Book Description
"Girls grow into ladies, dearest. It happens all the time."
"That is not a lady, madam. That is Sibyl Cameron."
So says Tarquin Rome, a rather stiff, superbly handsome earl who has been harassed by this irrepressible mishap-prone chit since boyhood. Why then would his mother invite Sibyl to his artfully planned house party?
Why, indeed. The lofty earl is hardly likely to notice that the beautiful Sibyl is no longer in pinafores and pigtails--especially since he has invited three Incomparables from which he will choose his bride. But when embarrassing and awkward moments transpire at his gathering, Tarquin can only blame Sibyl. Which hardly explains his increasing desire for her company--and her affection. . . .
"That is not a lady, madam. That is Sibyl Cameron."
So says Tarquin Rome, a rather stiff, superbly handsome earl who has been harassed by this irrepressible mishap-prone chit since boyhood. Why then would his mother invite Sibyl to his artfully planned house party?
Why, indeed. The lofty earl is hardly likely to notice that the beautiful Sibyl is no longer in pinafores and pigtails--especially since he has invited three Incomparables from which he will choose his bride. But when embarrassing and awkward moments transpire at his gathering, Tarquin can only blame Sibyl. Which hardly explains his increasing desire for her company--and her affection. . . .
From the Back Cover
"A bright new star in the Regency heavens."
--Romantic Times
--Romantic Times
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One: Rome Castle, Kent
The Earl of Hythe, who took a great deal of pride in the fact that he had
never succumbed to the awkward and messy inconvenience of falling in love,
was on the verge of salivating. Before him was a man's sweetest dream on
creamy sheets, a treasure all but clamoring to become his.
He reverently reached out one perfectly manicured hand and stroked along
the elegant spine. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Utterly exquisite."
Only heaven could have dictated such smooth, milk-pale expanses, such bold
curves and delicate lines. And the colors, from the faintest blush of pink
to glossy ebony, were of such perfection that any man's eye would be
caught, his fingers itching to touch.
Damn his rule about impulse. This was something he could not possibly
resist having.
"You are pleased with what you see, my lord?"
The earl smiled faintly at the eager catch in his companion's voice.
"Perfectly." Satisfied, he drew a deep breath and stepped back. "We are
agreed on the price?"
The book dealer mopped his shiny brow with a wilted handkerchief and gave
his own shaky sigh. "Certainly, my lord. Thank you. I was most concerned
the manuscript would not be up to your standards and I know you prefer to
deliberate. When this came into my hands, however, I knew I must bring it
to you immediately."
"Well done, Wilkins. I have long wished to add the Montefiore to my
collection."
The dealer was correct in his concerns. The earl made spontaneous
purchases only on very rare occasions, and very few books were up to his
standards. Tarquin Theodor Fitzmorris Rome, the Sixth Earl of Hythe and
possessor of enough lesser titles to fill their own printed peerage,
demanded the best, the first, the unique in all he collected.
Books were his great passion. A Gutenberg Bible rested under glass in his
Wiltshire estate's library, an Alciato's Book of Emblems from 1531 was the
centerpiece of his library in Town, and he had only the week before
obtained a priceless, handwritten copy of The Canterbury Tales, dated 1396.
Now he had the Montefiore.
Resisting the urge to trace the smooth pages and brilliant illuminations
one more time, he turned away from the desk and gave the dealer a terse
nod. "You said the owner was most eager to make the sale."
"Most eager, Lord Hythe. There are, I believe, several more medieval
manuscripts available. I am certain any inquiries would be met with
similar accord. The seller is not, should we say, in a position to haggle."
So, Sir Perceval Fraser was dead. Tarquin had suspected as much the moment
Wilkins had unwrapped the Montefiore. The old coot would never have
allowed the manuscript to leave his tight grip otherwise. And there was no
question that this piece had come from Sir Perceval's collection. Of the
four known to exist, the other three resided in the hallowed halls of
Oxford, the university at Vienna, and the Vatican. The first two were
carefully tended and studied by the great Classical scholars of Europe.
The third was, to the best of anyone's knowledge, hidden away in disgrace,
too valuable to destroy and too scandalous to display.
Wilkins had recognized a superior, extremely valuable manuscript but could
not possibly have known just what he had found. Well versed as the man
was, the Montefiore was an obscure book, known only to the most dedicated
of scholars and bibliophiles. Fraser had certainly been aware of the
book's value, which made Tarquin believe he had died suddenly, leaving no
instructions for the disposition of his library. Had he done so, the
manuscript would never have come so easily.
