clothes or whatever you want. Truly. I promise."
James gave in. He told himself his capitulation had nothing to do with the image of Carolly's small body flattened against the manor as she tried to inch her way to Margaret's window. He ignored the imagined sight of her broken body lying on the ground after she inevitably fell to her death.
No, he was thinking only of Margaret.
"Very well," he groaned. "Margaret, you may come with us to the library." He ignored Miss Hornswallow's gasp of outrage. Rounding on Carolly he added, "But you will not—I repeat, not—walk along the wall. Tonight or ever! Is that clear?" His voice brooked no disobedience.
Carolly responded with a laugh: that joyful cascade of notes which never failed to stir his soul. "Relax, James. Don't you remember my . . . chosen profession? I couldn't possibly be hurt unless it was time for me to leave anyway."
***
Moments later, the three of them marched quietly into James's library. James led the little procession, then immediately crossed to his desk and sat behind it like a judge. Carolly shook her head at him, then left him alone behind his barricade.
Margaret followed, a precise three steps behind her uncle. Despite her obvious resentment toward her guardian, she had apparently learned her place in his household quite well. She stood at attention in front of his desk, looking very much like a prisoner about to be sentenced.
Carolly bit her lower lip as she stood to one side and tried to think. The problem wasn't that James didn't love his niece; it was that he had no clue how to translate that warmth into real life. He obviously hadn't had any guidance on how to love, so he merely repeated the patterns of his own childhood—which had apparently been bleak.
Carolly spared a moment's grief for the child James must have been. It broke her heart to imagine him so alone, even while she recognized it was probably that very adversity that had molded him into the commanding figure she saw today.
But now she had her chance to shine. Now was her opportunity to show him just how to handle a young girl. She sauntered around the library, conspicuously letting her gaze travel over the sumptuous ceiling and walls. "Beautiful," she breathed. "Absolutely beautiful."
Whatever poetry James possessed, he'd clearly lavished on this room. It was quite large, easily holding eight huge mahogany bookcases with openwork silver panels, each filled almost to collapse. Interspersed between each case were huge windows that let in the sweet spring breeze and illuminated the thick mattress-like carpet. Most amazing of all was the painted ceiling.
Drawn in bold lines above their heads was an exquisite painting of Prometheus descending from Mt. Olympus with the gods' fire. Everywhere Carolly looked in the scene, she saw something new and amazing—whether the shock on the face of the gods, or the awe of the primitive humans. It was incredible, and Carolly knew she could spend hours staring at the painting and still see something new in it the next day.
Compared to this room, the nursery was a dungeon.
"Tell me, Margaret. How do you think your uncle would feel if you two traded rooms for a week or so?"
Margaret, smart girl that she was, didn't answer. But the comment hadn't really been directed at her. It had been aimed at James, and from the sudden frown on the earl's face, Carolly knew she'd made her point.
Now all she had to do was establish a rapport with Margaret. She decided to start with seating arrangements. She settled onto a velvet couch angled just enough away from James's huge desk that she and Margaret could have the illusion of privacy without actually excluding the earl. After all, he was the one who'd sat behind his desk. Let him come out from behind his fortress if he wanted to talk.
Patting the seat beside her, Carolly smiled at Margaret. "Come and sit here, dear. There's no reason for you to stand at attention. Your uncle will let me run this particular
James gave in. He told himself his capitulation had nothing to do with the image of Carolly's small body flattened against the manor as she tried to inch her way to Margaret's window. He ignored the imagined sight of her broken body lying on the ground after she inevitably fell to her death.
No, he was thinking only of Margaret.
"Very well," he groaned. "Margaret, you may come with us to the library." He ignored Miss Hornswallow's gasp of outrage. Rounding on Carolly he added, "But you will not—I repeat, not—walk along the wall. Tonight or ever! Is that clear?" His voice brooked no disobedience.
Carolly responded with a laugh: that joyful cascade of notes which never failed to stir his soul. "Relax, James. Don't you remember my . . . chosen profession? I couldn't possibly be hurt unless it was time for me to leave anyway."
***
Moments later, the three of them marched quietly into James's library. James led the little procession, then immediately crossed to his desk and sat behind it like a judge. Carolly shook her head at him, then left him alone behind his barricade.
Margaret followed, a precise three steps behind her uncle. Despite her obvious resentment toward her guardian, she had apparently learned her place in his household quite well. She stood at attention in front of his desk, looking very much like a prisoner about to be sentenced.
Carolly bit her lower lip as she stood to one side and tried to think. The problem wasn't that James didn't love his niece; it was that he had no clue how to translate that warmth into real life. He obviously hadn't had any guidance on how to love, so he merely repeated the patterns of his own childhood—which had apparently been bleak.
Carolly spared a moment's grief for the child James must have been. It broke her heart to imagine him so alone, even while she recognized it was probably that very adversity that had molded him into the commanding figure she saw today.
But now she had her chance to shine. Now was her opportunity to show him just how to handle a young girl. She sauntered around the library, conspicuously letting her gaze travel over the sumptuous ceiling and walls. "Beautiful," she breathed. "Absolutely beautiful."
Whatever poetry James possessed, he'd clearly lavished on this room. It was quite large, easily holding eight huge mahogany bookcases with openwork silver panels, each filled almost to collapse. Interspersed between each case were huge windows that let in the sweet spring breeze and illuminated the thick mattress-like carpet. Most amazing of all was the painted ceiling.
Drawn in bold lines above their heads was an exquisite painting of Prometheus descending from Mt. Olympus with the gods' fire. Everywhere Carolly looked in the scene, she saw something new and amazing—whether the shock on the face of the gods, or the awe of the primitive humans. It was incredible, and Carolly knew she could spend hours staring at the painting and still see something new in it the next day.
Compared to this room, the nursery was a dungeon.
"Tell me, Margaret. How do you think your uncle would feel if you two traded rooms for a week or so?"
Margaret, smart girl that she was, didn't answer. But the comment hadn't really been directed at her. It had been aimed at James, and from the sudden frown on the earl's face, Carolly knew she'd made her point.
Now all she had to do was establish a rapport with Margaret. She decided to start with seating arrangements. She settled onto a velvet couch angled just enough away from James's huge desk that she and Margaret could have the illusion of privacy without actually excluding the earl. After all, he was the one who'd sat behind his desk. Let him come out from behind his fortress if he wanted to talk.
Patting the seat beside her, Carolly smiled at Margaret. "Come and sit here, dear. There's no reason for you to stand at attention. Your uncle will let me run this particular
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