Page 27 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

The ceilings at Pershing Hall were ungodly high. She had not realized just how high until she had begun to climb. She reached out with her free hand, stretching her arm full length toward the desired book. It was still not quite within her grasp. More determined than ever, she climbed up the final step to the very top of the ladder. She reached out again toward the book, straining to touch the edge of its spine with her fingertips.

The ladder wobbled precariously.

Sylvia gasped in alarm. She nimbly set one foot on a lower bookshelf to steady herself. It was not one second too soon. The library ladder gave way beneath her, clattering to the floor.

She was left clinging to the bookshelves like a monkey.

Her heart raced, her palms suddenly sweaty as they gripped the shelf. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Whatever else her failings, she was not impractical. She could see immediately that there was nothing for it. She would have to climb down, feeling her way from shelf to shelf.

She chanced a glance downward. The library floor seemed a very long way away. She was not unduly afraid of heights, but she had a great respect for the frailty of the human body. Only four years ago she had sprained her ankle jumping down from a stile. It had taken weeks to heal. If she were to hurt herself here, at Pershing Hall, there would be no more chance of leaving early.

She peered down again, spying the shelf immediately below the one that she was standing on. It was not so far. She would simply proceed slowly and carefully….

A sudden draft caused her candle to flicker.

“Don’t you dare go out,” she warned it. It was going to be difficult enough as it was to climb down these dratted shelves. To do so in the pitch dark would be almost impossible.

Just then a light shone into the room. She turned her head, hoping against hope that it was a footman or one of the housemaids. “Is someone there?” she called out.

“Miss Stafford?” Sebastian’s deep voice echoed from the library door.

At the sound of it, Sylvia closed her eyes in horror. “Oh God,” she groaned. “It needed only that.”

Sebastian was accustomed to making swift decisions in times of crisis, but at the sight of Sylvia Stafford perched precariously on the library bookshelves, he experienced a split second of absolute dismay. She was wearing nothing but a thin dressing gown over an equally thin nightgown, the hems of which were both lifted to expose her shapely bare ankles and dainty, slippered feet. As if that were not enough to knock his world off its axis, her dark, chestnut hair was unbound. It fell all about her in magnificent disarray, reaching almost to her waist. Her incredibly slender, uncorseted waist. Good God, he could probably span it with two hands.

And it looked like he just might have to.

“Don’t move,” he commanded, striding toward her.

Miss Stafford glanced down at him. She was blushing mightily. “I was attempting to reach a book on the top shelf when the ladder collapsed.”

“Never mind it,” he said gruffly. He set the branch of candles he was carrying on a nearby table and, without breaking stride, swept up a heavy wooden chair in his hand. He placed it firmly on the carpeted floor below her. It easily bore his weight as he sprang onto the seat and reached up to catch her round the waist. He felt her inhale a tremulous breath as his fingers pressed into her flesh. She was very high up. Tall as he was, he could scarcely get a secure grip on her. “If you will put a hand on my shoulder, I will swing you down.”

She slowly released her grip on the bookshelf, stretching one hand down toward his shoulder. “I cannot reach you.”

“It’s all right, just…let me—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Miss Stafford’s foot slipped on the lower shelf. She fell with a startled cry. He caught her directly. She was in no real danger. Even so, she flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.

“I have you,” he said. He stepped down from the chair and slowly lowered her to the ground, painfully aware of every inch of her body sliding down the front of his until her feet touched safely on the library floor.

He might have released her then, but her limbs were a trifle unsteady. At least, that is what he told himself. It may or may not have been the case. In any event, he did not have the will to let her go.

And, for whatever reason, she did not let him go either.

Instead, she looked up at him, a little dazed. “How mortifying,” she whispered.

It had been years since Sebastian had laughed. There had, in truth, been very little to laugh about. But at Miss Stafford’s words, he felt his lips quiver with reluctant amusement. “Indeed,” he said.

Her own mouth quivered in return. For a moment she valiantly attempted to suppress her mirth. And then, overcome, she bent her head against his chest and gave way to an outpouring of laughter.

It was a low, merry sound that warmed him all the way to his soul. Unthinking, he removed his hands from her waist and put his arms around her, drawing her into an embrace. He rested his face lightly against her hair. It felt like heaven against his cheek, as silky and thick as the lock he always carried with him.

“What a spectacle I’m making of myself,” she gasped between laughs. “I fear I am hysterical.”

Sebastian’s heart was thundering, his blood pulsing hot in his veins. His body, at least, had not forgotten how to respond to her nearness. His mind, on the other hand, was all chaos and confusion. He had questions. Concerns. Not the least of which was that he was presently taking advantage of an unmarried female guest under his own roof.

“Nonsense,” he said. “It was a humorous predicament.”