Revealed by Kate Noble

another person to the pile, and space became extremely dear.
    She wore silk stockings—not much of a surprise, as most ladies of wealth did—but still rather disconcerting against his cheek. It was nearly pitch-black in the stone tomb, but what little light filtered through the crack between the sarcophagus and its lid showed a very fine embroidery of ivy winding over Phillippa’s ankle, which for some reason made Marcus smile, just a little. However, her soft rear had landed in a somewhat inopportune spot. Or opportune, depending on one’s outlook.
    Looking down the length of himself, Marcus silently sought out Phillippa’s eyes, and when he found them, the faintest sheen in the deep dark, they were wide with bewilderment.
    Silently, desperately, he brought his finger to his mouth, pleading for her not to emit an admittedly justified scream. After a moment, she nodded, allowing Marcus to exhale that breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It caused the hem of her dress, some floaty, lacy material, to flutter. However, before her eyes could widen at the sensation, a new conversation outside of the sarcophagus had begun.
    “Wha . . . oh, Broughton, is it? What the devil do you do in my library?” The booming baritone of Lord Fieldstone, owner of the house, the library’s collection, and host of the party, sounded muted and dense through the thick stone.
    “Lord Fieldstone! I was looking for . . . well, I guess it hardly matters now, does it?” Broughton began. Marcus could almost hear the affected charm, the sheepish smile in that man’s voice. Since he was encased in darkness, he didn’t feel it necessary to hold back his eye roll.
    “It seems I became lost,” Broughton continued, “and found myself in this remarkable room. It’s quite the most marvelous collection, sir. You are to be congratulated.”
    “Thank you very kindly; I am rather proud of it.” As evidenced by the pride in his voice. “But you should be careful. Good heavens, did that Venus get knocked over?”
    “Hmm? Oh, no, I . . . I may have nudged it a bit, but it stayed upright.”
    “Nudged it?” Fieldstone sounded panicked. “But she’s priceless! You can’t go nudging something priceless! Come with me; I’ll show you the way back to the ballroom.” And then, lower, as if under his breath, “Nudged it!”
    “Oh, that’s too good of you, Lord Fieldstone, but I can find my way back, surely. Don’t worry, I’ll stay here, and . . . and set the Venus to right . . .”
    “No!” Fieldstone’s voice was barely masked panic. “Don’t touch it! Come, my good man, I’m certain there are any number of young ladies eager for their dance . . .”
    Their voices faded away with their footfalls. Then, with a solid click, the library door must have closed, leaving Marcus and Phillippa all alone in their quiet, tight space.
    He sought her eyes once again, and, finding them, held up a hand, signaling her to wait, just a precautionary moment. Just in case.
    But Mrs. Phillippa Benning did not hold precaution in high regard.
    Or him, apparently.
    “Would you . . . Ouch!” She squirmed. “Get off me. Lift the lid, please!”
    “You—ow!”—he exclaimed as the heel of her dress slipper connected with his eyebrow—“are on top of me , ma’am. You push from your end, and I’ll push from here. Ready?”
    “Stop staring up my dress! Ready.”
    “Watch your heels. One. Two. Three!”
    The lid came up, and two dusty, disgusted figures emerged, scrambling to get as much space between them as possible.
    Which, in that library, was not terribly much.
    After a few deep breaths and a small amount of coughing and sputtering, they regarded each other.
    Or, at least Marcus regarded her. She seemed resolute in her determination to not regard him.
    “I cannot imagine what you think you were doing in that sarcophagus,” she finally said, still not looking at him.
    “No,” he replied, not able to suppress his reply or the smile in his voice,