A Bluestocking Christmas by Monica Burns Page A

to argue but didn’t know what to protest.
    “Because I’m intrigued by you, Ivy.” When she remained silent, he pushed his advantage. “So we’re agreed then?”
    “Aren’t the Voltaire Papers a rather steep price for the privilege of escorting a mere commoner to the library benefit?” she said in a withering tone of voice. “What will people say?”
    “I suppose I deserve that,” he said quietly as the full impact of her scathing contempt rolled over him. His words yesterday had cut deeper than he’d expected. Regret sailed through him. “I admit I could have been less rude, yesterday, but I won’t apologize for keeping my nephew’s best interests at heart.”  
    Apologies never came easy for him, and he refused to grovel. Impatiently, he waited for her reply. The moment she nodded her agreement, triumph settled in his limbs. He’d won the first battle, but there were others to fight. For a moment, they watched each other in silence, and she was the first to look away.  
    A delicate blush crested over her cheek as she turned her head so he could only see her profile. She was like an ingénue with a hint of maturity that suggested she wasn’t quite as innocent as she seemed. He frowned. Seducing an innocent was hardly the mark of a gentleman, but if Ivy held true to his expectations, he didn’t expect her to be an innocent. He glanced about the salon and noted the numerous shelves of books.  
    “You’re an avid reader.” His comment made her jerk her head back to him, and something akin to trepidation swept over her features.
    “Yes…I enjoy all types of literature,” she murmured as she slowly walked toward where he stood by the fire.  
    “Name your favorite author.” He watched her come to a halt as she eyed him with surprise. She tilted her head for a moment clearly thinking through her answer before she answered him in an emphatic tone.
    “Alexander Dumas, I think. He has a masterful way of telling a story.” She smiled at him, and Simon’s chest tightened at the effect it had on him.
    “Based on the authors you quoted, it’s obvious you’re well-read for a woman.” He grinned at the way she bristled.  
    “Is it your habit to insult people simply to prove your superiority?” There it was again, that pained note layered beneath a note of stiff indifference.
    “No,” he said soothingly. “Something about you brings out the worst of me.”
    “Then perhaps we should reconsider our agreement about Saturday evening,” she said in a hopeful tone as she sidled toward the chair near the fire.
    “A valiant effort to escape the inevitable, my dear Ivy, but a hopeless one nevertheless.” He watched her nervously toy with the skirt of her gown, and her gaze flitted toward the chair, then back toward him. His gaze followed hers, and he caught sight of the bound book tucked into the crevice of the chair. Ivy rushed forward to grab the book, but Simon reached it first. As she tried to take it from him, he held it up out of reach.
    “Return my book to me this instant,” Ivy snapped her expression one of embarrassment more than fright.  
    Simon arched his eyebrow and looked at the book he was holding out of her reach. The moment he read the title, his muscles hardened with a lust he’d not experienced in a long time, if ever. His gaze returned to Ivy, and she blushed deeply.  
    “How much of the book have you read, Ivy?”  
    “What do you mean?”
    “ The Golden Lotus —how much have you read?” he asked quietly as he pinned her with his gaze.  
    “That’s none of your business.”  
    The manner in which she tilted her chin upward at a defiant angle told Simon she’d read quite a bit of the book. Instantly his cock stiffened, forcing him to turn away from her to hide his arousal. The thought of her reading The Golden Lotus made him rock hard. As he’d suspected, Ivy Beecham wasn’t quite the paragon of virtue his nephew thought.  
    The knowledge disappointed him as he