St. Ives."

"Perhaps there is, Miss Hadwell." Slowing his steps, he turned her into the large library. "Here we are."

Her gaze swept over the beautiful room, lingering on the highly polished tables and the obvious care given to the hundreds of leather bound books.

"Not a dust sheet in sight," she murmured.

The silver eyes twinkled. "I could have one fetched if you would like."

"No, thank you," she retorted with a grimace.

The slender hand waved toward the pair of leather wing chairs that framed a heavy marble chimney piece. "Will you have a seat?"

Amelia found herself rather reluctant to loosen her hold upon him, but she at least retained enough sense to realize she could not remain gazing up at him like a moonling. Instead, she forced herself to calmly drop her hand and move toward the nearest chair.

She did halt as she noted the book that had been left on a small table beside one of the chairs.

Picking up the heavy tome, she turned to regard Sebastian with a lift of her brows.

"What are you studying?"

"At the moment I am pursuing the writings of Epicurus."

"Ah." She wracked her memory for a moment." 'If you wish to make Pythocles wealthy, don't give him more money; rather, reduce his desires ...'"

Sebastian did not bother to hide his surprise. "You read the philosophers?"

She grimaced at his question. "Only under duress," she admitted. "My governess possessed the belief that a young lady should be well read and capable of entering any conversation without embarrassment."

"A worthy goal, I should think."

Amelia gave a faint shrug. She had no doubt that poor Miss Lyman had tried her best to instill her own fervent love for learning into her ungrateful student, but Amelia had never possessed the patience. Her restless energy was not suited to hours spent in the classroom.

"I far preferred to be fishing with William or sneaking into our neighbor's orchard. To be obliged to remain indoors like a proper maiden was sorely testing. I received any number of lectures for slipping from my window when I should have been practicing the pianoforte or perfecting my needlework."

"Lectures you no doubt ignored," he retorted in dry tones.

Her dimples flashed. "Upon occasion."

He gave a reluctant laugh as he moved to lean against one of the endless bookshelves. She watched his fluid movements, fascinated by the easy grace of such a large man. He would no doubt dance the waltz with the same exquisite skill.

"So you have no interest in musty books?" he demanded with a watchful gaze.

"To be honest, I have given little thought to studies since my schoolroom days." She wrinkled her nose in limit embarrassment. "I suppose you must think me a frippery maiden?"

His lips tilted at one corner. "No more than you must think me a dull and tedious fellow." He paused for a moment, his gaze briefly skimming over her mouth. "Still, there can be magic in books, just as in the moon."

Recalling the particular magic they had discovered beneath the moon, Amelia lifted her brows in teasing surprise.

"Why, Mr. St. Ives. What manner of books do you possess?"

A wicked glint entered his eyes. "Would you like to see?"

"Very well."

She paused only a moment before moving to join him beside the heavy shelves. Her ready agreement had nothing to do with a sudden scholarly interest, but simply the need to learn more of this man who so cap-tivated her.

"My collection is quite varied." He reached out a slender hand to pluck a thin, rather battered volume from the shelf. "Here is one that you might find of interest."

"What is it?"

"A personal journal of an ancient warrior."

She readily accepted the book, opening it to discover the yellowed, crumbling pages covered with a strange spider web of script she had never seen before.

"What is this language?"

"It is a very old, mostly forgotten language of a for-gotten people." His expression was difficult to read as he gently touched the delicate book. "To most, his culture and beliefs would have seemed quite unnatural. But these pages speak of a man much like ourselves. He complains of the cold, the weevils in his bread, and his fear of the upcoming battle. Most of all, however, he speaks of his deep love for his wife and children, who he has been forced to leave behind. He prays every night that he be allowed to see the precious beauty of his daughter's face one last time before he dies."

Amelia found her heart squeezing in compassion The unknown man was long dead, but listening to Sebastian's soft voice, it was almost as if she could see him within the narrow pages.

Alone, scared, and desperately missing his family. He was far more real than any of the characters from history she had been forced to study.

"How very sad," she murmured, lifting her gaze to meet the watching silver gaze. "And yet..."

"What?"

"His story is far more interesting than the books of glorious conquests and great leaders that I have committed to memory. He seems more alive."

"Yes." His expression was one of satisfaction. As if she managed to please him with her response. "The simple story of a simple man who speaks to all."

Her eyes widened in a deliberately provoking manner. "Why, Sebastian, that was very nearly poetic."

"Do you think so?" he murmured, his fingers moving to softly stroke her cheek. "It must be the dimples."

She shivered, desperately wishing they were back in the dark garden rather than in a proper library where the housekeeper might walk in any moment. Perhaps then he would kiss her as she longed for him to do.

"I do not think you are nearly so dull and tedious as you desire others to believe," she murmured in tones less steady than she would have desired.

His fingers paused and Amelia could physically feel the frustrated desire that raced through his blood. It scared through him with the same intensity that burned within her. And yet, while the need was almost tangible, beneath the ache was a fierce tenderness that tugged at her heart. How could any woman resist such a combination?

Unfortunately, she was also aware that through it all was the thread of finely honed steel that was his de-termination. For whatever reason, he was battling to keep his emotions in check.

She swallowed her disappointment as he reluctantly turned his attention back toward the shelves.

"Let me see, what else can I tempt you with?" He touched a thick, ornately bound book. "Ah, the Kitah al-Fawa'id."

It took a considerable effort to clear her clouded thoughts. Dear heavens, she must be bewitched, she thought inanely. That could be the only explanation for the utter certainty that she was connected to this man to her very soul.

"What is that?" she managed to question in doggedly light tones.

"A book on nautical technology written in 1490 by Ibn Majid, an Arab sailor."

"Ugh." She did not have to pretend her distaste. Her interest shifted toward a more intriguing book bound in handsome red leather. "What of that one?"

He lifted his brows, taking the book from the shelf and carefully opening it for her inspection.

"Very fine taste, my dear. That is the Institutio Oratoria. It speaks of the fundamentals essential to educate the citizens of the Roman Empire."

The subject held little more appeal than nautical technology. Perhaps even less. It was the realization that the script was not in English that captured her attention.

Her own father had considered himself somewhat of a scholar. He kept a decent library, and possessed a handful of rare documents. He was even well respected for his speeches in the House of Lords. But for all hit admired cleverness he could not hope to achieve the skilled intelligence of this master. She wondered if any gentleman in all of England could do so.

A hint of uncertainty shadowed her heart. Who was this Sebastian St. Ives?

"Precisely how many languages do you speak?" she demanded with a faint frown.

His smile remained but Amelia was certain there was a guarded quality to his beautiful eyes.

"No more than any well-studied gentleman."

"That is no answer."

He closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. In the process he managed to hide his expression.

"Does it truly matter?"

"It is yet another mystery that surrounds you." She regarded his profile with a searching gaze.

"I know nothing of you. You do not speak of your family, or your past. I do not even know where you come from or why you settled in London."

"Perhaps we should return downstairs and ensure that William is still occupied with his kittens."

Her disquiet only increased at his obvious attempt to deflect her interest.

"What is it you hide from me, Sebastian?" she demanded in low tones.

"Only what is necessary," he retorted, slowly turning to face her. The silver eyes held a hint of regret, but the alabaster features were set in lines that prevented any argument. "Shall we return to William?"

Amelia wanted to protest. This man fascinated her like no other. He touched her heart and stirred her passions. He invaded her soul like a conqueror of old. And yet, she knew nothing of him.