Such arrogance would have been just like Sir Perceval. No doubt he hadn't
expected to die at all. Having defied everything and everyone in life, he
would have expected to defy Death as well. And how very vexing it must
have been for the crusty old coot to realize he couldn't take his
collection with him.
Tarquin was surprised to feel a tug of sadness. He had never liked Fraser
and the feeling had been returned wholeheartedly. There had been too many
skirmishes over the past decade, sly battles over books, for anything but
acrimony. But there had also been an equally potent mutual respect, albeit
grudging, that only the most ardent of collectors could possibly
understand.
The world of the bibliophile would be something less than what it had once
been now that Sir Perceval was no longer in it.
Shaking off the uncustomarily sentimental turn of his mind, Tarquin
considered how best to proceed. "I would be very interested," he said
after a moment, "in hearing what else is being offered."
"I would be more than happy to make the inquiries, my lord."
Of course you would, Tarquin thought grimly. There was a tidy commission
involved, not to mention his own patronage. "Proceed, then. I would
request, however, that you do so on behalf of an anonymous collector. I
would prefer not to have my name bandied about."
"I quite understand, my lord."
The dealer "quite understood" nothing, and Tarquin was not about to
illuminate. Ordinarily, he was perfectly content to have his purchases
known. This time, however, exposition would have to wait. He had no idea
who had inherited Fraser's collection--and the debts that such a
collection had clearly incurred. The man had never married and, to
Tarquin's knowledge, had no family. Chances were that the entire estate
had gone to the man's pack of mangy hounds.
Canine or of the same debatably human makeup as Sir Perceval, the heir
might or might not know of the antipathy between the two collectors. If
Fraser had mentioned his enemy, the Earl of Hythe, the words would
probably have involved something along the lines of a promise to rise from
the grave and wreak bloody havoc should even a single one of his books
fall into the earl's possession.
One just had. Tarquin wasn't taking any chances on the others. Nor was he
taking any chances on Wilkins. Striding around the massive desk, he
removed a draft ledger from the top drawer. From the corner of his eye, he
could see the dealer's hands opening and closing as he scrawled the amount
and his signature. Antiquarian books was, at the moment, a somewhat
unpredictable business.
Tarquin tore the draft neatly from the ledger and passed it across the
desk. "You will contact me within the fortnight."
It was not a request. The dealer did not take it as one. Huffing in his
tight waistcoat and mopping once again at his bald pate, he quickly
pocketed the cheque and, mixing thanks and promises, took himself hastily
off.
The mantel clock chimed just as Tarquin was opening the book. Sighing, he
gently closed the embossed leather cover and, with his customary, proud
glance around the mahogany-paneled, book-filled, and fastidiously
dust-free library, headed toward the door. The Montefiore was not going
anywhere, ever, and it was teatime. The earl's mother would be waiting in
the salon and the earl was not a man to keep a lady waiting. Punctuality,
he decreed, was every bit as necessary as neatness, honor, and a pressed
newspaper at the breakfast table.
He glanced back once at the manuscript and smiled with satisfaction. There
was nothing in life quite so satisfying as having made such a splendid
purchase--and at such a reasonable expense. The earl was a very contented
man. Perhaps he would even indulge in one of his Egyptian cigars after tea.
The Dowager Countess of Hythe was just approaching the salon as her son
entered the hall. Tarquin had always thought--with an appallingly fanciful
turn of mind, he admitted--that his mother resembled the fairies of his
schoolroom books: diminutive, fair, and not quite of this earth. Age had
added some lines to the lovely face, but even they were as delicate as
spiderwebs. As far as Tarquin could tell, time had done little to change
her otherwise. She still looked as lovely and fragile as a woodland
sprite. The appearance, however, was deceptive. Lady Hythe possessed the
fortitude of Juno.
At the moment, she was standing stock-still on the glossy parquet floor,
eyes wide.
"Is something amiss, Mother?"
"Amiss? I would not know. Dearest, you were whistling."
Tarquin blinked in surprise. "Surely not, madam!"
"I am very much afraid so." The laughter now evident in the pale blue eyes
made it clear she was not sorry in the least. "I do believe it was one of
those regimental ditties Julius is always bringing into the house."
