The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane

searched his eyes, hopeful for some hint of the depths she’d discovered last night. There was nothing there.
    Stupid, delusional woman
.
    The viscount stared back at her and smiled cheerfully. “You haven’t left the library all day, Miss Barnes. It can’t be good for a person to concentrate in such a manner. Perhaps a walk in the garden with your maid would do you good.”
    “My lord, I must focus on the task at hand if I want to return to Dorset—which I do, most fervently,” Elena replied, though distractedly.
    It wasn’t that the volumes sitting on the shelf just past the viscount’s right shoulder were out of place. Quite the contrary, they were exactly where one should keepFroissart’s
Chronicles
—that is, if one were at all concerned with a well-ordered and sensible library.
    Which Elena knew the late viscount was not. She’d spent a relatively short amount of time in the Carrington library, but one detail had made itself glaringly clear from the start: the man may have valued his books, but he had not valued order.
    “Miss Barnes?”
    Elena ignored Lord Carrington’s voice and squeezed past him, stopping in front of the volumes.
    She reached for one of the books and pulled. It remained unmoved. She tried again with both hands, and yet, it continued its stubborn immobility.
    She pulled hard at the book a third time, infusing her attempt with every last sensation of humiliation and embarrassment she felt and succeeded in moving it a fraction toward her.
    “Miss Barnes?” the viscount said a second time. “May I be of assistance?”
    “This book seems to be stuck,” she explained, gritting her teeth. Elena knew she shouldn’t force the volume. It could damage the binding. Or tear the pages. Even dent the cover. She grimaced at the nightmarish list of possible outcomes.
    “So it is,” he replied, watching the decidedly unimpressive progress Elena was making.
    Elena blew out a frustrated breath.
Ah, that might just help
. She knew it was cruel, but the man’s brainless state might in time quiet her heart and mind.
    “And would you make an attempt, my lord?” she asked, gesturing toward the bookshelf.
    “With what?”
    Last night’s dreams suddenly faded a touch. “The books, my lord.”
    The viscount stared at the volumes, his brow creasing. “But why?”
    Elena squinted at the man, watching as his soft, sun-kissed hair dulled before her. “Because they’re stuck—and in need of unsticking,” she answered.
    “Oh, yes, of course,” he answered, offering her a vacuous smile.
    Lord Carrington reached for the book, placing one hand upon the top of the volume and the other around the bottom. And then he pulled. And pulled again.
    “Unhand that book!” Elena demanded, suddenly struck by his attempt to force the book from the shelf with no regard for potential damage.
    Lord Carrington immediately released the volume and held his hands up in surrender. “But you asked for my help.”
    “Yes, but there must be another way.” Elena couldn’t concentrate while he was so near. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. “Let me think …”
    “Not my area of expertise, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Besides, one more attempt and I’m sure we’ll have success.”
    Elena’s eyes shot open just in time to see the viscount reach out and grasp the book with both hands. He yanked hard.
    She gasped in horror.
    And the book moved, only not quite as Elena would have imagined. Instead of the one volume, all six of the books shifted forward in unison, until the entire row sat teetering on the edge of the wooden bookshelf. “How peculiar,” Elena muttered, her interest thoroughly piqued.
    Lord Carrington lifted the collection out, revealing not books at all, but a carved box.
    Elena traced her finger along the carved top, noting an intricate design that marked nearly the entire surface. “Do you recognize this, my lord?”
    Lord Carrington studied the box intently, his expressionunreadable.