedy gambling hells. She smelled better, too.

He stalked toward her, and the room pitched, then settled with its focal point around her. He wasn’t disguised, not even a trifle. It was this woman who exerted a magnetic pull.

He might also be stepping into quicksand.

He moved toward the shelf she had been examining, and she side-stepped in a rustle of expensive silk and a waft of fragrance, something ethereal and seductive and complex, just like the woman.

Philip had been through duels, clandestine meetings with the enemy, and political debates where hard feelings might have caught like tinder, at risk of his life. There was no reason a foreign woman in a knight’s library should pose the same sense of danger.

His heart pounded anyway.

“Sermons? I can’t imagine this fiery Protestant rhetoric of interest to you. Aren’t all the Austrian lands Roman Catholic?” Another reason British authorities had taken an interest in the grand duke.

“Are you British not aware that Emperor Joseph II passed the Edict of Tolerance? Perhaps I am similarly enlightened.”

She smelled of neroli and sandalwood. The polished shelves of the library bent in, as if pushing them together. Her skirts brushed the side of a chair, and the rustle sounded of bedsheets when lovers lay abed in a long morning.

Philip pushed thoughts of bedding from his mind. That wasn’t how he was going to learn Lady Melisende’s secrets.

At least not the secrets his superiors wanted to know.

“Lord Chesterfield’s letters to his son.” He pulled out a much-thumbed volume. “Are you interested in the art of becoming a man of the world, and a gentleman?”

“Perhaps you might benefit from perusing that work, sir.”

Touché. Philip pressed out the smile lifting the corner of his lips.

“I have it. The History of English Poetry. I’ve heard Warton’s dissertation on the Gesta Romanorum is quite provocative.”

“Oh, indeed. Do let us see what your English monks knew of the deeds of the ancient Romans,” she said dryly.

So she knew Latin. What would it take to daunt this woman? Philip lifted the wooden cover, bound with calf.

He lifted his brows. “Well. Poetry is far more stimulating than I thought.”

The fake binding disguised a volume of instruction in the erotic arts, with accompanying illustrations. The image in Philip’s hand depicted, in bright watercolors, a woman seated on a desk, the background suggesting a library much like this one. The woman’s skirts were thrown back, baring her legs, between which her companion had inserted his hand. His head bent to her equally bared bosom, teeth clamped around one taut nipple, while the woman gave him a besotted smile.

“Hmm.” Philip turned the page. In the next illustration, the man’s head had replaced his hand between the woman’s legs. His exaggeratedly large member stood erect and bare from his falls as he knelt before her. His partner pinched her own nipple between dainty fingers, her expression grown even more fatuous as she accepted his ministrations.

The third in the series—Philip felt compelled to keep going—contained the consummation. His exaggeratedly long member slid between her thighs, her knees crooked and lifted to receive him. The couple stared adoringly, greedily, into the other’s eyes, their arms reaching for the other as they sought the shared passion.

Philip’s body registered an immediate response.

He’d perused such volumes before, sometimes in the company of an adventurous partner. But Melisende’s sharp, sudden inhale at his shoulder, almost a stifled exclamation, sent blood plummeting from his head to his groin.

He cleared his throat, closed the book, and handed it to her. “I’d say that’s a fairly ancient art.”

“Older than even the Romans, I suppose.” She shoved the tome back on the shelf as if the calf leather burned.

Oh, she was a cool touch. Perhaps no stranger to the erotic arts herself, though the pink spreading from her lips to her cheeks could be mistaken for a maidenly blush. “But that’s not the volume you seek, I take it.”

“Oh, did you wish to take this one home? Add to your collection?”

“My collection is quite large already.”

Half a beat passed, and her eyes widened, catching the innuendo. Her lips parted. He anticipated the reprimand for being vulgar, and he was, he was. His mask of bored insolence, the veneer of careless sophistication, slipped loose around her, and raw feeling surged beneath.

He had to keep the upper hand. “Sir Ephraim will have his latest acquisition in his desk.”

She pursed her lips. “The desk is locked.”

“I expected more imagination from you, Lady Melisende.” Philip shook his head in mock disappointment as he turned to the heavy piece of oak furniture. That dark, complicated scent rose again as she rustled behind him, silk and brocade and satiny woman.

The upper left-hand drawer was locked; Philip jiggled it for good measure. “How very pedestrian. Everyone locks this particular drawer.”

“I wonder why this one?” She leaned over his shoulder again, too close. Her nearness made it difficult to connect thoughts. It was sultry in the room, the fragrant oil in the lamps not quite masking the scent of burning. His senses heightened.

“Because the left is the sinister side, of course. While the right is proper, dexterous.” He held up that hand, flexing the fingers. “I don’t suppose you have a hairpin about your person?”

“ Guache and droit in the French,” she mused, setting her fingers to her waist, where her stomacher was pinned to her elegant skirt. “German has rechts and links , with the same connotations of right and wrong, but not the implications of evil.” She fished a straight pin from her clothing and held it out, three inches of gleaming steel. “Will this do?”

“All I know in German is Guten Tag and Er is ein Feind .” Philip took the pin, his fingers brushing hers. Her palm was cool and steady. He pressed the pin into the small aperture of the lock. “It means ‘my enemy,’ yes?”

