Page 30 of Seducing an Earl under the Mistletoe
Unable to resist the temptation, he walked over to her and stood next to her. She still didn’t turn around. Instead, her attention was captured by the books.
“You know, these are not only rare books,” she told him, her voice soft and melodious, “but they are also cherished. All of us who owned them and loved them, held them in great esteem.”
Her delicate fingers extended to take one of the books off the shelf. It nestled in her hands like a little bird, and Catherine touched it with the same gentleness.
“This one was my mother’s favorite,” she spoke with a hint of melancholy in her voice. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and banish all sadness from her mind with the power of his kisses. “She purchased it from an old bookseller, who said he found it lying at the entrance of a graveyard. Quite fittingly, it is a ghost story.”
As she spoke, she lifted her gaze to meet his. His thoughts were consumed by desire for her. He found himself entranced by the way her eyes sparkled with passion, how her luscious lips moved as she spoke, forming words he longed to hear but in a different context. The gentle rise and fall of her voice only fueled the fire within him.
“Fitting indeed,” he nodded, fighting the urge to take her in his arms.
He knew he needed to divert his thoughts, to escape the magnetic pull that drew him to her. He attempted to immerse himself in the antique shelves, pretending to be engrossed in the intricate details of the book bindings and the elegance of the room. But each stolen glance at her felt like a rush of heat, like a storm building inside him. He was losing the battle against his desire, a battle that should never have been fought within those sacred walls.
She placed another book back on the shelf, then turned to him once more. He expected more stories of literary wonder, but she surprised him with her next question.
“Do you fit with Margot?” she wondered, and it sounded as if she was merely asking herself, not expecting to be answered.
He inhaled deeply, wondering if it was a good idea to talk about Margot now, with this tempest inside of him. But he could not leave Catherine without an answer. She already told him that she didn’t want to be courted, that she simply wanted a bit of fun, but he felt it was his duty to explain some things to her and avoid the confusion that might cause potential hardship.
“Margot…” he said her name, wondering where he could even start talking about her. “I feel like everyone knows this story better than I do.”
“No one can,” she assured him. “Other than your brother.”
“I honestly do not know how he himself would feel about this entire mess,” Arthur admitted, raking his fingers through his hair.
Catherine took him by the hand and gently led him to a nearbychaise lounge,where they sat next to each other. His hand was still in hers, and that was where he intended to keep it for as long as she allowed him.
“James’ death caught us all off guard,” he started, feeling that his story might be a bit jumbled up, but that was the best he could do under the circumstances. “I felt like life stopped not only for him, but for us, too. We got stuck in this moment of finding out, and it took us a long time to move forward. Unfortunately, I did not see us moving forward in this particular direction where I am to marry my dead brother’s fiancée.”
He thought it would be difficult to talk about this, but every time Catherine looked back at him, he felt as if an invisible hand had caressed his very heart.
“We haven’t announced anything officially yet, but our families have all agreed on it, on our behalf, of course, and the betrothal is soon to be announced for the world to hear,” he said a little theatrically, smiling uncomfortably.
“Is Margot in love with you?” Catherine asked softly, almost as if she feared hearing the answer.
“No,” he shook his head. “We’re both certain that we feel nothing for each other. It will be nothing but a marriage of convenience. Or rather, inconvenience, as I’ve never imagined something like this for myself.”
“Life has a way of surprising us,” Catherine told him, squeezing his hand with hers.
“I know,” he nodded. “I had one such surprise mere days ago. I received a letter…from James.”
“James?” Catherine gasped. “But…how?”
He shrugged. “He sent it while he was still alive. It simply did not reach me in time.”
“What does it say?” Catherine whispered her next question.
“I don’t know,” he confessed with a pang of anguish. “I haven’t opened it yet.”
Encouraging him to read it, she said softly, “Arthur, a letter from someone dear can hold so much. It’s a piece of their heart, a voice from the past. It is a treasure, a connection we sometimes crave, especially from those we’ve lost.”
“I’m afraid of what it might say,” he admitted.
She smiled at him. “Sometimes, we find answers and comfort where we least expect them to be. Your brother’s words might offer you clarity, a perspective you’ve been seeking.” She paused for a moment, and he could sense that she wanted to share something important with him, something deeply personal. “I know that I would do anything for one more letter from my mother.”
He smiled back at her. “Your words offer such solace, Catherine,” he spoke tenderly. But he didn’t want to talk about sad things. He didn’t want to talk about the past. He wanted to be in the present moment, withher.“It is no wonder you are a writer.”
“A writer?” She gasped at the sudden change of topic. It didn’t escape his attention that she pulled her hand away from his instantly. “I don’t remember admitting any such thing.”