Now Tarquin grimaced. As unthinkable as the possibility of his whistling
was, he could hardly suspect his mother of lying. And the very fact that
the tune had been one of those his wild brother favored made the situation
worse. "I apologize wholeheartedly, madam, for subjecting you to such base
stuff. I cannot think where my sense has gone."
"Oh, Tarquin, really!" The countess rolled her eyes. "I cannot help but
believe our lives would be a bit jollier if you would lose your sense
completely every so often."
It was a familiar refrain. As much as the earl loved his mother, he was
growing heartily tired of her suggestions that he was somewhat lacking in
joie de vivre. Hadn't he just purchased a book so scandalous at the time
it was written that all copies but four had been burned?
"To be sure," he commented dryly, "we would all benefit greatly should I
take to whistling my way through the day...
The Earl of Hythe, who took a great deal of pride in the fact that he had
never succumbed to the awkward and messy inconvenience of falling in love,
was on the verge of salivating. Before him was a man's sweetest dream on
creamy sheets, a treasure all but clamoring to become his.
He reverently reached out one perfectly manicured hand and stroked along
the elegant spine. "Beautiful," he murmured. "Utterly exquisite."
Only heaven could have dictated such smooth, milk-pale expanses, such bold
curves and delicate lines. And the colors, from the faintest blush of pink
to glossy ebony, were of such perfection that any man's eye would be
caught, his fingers itching to touch.
Damn his rule about impulse. This was something he could not possibly
resist having.
"You are pleased with what you see, my lord?"
The earl smiled faintly at the eager catch in his companion's voice.
"Perfectly." Satisfied, he drew a deep breath and stepped back. "We are
agreed on the price?"
The book dealer mopped his shiny brow with a wilted handkerchief and gave
his own shaky sigh. "Certainly, my lord. Thank you. I was most concerned
the manuscript would not be up to your standards and I know you prefer to
deliberate. When this came into my hands, however, I knew I must bring it
to you immediately."
"Well done, Wilkins. I have long wished to add the Montefiore to my
collection."
The dealer was correct in his concerns. The earl made spontaneous
purchases only on very rare occasions, and very few books were up to his
standards. Tarquin Theodor Fitzmorris Rome, the Sixth Earl of Hythe and
possessor of enough lesser titles to fill their own printed peerage,
demanded the best, the first, the unique in all he collected.
Books were his great passion. A Gutenberg Bible rested under glass in his
Wiltshire estate's library, an Alciato's Book of Emblems from 1531 was the
centerpiece of his library in Town, and he had only the week before
obtained a priceless, handwritten copy of The Canterbury Tales, dated 1396.
Now he had the Montefiore.
Resisting the urge to trace the smooth pages and brilliant illuminations
one more time, he turned away from the desk and gave the dealer a terse
nod. "You said the owner was most eager to make the sale."
"Most eager, Lord Hythe. There are, I believe, several more medieval
manuscripts available. I am certain any inquiries would be met with
similar accord. The seller is not, should we say, in a position to haggle."
So, Sir Perceval Fraser was dead. Tarquin had suspected as much the moment
Wilkins had unwrapped the Montefiore. The old coot would never have
allowed the manuscript to leave his tight grip otherwise. And there was no
question that this piece had come from Sir Perceval's collection. Of the
four known to exist, the other three resided in the hallowed halls of
Oxford, the university at Vienna, and the Vatican. The first two were
carefully tended and studied by the great Classical scholars of Europe.
The third was, to the best of anyone's knowledge, hidden away in disgrace,
too valuable to destroy and too scandalous to display.
Wilkins had recognized a superior, extremely valuable manuscript but could
not possibly have known just what he had found. Well versed as the man
was, the Montefiore was an obscure book, known only to the most dedicated
of scholars and bibliophiles. Fraser had certainly been aware of the
book's value, which made Tarquin believe he had died suddenly, leaving no
instructions for the disposition of his library. Had he done so, the
manuscript would never have come so easily.
Such arrogance would have been just like Sir Perceval. No doubt he hadn't
expected to die at all. Having defied everything and everyone in life, he
would have expected to defy Death as well. And how very vexing it must
have been for the crusty old coot to realize he couldn't take his
collection with him.
Tarquin was surprised to feel a tug of sadness. He had never liked Fraser
and the feeling had been returned wholeheartedly. There had been too many
skirmishes over the past decade, sly battles over books, for anything but
acrimony. But there had also been an equally potent mutual respect, albeit
grudging, that only the most ardent of collectors could possibly
understand.
