Lady Silence by Blair Bancroft

attempted
to ignore her, the more sternly he reminded himself of duty and
honor, the more intriguing and enticing she became. Lately, she was
taking on a glow—he was quite certain it was not all his
imagination. She was softer, not so wary. A bud begging to be
plucked.
    She trusted him! Her willingness to be alone with him, day after day, was
proof enough of that. Colonel Farr closed his eyes, swearing
silently. He had come home to Farr Park for peace and quiet, not to
endure daily torture!
    A decided thump not far from his nose snapped
his eyes open. For a moment he stared blankly at the book Katy had
just delivered. He opened the leather binding, flipped a page. “And
what,” he asked of the girl standing demurely before him, “is
this?”
    She raised her brows, eyes wide and
innocent.
    Damon’s lips twitched. Blast the girl!
She refused to leave him to his sullens. “I shall answer for you,”
he said. “From what little I remember of my schoolboy days, this is
the first volume of Homer’s Iliad , is it not?” The little minx, still
wide-eyed, nodded. “In the original Greek.” An infinitesimal nod of
agreement. “And you think this soldier, ten long years after seeing
his last Greek letter, might care to do research with this
particular tome?”
    The emerald eyes turned accusing.
    “ Yes, yes, I know I asked for The Iliad , but it never occurred to
me you were capable of recognizing the title of the book in
Greek.”
    Arms akimbo, she glared at him.
    Katy Snow . . .
scholar? Absurd. Since the age of twelve, she had had
no education other than access to his library;. Therefore, how
could she possibly . . . ? Seven Dials and Shoreditch suddenly
seemed impossibly distant. As much as he hated to admit it, his
mama’s notions of Katy Snow’s origins were likely more accurate
than his own.
    And now the chit’s gaze had turned
mischievous. From behind her back she produced a second thick
leather volume. The Dryden translation, by God. And then the books
before him faded as he succumbed to temptation and took a good look
at his bookroom assistant. Damon leaned back in his chair and
stared, cursing silently as the ruthless, battle-hardened soldier
sprang to life, threatening to escape the bonds of
civilization.
    It would appear someone—Katy, his mama,
his female staff?—had decided that Katy Snow’s elevation to the
post of secretary required a new look. Her masses of blond curls
were now twisted on top of her head, secured not only by hairpins
and combs, but by what looked remarkably like some sort of lethal
instrument. Protecting their precious nestling, were they? She
needed it. For the difference was astonishing. In the twinkling of
an eye the hint of the woman seen on horseback that morning had
been transformed into a siren in his bookroom. A siren with wisps
of gold framing a marvelously mobile and expressive face that, with
the language of her body, were her only means of communication. And
an immensely satisfying change it was from his recollections of the
bored ladies of the ton whose
faces more closely resembled marble statues, incapable of
displaying, or perhaps feeling, any emotions whatsoever.
    Damon swallowed, gulped for air. “Thank
you,” he said. Ducking his head, he opened the book. The words swam
before his eyes. Devil it ,
but the girl was a menace. At this rate his book would take as long
to write as Agamemnon had taken to lay waste to Troy.
    A scrap of paper descended onto the page he
was pretending to read. In Katy Snow’s precise hand, three words
and a question mark: “Pope and Chapman?”
    She couldn’t possibly . . . “What about
them?” Damon growled. Katy pointed to a top shelf at the far end of
the room, just beneath the gallery. “I own them?” he asked,
incredulous. Katy shrugged, and with a heart-quickening flutter of
her lovely long lashes, regarded him expectantly. “By all means,”
he said, “let us look at all the translations available.”
    His gaze followed