“Why should you require identifying enemies in several languages, Mr. Devlin?” Melisende asked. “Is it because you make a habit of prying into people’s locked drawers?”

“You were snooping too.” It was a simple mechanism, not sturdy. Sir Ephraim didn’t keep valuables here.

“I beg your pardon. I was browsing the open shelves, and my host’s son led me in here.”

“Well, the host’s daughter brought me.” The lock sprang open like a woman yielding to her lover’s touch. Philip handed Melisende her pin.

She tucked it into place as if she were accustomed to producing and restoring tools to assist burglaries. Or having a man observe her toilette. “You’re fortunate Harry didn’t call you out.”

“He knows I’m not to be challenged at pistols or swords.” Philip slid open the drawer and lifted out the book. This time Melisende’s intake of breath didn’t stir his groin as much as his intuition. This book meant something to her—something vital.

He didn’t release the volume, though she tugged at it, her fingers overlapping his. “I found it,” he reminded her. “It’s mine.”

“It belongs to Sir Ephraim, who paid far more than was reasonable and should have let my poor widow win the bidding.” So she had hired others to bid for her. “He got excited because the Marquess of Arendale reported a book with this title stolen from his library. Give that to me or I’ll scream.”

“Scream and you’ll have half the party in here inquiring after your business. Your besotted swain is likely already on his way back to find you. The allemande is over.”

“Then stop wasting my time.”

“Tell me why this means so much to you.”

Her eyes flared wide. She didn’t release her hold. They stood nose to nose, both with their arms wrapped around the quarto-sized book, and he’d never seen such fierce determination on a woman’s face.

“Tell me why it means so much to you .”

“The same reason it interests Sir Ephraim. Why would this book, in particular, be of value to thieves? A History of the Ruling Family of the Grand Duchy of Merania, with an account of the recent rebellion, and some remarks on natural history and important events. Published in 1578. Of some antique value, I must assume? Doesn’t look it.”

He tried lifting the cover, and she gave a sharp tug. “Don’t bother. You can’t read it.”

“Of course I can.” He glanced at the decorated title page. “It’s in Latin. I don’t need a first in classics from Trinity College Dublin to tell me that.”

“Your professors would like their degree back. That’s not Latin.”

He pulled an interior page from beneath her thumb—she had nicely manicured nails—and glanced at it. “My mistake. Italian.”

“It’s not Italian either. Do give this to me. You’re not qualified.”

“What language is this? I see traces of French.” In his surprise he let go and she whisked the book from his hands. With another fragrant rustle—she had to stop distracting him like that—Melisende seated herself in the upholstered arm chair and flipped the book open on the desk. Small, tight script marched across the pages, crowding around frequent illustrations, with the occasional full-page map or diagram.

“Wait—is this printed or hand-written?” Philip demanded.

“It’s a typeface designed to mimic the manuscript hand of our region. The illustrations are from woodcuts. Do you know nothing about early print?”

“Sheathe your claws, if you please. I broke this book out of a locked drawer for you. Now you will tell me what you want it for.”

“Nostalgia,” she said in a clipped tone. “Family heirloom. I am from Merania. This is the history of the duchy.”

“Written in a language I’ve never seen.” It was his turn to peer over her shoulder. Her skin was a warm, creamy beige, completely without blemish, and her stomacher pushed her breasts into two high mounds directly below his eye. He wanted to bury himself in the dark crevice between.

The book, Devlin.

“It’s Ladin.” She flipped through the pages with delicate haste.

“You just said it’s not Latin.”

“La- deen . Duh . There are not many who speak it any longer, fewer still who publish in this tongue. This is a history of my homeland, written in the native language of my people.”

Philip filed that information in his mind marked crucial. There was information people were paid to deliver, and then there were causes people would die for. The passion with which Lady Melisende spoke of this book matched with what he knew of her determined efforts to find it.

“How did this come up for auction?” Philip probed. “And why would Sir Ephraim want a book he can’t read about a place he’s never heard of?”

She didn’t answer. She’d stopped at a page that was folded over. Slowly she tugged at the parchment, delicate and mottled. A map unfolded before Philip eyes. A forest; a castle; tiny lines of text. She swept her hand over the whole, folding up map and book.

“Someone’s coming.”

A girl’s angry voice floated down the hall. “—can’t stop me!”

A young man’s voice behind it, equally quarrelsome. “Can and will?—”

Philip caught Melisende’s gaze as she rose swiftly from the chair, glancing around the room for escape. The arm of the chair nudged his thigh as she pushed it back, preparing for flight. But there was nowhere to flee; the footsteps were outside the library door.

“Him or me?” he pressed, his voice low and urgent.

Her eyes were only brown in parts. There was a sunburst of gold around her pupil, and dark green patches floating among the deep brown. “Neither.”

“That is not among your choices, Melisende.” He need only lift his arms to yank her to him.

She narrowed her eyes at him and snapped out the word. “You.”

Hell’s teeth, he loved her quickness. It was the most seductive thing about her. Along with her scent. And the gorgeous shape of her. And the heat of her body beneath her gown as he pushed her backward so her bottom hit the desk. Then he stepped between her legs and kissed her.