The world of the bibliophile would be something less than what it had once
been now that Sir Perceval was no longer in it.
Shaking off the uncustomarily sentimental turn of his mind, Tarquin
considered how best to proceed. "I would be very interested," he said
after a moment, "in hearing what else is being offered."
"I would be more than happy to make the inquiries, my lord."
Of course you would, Tarquin thought grimly. There was a tidy commission
involved, not to mention his own patronage. "Proceed, then. I would
request, however, that you do so on behalf of an anonymous collector. I
would prefer not to have my name bandied about."
"I quite understand, my lord."
The dealer "quite understood" nothing, and Tarquin was not about to
illuminate. Ordinarily, he was perfectly content to have his purchases
known. This time, however, exposition would have to wait. He had no idea
who had inherited Fraser's collection--and the debts that such a
collection had clearly incurred. The man had never married and, to
Tarquin's knowledge, had no family. Chances were that the entire estate
had gone to the man's pack of mangy hounds.
Canine or of the same debatably human makeup as Sir Perceval, the heir
might or might not know of the antipathy between the two collectors. If
Fraser had mentioned his enemy, the Earl of Hythe, the words would
probably have involved something along the lines of a promise to rise from
the grave and wreak bloody havoc should even a single one of his books
fall into the earl's possession.
One just had. Tarquin wasn't taking any chances on the others. Nor was he
taking any chances on Wilkins. Striding around the massive desk, he
removed a draft ledger from the top drawer. From the corner of his eye, he
could see the dealer's hands opening and closing as he scrawled the amount
and his signature. Antiquarian books was, at the moment, a somewhat
unpredictable business.
Tarquin tore the draft neatly from the ledger and passed it across the
desk. "You will contact me within the fortnight."
It was not a request. The dealer did not take it as one. Huffing in his
tight waistcoat and mopping once again at his bald pate, he quickly
pocketed the cheque and, mixing thanks and promises, took himself hastily
off.
The mantel clock chimed just as Tarquin was opening the book. Sighing, he
gently closed the embossed leather cover and, with his customary, proud
glance around the mahogany-paneled, book-filled, and fastidiously
dust-free library, headed toward the door. The Montefiore was not going
anywhere, ever, and it was teatime. The earl's mother would be waiting in
the salon and the earl was not a man to keep a lady waiting. Punctuality,
he decreed, was every bit as necessary as neatness, honor, and a pressed
newspaper at the breakfast table.
He glanced back once at the manuscript and smiled with satisfaction. There
was nothing in life quite so satisfying as having made such a splendid
purchase--and at such a reasonable expense. The earl was a very contented
man. Perhaps he would even indulge in one of his Egyptian cigars after tea.
The Dowager Countess of Hythe was just approaching the salon as her son
entered the hall. Tarquin had always thought--with an appallingly fanciful
turn of mind, he admitted--that his mother resembled the fairies of his
schoolroom books: diminutive, fair, and not quite of this earth. Age had
added some lines to the lovely face, but even they were as delicate as
spiderwebs. As far as Tarquin could tell, time had done little to change
her otherwise. She still looked as lovely and fragile as a woodland
sprite. The appearance, however, was deceptive. Lady Hythe possessed the
fortitude of Juno.
At the moment, she was standing stock-still on the glossy parquet floor,
eyes wide.
"Is something amiss, Mother?"
"Amiss? I would not know. Dearest, you were whistling."
Tarquin blinked in surprise. "Surely not, madam!"
"I am very much afraid so." The laughter now evident in the pale blue eyes
made it clear she was not sorry in the least. "I do believe it was one of
those regimental ditties Julius is always bringing into the house."
Now Tarquin grimaced. As unthinkable as the possibility of his whistling
was, he could hardly suspect his mother of lying. And the very fact that
the tune had been one of those his wild brother favored made the situation
worse. "I apologize wholeheartedly, madam, for subjecting you to such base
stuff. I cannot think where my sense has gone."
"Oh, Tarquin, really!" The countess rolled her eyes. "I cannot help but
believe our lives would be a bit jollier if you would lose your sense
completely every so often."
It was a familiar refrain. As much as the earl loved his mother, he was
growing heartily tired of her suggestions that he was somewhat lacking in
joie de vivre. Hadn't he just purchased a book so scandalous at the time
it was written that all copies but four had been burned?
"To be sure," he commented dryly, "we would all benefit greatly should I
take to whistling my way through the day...
