Page 20 of Seducing an Earl under the Mistletoe
She could feel his hand moving higher and higher, until suddenly, they heard voices coming from down the hallway. They quickly pulled away from each other, their eyes wide, their lips glistening in the darkness. Their connection was severed as if a spell had been broken. They both stood up quickly, and Catherine tried to straighten an invisible wrinkle in her gown.
Arthur, composed but apologetic, was the first to break the uneasy silence. “I apologize, Catherine. This shouldn’t have happened. It was improper of me to allow things to go as far as they did.”
Catherine offered a reassuring smile, although her emotions were still in a whirlwind from what had just happened. “We both wanted it, Arthur. I am as much to blame as you are.” She didn’t want him to be sorry about anything, but she bit her tongue in time not to say this.
“I am the man,” he reminded her, clearing his throat as he regained his composure. “I am supposed to keep these things under control, and for that, I apologize.”
She shook her head, speaking softly, as the voices in the distance grew fainter. Obviously, they were not coming this way, but that didn’t mean that they could speak openly. Still, she wanted to know where they would go from here.
“I don’t want to ever apologize for the way I feel or for doing something I wanted to do,” she whispered, but the confidence in her voice was overwhelming.
He looked around. “This isn’t the time for this, Catherine.”
“Then when?” she demanded desperately, knowing that this moment might slip out of her grasp.
He raked his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I am traveling to London with Marcus tomorrow. He needs some space and a change of scene to clear his mind, after everything that has happened with Isabel.”
Just as she was about to ask him when he would return, those same voices appeared, closer than before. He locked eyes with her.
“We’d best head back,” he urged gravely. “You go first.”
She knew that their moment had passed. She needed to do as she was told, in hopes that she would be granted another moment with him later, which might clarify their situation.
Chapter 8
The bustling streets of London were a welcome change for both Arthur and Marcus. The trip had been uneventful, filled with casual chatter between the two friends, who ended up settling in Arthur’s apartment atThe Albany, a place that carried a sense of familiarity and comfort. The city’s lively atmosphere seemed to invigorate them, just as Arthur had hoped it would, offering a temporary reprieve from the weight of their familiar concerns.
Amidst the elegant confines of the apartment, the two friends settled in, bantering and sharing stories of their lives as somewhat reluctant bachelors. Laughter echoed through the rooms as they reminisced about their past adventures and the quirks of single life.
Arthur, leaning back against the finely crafted wooden mantel, smiled knowingly. “Ah, the peculiar trials of bachelorhood during these times. The perpetual struggle to keep the valet from rearranging one’s belongings to his liking.”
Marcus chuckled in agreement. “Indeed, and let’s not forget the constant battle with one’s cravat. It has a mind of its own, I swear.”
“Ah, the cravat,” Arthur replied with a laugh. “A daily wrestling match, attempting to achieve that perfect, effortless look while in reality spending far too long trying to make it sit just right.”
“Maybe having a wife would not be such a bad thing, old boy,” Arthur teased his friend. “At least your cravat would always be well adjusted.”
Marcus chuckled. It was exactly what they both needed, some distraction from their usual lives. However, Arthur could not escape his responsibilities and the mundane aspects of his life because just as he glanced towards his writing desk, there was a stack of mail on it, waiting for his attention.
“Do you need some time to read all those letters?” Marcus inquired politely. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“No, no.” Arthur shook his head. He looked around, then walked over to a small cellarette, opened it, and poured them both some scotch. “Business can wait. We’ve been both buried in obligations up until this point.”
He wanted this to be a brief respite, a chance to be free from the constraints of their roles and expectations.
“After all, we’ve earned this, haven’t we?” he asked, offering his friend the other glass, then lifting his glass in a mock toast.
Marcus chuckled, clinking his glass against Arthur’s. Absolutely. A little break from the weight of the world won’t hurt.”
About half an hour later, the two friends found themselves in one of Arthur’s favorite places in all of London. This exquisite circulating library was a wondrous haven of knowledge and literary delight. The moment they crossed the threshold, a gentle scent of aged parchment and polished wood greeted him, setting the tone for the literary treasure trove that awaited within.
Arthur couldn’t help but smile. This place always brought him a respite from the outside world, ever since he had stumbled onto it by mere accident years ago. He glanced at the space around him, adorned with tall, intricately carved bookshelves, their polished mahogany wood reaching toward the ceiling. The shelves were meticulously organized, displaying a vast array of books—volumes of classical literature, historical tomes, scientific discoveries, poetry collections, and many more, standing proudly in neat rows.
The walls were decorated with oil paintings and framed engravings, each portraying esteemed literary figures and scenes from timeless stories. Soft, diffused light bathed the room, emanating from delicate crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling, casting a warm glow that invited exploration.
Comfortable armchairs and chaises were thoughtfully arranged throughout the space, offering inviting nooks for readers to immerse themselves in any of the worlds that these pages had to offer.
At the center of the room stood a grand wooden circulation desk, where a courteous librarian stood, ready to assist patrons in their literary quests. The air was imbued with a sense of quiet reverence, interrupted only by the occasional rustling of pages and hushed whispers between fellow enthusiasts.
