Page 64 of The Wolf Duke's Wife
‘Seek wisdom’s hollow heart, where knowledge guards what lovers seek.’
Her gaze swept the rows of books. “A hollow heart…a book perhaps?”
He inclined his head. “Then begin your search, Lady Scholar.”
She moved between the shelves, plucking volumes, shaking them lightly, listening for a difference in sound. Tristan followed her progress with folded arms, silent but intent. Every so often, she felt his gaze upon her nape like the brush of a fingertip. After a dozen fruitless minutes, she exhaled sharply.
“It could be anywhere.”
“Patience,” he said, “Greystone rewards persistence.”
“You speak as though the house were alive.”
“It is. Old houses remember.”
“Then perhaps it remembers where the Dowager hid her treasure,” she retorted, but the banter faltered when he came to stand beside her.
Their shoulders nearly touched.
He reached past her to a shelf just above her head. “Allow me.”
Christine’s breath caught as his coat brushed her sleeve. The faint scrape of leather against silk was louder than thunder. He drew out a thick tome,The Histories of England, and blew dust from its edge.
“Empty.”
“How can you tell?”
He rapped the cover with his knuckle. The sound was solid.
“Because it is genuine. The hollow ones have a lighter tone.”
“Have you much experience with hollow books, Your Grace?”
His mouth curved. “Enough to know they make good hiding places in a library. Like looking for a particular tree in the middle of a forest.”
“Which we have just done.”
She took another volume,Moral Reflections on the Passions, and set it on the table.
“If one wished to hide the prize of the Duke’s Hunt, one might choose something less moral.”
“Then we should look among the vices,” Tristan said dryly, moving toward the section devoted to poetry.
Their search became a dance, wordless, circling each other through aisles of knowledge. At last Christine stopped, leaning against the ladder, her cheeks flushed.
“We shall never find it.”
Tristan straightened, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You give up too easily.”
“I am tired, cold, and…”
He stepped close, cutting her protest short. “And?”
“And aware that you are standing very near,” she whispered.
“I intend to stand nearer.” His hand came up, brushing a stray curl from her face. The gesture was almost tender, “You tremble.”
“It is the chill.”
