It wasn't just the scale that stunned-it was the color. The richness. The sheer sensory delight.
The house was like him. The thought burst into her mind with the clarity of truth, the conviction of accuracy. The outside was classical yet forbidding, the entrance bleak, but at the heart lay a place of unfettered warmth where beauty, knowledge and sensual pleasures held sway.
She turned and saw Dexter crouched by the fire, building it high. Strolling to the nearest bookcase, she let her gaze roam the spines. Art, the Classics, poetry-all were represented. Essays, philosophies, diaries in Latin, Greek, German and French-the collection was extensive.
Picking up a jewelled egg from one shelf, she examined the intricate work. Replacing it, she turned-to find Dexter standing, watching her, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Well." She waved at the shelves. "Which is the tome I need to peruse?"
His features hardened. He started toward her with his usual prowling gait, the firelight behind him gilding his hair. Steeling her senses, she held her ground. Tilted her chin.
He stopped in front of her, met her gaze. "You don't need to peruse any book."
She tried to read his eyes. Failed. "But I do. It's the least entertainment you can offer me, considering that little scene earlier." Intimidation poured from him; helpfully she added, "And don't forget-one of your volumes from the East."
His jaw set. Through eyes harder than stone, he considered her, then reached up, high above her head, and slid a brown leather-covered tome free. He placed the heavy book in her hands-the spine was more than three inches wide-then waved her to the fire. "Pray be seated."
He'd lighted a candelabra and set it on the low table at the end of the chaise. Amanda headed for the daybed, irresistibly drawn by the silks. She settled among the cushions; they shushed as she wriggled. The daybed was wide, unusually large; the perch was unbelievably comfortable. She looked at the low table, then at Dexter.
Stony-faced, he moved the table and candelabra to the end of the daybed beside her. Setting the book on her lap, she trailed her fingers over the cover, heavily encrusted with gold leaf. "Did you get this on your travels?"
He hesitated, then replied, "It was given to me by a maharanee."
When he remained standing, she looked up at him, let challenge fill her eyes. He stared down at her, then surrendered and sat on the daybed's other end, leaning back amid the cushions, arms wide. He looked so much at home, she suspected the daybed was his favorite resting place. Most un-English, yet the liking of luxurious comforts was definitely a leonine attribute.
Satisfied, she gave her attention to the book. Opening it, she turned to the first page to find it covered with wildly curling characters.
"Sanskrit."
"Can you read it?"
"Yes, but the text is immaterial to your purpose. Go on to the illustrations."
She could think of no way to force him to translate. She turned the page. And came to the first etching. Her first intimation that, no matter that she had not led a truly sheltered life, in comparison with him, assuming this book to be no revelation, she'd spent her entire life in a cloister.
Oddly, she didn't feel the least bit shocked. No telltale blush rose to her cheeks. She did, however, feel as if her eyes couldn't open wide enough, as if she hardly dared breathe.
Not shocked. She was fascinated. Enthralled.
Amazed.
Martin watched the firelight play across her face, watched the change in her expression as she turned the page. Tried not to recall what she was looking at. Then, to his consternation, discovered that he couldn't.
He studied her face. She seemed absorbed. Intrigued. Then she tilted her head, angling her gaze… unable to bear it, he stealthily shifted sideways so he could see her more clearly.
Hell! Eyes glued to the page, he realized he'd forgotten how lifelike the illustrations in that particular book were, how detailed. She flipped a page, fell to studying the next image avidly. He stared at the work, then glanced at her face, imagined what must be going through her mind.
His mouth went dry; his whole body reacted.
He looked back at the book, fought to ease the vice slowly tightening, notch by notch, about his lower chest.
She turned the next page-to a picture of a couple, on a daybed very like the one they were on, engaged in flagrant intercourse.
Arousal rushed through him; he couldn't stop his gaze going to her face, couldn't not watch, his breath shallow, as she examined the finely drawn work.
She felt his gaze. She glanced at him; her eyes met his, locked on them. Then she stilled.
A wash of color spread across her collarbones, swept into her porcelain cheeks. Her lips softened; she glanced down at the book, considered the picture again.