Desire, in all its forms, was on his side. He only had to touch her to feel it flare-sometimes he only had to meet her dark eyes to be conscious of their mutual need. He could afford to give her time to decide that, despite her qualms, marrying him was an excellent idea.
For the past two days-yesterday and today-he'd pursued the strategy of propinquity, the notion that being constantly with him would help quell whatever qualms she possessed. On both mornings, he'd called at the Grange after breakfast; yesterday, after finishing her search of the outbuilding and storerooms, she'd joined him here. They'd spent the hours since making inroads into Horatio's book collection. Unexpectedly, they'd stumbled on a shared interest, stopping every now and then to exclaim over some plate in an old tome, to share some discovery. Her excitement yesterday over the illuminations in a prayer book had had him smiling-he'd caught a glimpse of his own youthful enthusiasm in her face. Thus must Horatio have seen him. They'd parted that evening when he'd walked her home before dinner, closer, more relaxed, the understanding between them broadening, deepening.
Propinquity was definitely working. It hadn't escaped him that, just now, she'd felt sufficiently comfortable to not bother looking at him when asking her question. A sign of growing ease. Little by little, even if she didn't know it, she was leaning his way.
They broke for lunch, a cold collation Mrs. Hemmings had laid out in the dining room. Afterward, returning to the library, they found Covey stacking books on the desk.
"I've finished one wall in the drawing room. These are the books with notes written in them-I forgot to give them to you the last couple of days."
"That's all right, Covey. We'll go through them now-it'll give us a break from the shelves." Lucifer lifted a brow at Phyllida.
She nodded and headed for the desk. They settled in, he behind the desk, she in a comfortable chair before it, and knuckled down to decipher the often illegible notations.
"Hmm." Phyllida sat up and scanned the desk, picked up a scrap of paper, placed it as a bookmark in the book on her lap, then set the book on the floor by her chair.
She glanced up; Lucifer looked his question.
"A recipe for plum sauce-I must take a copy."
Lucifer smiled. They returned to the books. Companionable silence wrapped around them. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on.
Then Phyllida sat up. Lucifer glanced at her; she was frowning. "What?"
"This has another inscription to Letitia from Humphrey. 'To my dearest heart, my love, my life.' It's dated February 1781."
After a moment, Lucifer asked, "How old is Cedric?"
Phyllida looked at him. "In his late thirties."
Lucifer raised his brows and held out a hand for the book; when Phyllida gave it to him, he set it aside. "One to think about later."
Five minutes later, Phyllida humphed. "This is another one'to my dearest Letty.' The wording is quite… warm. It's signed 'Pinky.'"
"Date?"
"1783."
Lucifer added that book to the "later" pile.
Fifteen minutes later, the pile had grown by three more volumes. Handing over the last, a book of poetry sent to dearest Letty from a gentleman who'd signed himself "Your fated lover," also with a date of 1781, Phyllida viewed the pile with consternation. "This is really rather worrying."
Lucifer eyed the stack of books with notations they'd yet to check. "From what we have already, it would appear Cedric, certainly, has cause to be concerned over what might be found in Horatio's collection."
Phyllida stared at him. "You mean that Cedric might not be Sir Bentley Fortemain's legitimate son?"
Lucifer nodded. "If that could be proved, and if Sir Bentley's will is the usual simple affair, then Pommeroy could claim that Sir Bentley's estate should be his."
"Pommeroy is not fond of Cedric."
"So I gathered. That gives Cedric a definite motive to clandestinely remove books from Horatio's collection."
Silence fell. Phyllida stared at Lucifer; he looked steadily at her. "I can't believe Cedric's a murderer."
"What does a murderer look like?"
"Even worse, Cedric wears brown. Most of the time. I know he wears brown hats."
"Think back-have you ever seen him wearing the hat you saw in Horatio's drawing room?"
Phyllida considered, then shook her head. "I can't recall seeing him in that particular hat."
"Are you sure you'd remember it?"
"The hat? Yes, definitely. I looked directly at it. I nearly picked it up. If I saw it again, I'd know it."
Lucifer sat back. "If Cedric's our murderer, he won't still have the hat."
"No. He'll have got rid of it. Cedric may bluster, but he's not stupid" Phyllida frowned. "Did you ask Todd who rode out from Ballyclose that Sunday morning?"
"Dodswell asked. Unfortunately, Todd not only went to church, but then visited his brother-in-law's farm. He has no idea who rode that morning." Lucifer considered. "Could Cedric have been the intruder we chased?"
Phyllida grimaced. "Cedric used to be more athletic. If pushed, he could probably run as fast as the intruder."
"So Cedric's a possibility."
Phyllida fell silent; after a moment, Lucifer prompted, "Penny for your thoughts."
She glanced at him, then looked away. "Cedric wants-wanted-to marry me. If he's the murderer, then…"
Lucifer glanced at the clock, then stood and rounded the desk. "Come on." He held out his hand.
Phyllida looked up, her fingers slipping into his even without the answer to the question in her eyes.
Lucifer looked down at her. "You've forgotten the summer ball at Ballyclose Manor tonight."
"Good heavens!" Phyllida glanced at the window. "I had forgotten." She looked at Lucifer. "Perhaps…?"
He met her gaze. "We'll need to go carefully, but we can certainly test Cedric's interest in Horatio's books, and all they may contain."
Five hours later, stylishly gowned in pale blue silk, Phyllida stood by the side of the Ballyclose ballroom and watched the only one of her suitors who had succeeded in getting her to consider marrying him. He was standing across the room, charming the Misses Longdon; clinging to the shadows thrown by a large palm, she considered his tall frame, considered the dark locks rakishly framing his brow, the elegant black coat and trousers set off by his ivory cravat and an ivory silk waistcoat. Along with most of the women in the room, she savored the aura of strength and masculine confidence he so effortlessly exuded.
She'd hoped distance would help her gain perspective. With an inward sniff at her own susceptibilities, she forced her gaze from him and scanned the room. She'd sent Basil to fetch her a glass of orgeat; she hoped he would find some distraction along the way.
She needed time to think. Spending day after day by Lucifer's side was undeniably pleasant, but it made thinking sensibly about him difficult. And she definitely needed to think-about him, about marrying him. About what she wanted, about if she would.
His statement that he would never have seduced her if he hadn't intended to marry her had opened her eyes, not to his motives but to hers. She would never have allowed him to seduce her if she hadn't already loved him, even if she didn't understand what love was.
She'd always found the subject of love-love between a man and a woman-confusing.
Her mother had not lived long enough for her to form any useful view of her parents' marriage. The only other married couple she knew well were the Farthingales, and their relationship was based on mutual acceptance, not on any stronger emotion. Lady Fortemain's apparent excursions outside matrimony only muddied the waters further-she had always viewed her ladyship as the epitome of a gentlewoman.