My Lord Immortality (Immortal Rogues #3)(30)

"Not a dust sheet in sight," she murmured.

The silver eyes twinkled. "I could have one fetched if you would like."

"No, thank you," she retorted with a grimace.

The slender hand waved toward the pair of leather wing chairs that framed a heavy marble chimney piece. "Will you have a seat?"

Amelia found herself rather reluctant to loosen her hold upon him, but she at least retained enough sense to realize she could not remain gazing up at him like a moonling. Instead, she forced herself to calmly drop her hand and move toward the nearest chair.

She did halt as she noted the book that had been left on a small table beside one of the chairs.

Picking up the heavy tome, she turned to regard Sebastian with a lift of her brows.

"What are you studying?"

"At the moment I am pursuing the writings of Epicurus."

"Ah." She wracked her memory for a moment." 'If you wish to make Pythocles wealthy, don't give him more money; rather, reduce his desires ...'"

Sebastian did not bother to hide his surprise. "You read the philosophers?"

She grimaced at his question. "Only under duress," she admitted. "My governess possessed the belief that a young lady should be well read and capable of entering any conversation without embarrassment."

"A worthy goal, I should think."

Amelia gave a faint shrug. She had no doubt that poor Miss Lyman had tried her best to instill her own fervent love for learning into her ungrateful student, but Amelia had never possessed the patience. Her restless energy was not suited to hours spent in the classroom.

"I far preferred to be fishing with William or sneaking into our neighbor's orchard. To be obliged to remain indoors like a proper maiden was sorely testing. I received any number of lectures for slipping from my window when I should have been practicing the pianoforte or perfecting my needlework."

"Lectures you no doubt ignored," he retorted in dry tones.

Her dimples flashed. "Upon occasion."

He gave a reluctant laugh as he moved to lean against one of the endless bookshelves. She watched his fluid movements, fascinated by the easy grace of such a large man. He would no doubt dance the waltz with the same exquisite skill.

"So you have no interest in musty books?" he demanded with a watchful gaze.

"To be honest, I have given little thought to studies since my schoolroom days." She wrinkled her nose in limit embarrassment. "I suppose you must think me a frippery maiden?"

His lips tilted at one corner. "No more than you must think me a dull and tedious fellow." He paused for a moment, his gaze briefly skimming over her mouth. "Still, there can be magic in books, just as in the moon."

Recalling the particular magic they had discovered beneath the moon, Amelia lifted her brows in teasing surprise.

"Why, Mr. St. Ives. What manner of books do you possess?"

A wicked glint entered his eyes. "Would you like to see?"

"Very well."

She paused only a moment before moving to join him beside the heavy shelves. Her ready agreement had nothing to do with a sudden scholarly interest, but simply the need to learn more of this man who so cap-tivated her.

"My collection is quite varied." He reached out a slender hand to pluck a thin, rather battered volume from the shelf. "Here is one that you might find of interest."

"What is it?"

"A personal journal of an ancient warrior."

She readily accepted the book, opening it to discover the yellowed, crumbling pages covered with a strange spider web of script she had never seen before.

"What is this language?"

"It is a very old, mostly forgotten language of a for-gotten people." His expression was difficult to read as he gently touched the delicate book. "To most, his culture and beliefs would have seemed quite unnatural. But these pages speak of a man much like ourselves. He complains of the cold, the weevils in his bread, and his fear of the upcoming battle. Most of all, however, he speaks of his deep love for his wife and children, who he has been forced to leave behind. He prays every night that he be allowed to see the precious beauty of his daughter's face one last time before he dies."

Amelia found her heart squeezing in compassion The unknown man was long dead, but listening to Sebastian's soft voice, it was almost as if she could see him within the narrow pages.

Alone, scared, and desperately missing his family. He was far more real than any of the characters from history she had been forced to study.

"How very sad," she murmured, lifting her gaze to meet the watching silver gaze. "And yet..."

"What?"

"His story is far more interesting than the books of glorious conquests and great leaders that I have committed to memory. He seems more alive."

"Yes." His expression was one of satisfaction. As if she managed to please him with her response. "The simple story of a simple man who speaks to all."

Her eyes widened in a deliberately provoking manner. "Why, Sebastian, that was very nearly poetic."

"Do you think so?" he murmured, his fingers moving to softly stroke her cheek. "It must be the dimples."

She shivered, desperately wishing they were back in the dark garden rather than in a proper library where the housekeeper might walk in any moment. Perhaps then he would kiss her as she longed for him to do.