Without thinking through the motion, he licked his good thumb and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “You keep wiping ink across yourself,” he said, concentrating on his task more than her expression. It was only when the mark had largelyfaded that he glanced up to find her watching him, her entire body tensed as though she feared something.
Like he would kiss her.
Before he could help himself, his gaze dropped. Her lips were thin, slightly parted, and the most appealing mouth he had seen in all his years. If things were different—
But they were not.
“My apologies,” he said, leaning back.
“You shouldn’t dirty yourself for my sake,” she said, handing him a handkerchief. “Here. For your fingers.”
There was the merest smear of ink on his thumb, mostly worn away, sunk deep into the lines of his fingerprint. Even so, he accepted the handkerchief, noting the initials marked in the corner. C. N. Christiana Nightingale—her maiden name. He would have to have new ones made up for her.
This possessive feeling was new, too. She was his, and the world would know about it by the time he was done.
“I’ll return all the books to their proper places,” she assured him. “And I’m not neglecting my duties as mistress of the house. I know my obligations, and—”
“Chris.” He cupped his good hand over her mouth to stifle whatever she was going to say next. “You aren’t my servant; you’re my wife. If you wish to read books about—” Here, he hesitated, not knowing precisely whatConnaissance des Tempswas about. “Mathematics and astronomy and Latin, then go ahead.”
Her breath flowered across his hand, and she met his gaze with something approaching curiosity in the depths of her eyes. She seemed so very different here, suffused in soft light, from the young woman he had first met in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s study. There, she had been defensive and prickly, prepared to pick a fight, determined to protect herself with the assumption that no one else would.
Here, although she still defended her right to do what she chose, she felt comfortable enough to dream.
Unsettled by the sensation, he dropped his hand and rose awkwardly to his feet.
“I’ll leave you to your studies,” he said, bowing, then taking refuge in first book he could find: a somewhat fantastical tome on the history of the Danes.
Chapter Fourteen
That night, asChristiana lay awake in her big, empty bed, she found sleep frustratingly elusive. The extent of her father’s neglect and lack of love spread before her, vast in its scope.
Hugh had gone back into the fire to save his family; her father had cast her to the metaphorical wolves.
She was grateful, of course, that the wolves in question had been Hugh and Amelia, and that her new life seemed it would be rather more comfortable than the one she had left behind, but the hurt still ached. A scab at which every kindness offered to her by Amelia and Hugh picked.
She tossed and turned. Eventually, she heard Hugh himself come to bed, floorboards creaking as he moved about his room. Then silence as he took himself to bed.
Everything she had ever thought about marriage was false, at least between them.
Her heart would not stop pounding, and her thoughts raced out of control in the silence. Sometimes, she wished she could quiet the internal workings of her mind. Often, her thoughts moved too fast for her to process, a constant stream of contemplation and information that near drowned her.
The minutes ticked on, and the evening deepened into night. Midnight came and went, and when the clock finally struck two, Christiana declared it pointless to wait in bed any longer.
If she was to be awake, she may as welldosomething about it.
Slipping a robe over her shoulders and tying it loosely about her waist, she moved out of her room, a single candle as her light. Guided by the flickering glow, she made her way down the stairs to the library, cupping the fragile flame with one hand.
As soon as she entered, she let out a sigh of relief. There was a particular joy that came from being surrounded by so much knowledge.
In the near darkness, she made her way to the sofa by the empty fire. The room was cold, but not so cold that she couldn’t bear to sit there awhile. She collapsed onto the sofa, drawing her robe around herself.
And finally, surrounded by the cavernous room, her mind finally settled. Peace soothed her again, her thoughts calming. The inevitable exhaustion from being awake for so long drew her toward sleep.
She did not remember falling asleep. She did remember, however, the soft brush of fabric against her skin, and when she opened her eyes, it was to a dark figure above her. Fear rushed through her veins until she processed what was happening.
A blanket. He had placed a blanket over her.
She was in the library of her new home, and a man was putting a blanket over her shoulders.