Page 45 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
It all sounded a little frightening.
But, perhaps the book could not be relied upon.
Her mother, no doubt, would have a great deal more to say on the matter but Rosamund rather dreaded that conversation.
She’d no wish to imagine her own parents in the act of copulation, and it would be impossible not to. Her mother was inclined to make free with intimate information even when not solicited.
At the same time, it would be worse to go to her wedding night without a clearer picture of what might lie before her.
Rosamund threw off the covers.
The duke had told her she might borrow any book from his library. Mightn’t there be something on the shelves that would offer a more straightforward view; a volume, even, addressed to the male party?
Men wouldn't bother with flowery euphemisms when speaking of procreation. Their minds were known for being scientific. Mr. Studborne had said as much, referring to the motto of the Royal Society. Facts not speculation! And facts were just what she needed.
Rosamund wasthankful to find the library empty, but for Lord Studborne’s dog. Lying full-stretch before the fire, the Great Dane barely lifted its head as Rosamund entered. Cerberus was clearly not as fearsome as his name suggested.
Rosamund walked down one side of the room, scanning the dark leather spines row upon row, looking for anything that might hint at "illicit" contents. Of course, assuming the duke did have anything of that nature, it was possible it was under lock and key somewhere, rather than on display—but Rosamund sensed Lord Studborne wouldn’t be so fastidious.
There were shelves relating to law and religion, then encyclopaedias and atlases. Further on, she came to a small section of poetry, and an even smaller choice of novels: not much beyond Thackeray, Dickens and Defoe.
The remainder of the collection comprised texts in Greek and Latin, which were no use at all, although one shelf appeared to contain classical works in translation. Her fingers ran over Cicero’s speeches and the Letters of Pliny, until she came to a volume entitledRoman Mosaics of Pompeii.
She’d read an article in a magazine during their Atlantic crossing, detailing Fiorelli’s excavations. One couldn’t help but be intrigued by the thought of a whole city buried under volcanic ash.
She recalled the archaeologist’s techniques of recording and preservation being quite ingenious. Who’d have thought of pouring cement into the hollows in the ash, where bodies had once lain? A bit grisly mind you, to capture the contorted shapes in which those poor souls had been fixed upon their point of death.
Taking down the book, she was surprised at how heavy it was, but delighted to see it contained a wealth of illustrated plates. Carefully, she brought it to the desk; no doubt, the edition had been costly.
Laying it flat, she turned the pages.
The first image, reproduced in great detail by the artist, showed a soirée. Someone was entertaining with a lute, and the guests looked to be playing a parlour game. Did the Romans have such things? Rosamund supposed they must have done. One had to pass the time somehow.
This looked to be a game of contortions. She’d played it years ago, at a party, with each person placing a hand on someone’s shoulder, and their other hand on someone’s ear. It had been riotously amusing.
Was that what they were doing in this picture?
She turned it sideways. There certainly were rather a lot of arms and legs in uncomfortable-looking positions.
Turning to the next plate in the book, she frowned. Her knowledge of mythology wasn’t all it should be but wasn’t that a centaur? The strangest thing was that its tail was in the wrong place.
One thing was for sure. Pompeii must have been very hot—for the people in the mosaics wore next to nothing.
“Hello there. Furthering your education?” a chirpy voice assailed her.
Caught by surprise, Rosamund slammed the book closed and whirled about.
With her back to the door, she hadn’t heard Mr. Studborne come in.
“Sorry if I made you jump. I just came to collect this.” Pulling a volume from a nearby shelf he held it aloft. “Maps of the Dorset coastline. It was my grandfather’s. He was the first you see—to catch the palaeontology bug. He used to take my father and uncle down to Osmington when they were little.”
Rosamund could hardly imagine Lord Studborne as a child, let alone ferreting at the bottom of the cliffs.
“I’d better put this back.” Covertly, Rosamund tucked the mosaics under her arm and sauntered nonchalantly to the shelf from which she’d removed them.
Mr. Studborne took her place, leaning on the desk, flipping through the pages of his own book. As he did so, something fluttered from the pages and fell to the floor.
“Well, I never…” Kneeling down, he retrieved it.
