John breathed a sigh of relief when the next door he tried opened up into a library, which also looked as if it served as a study. Ushering Mary inside, he closed the door behind them and moved further into the room.

Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered the walls, except for a large fireplace on one side, and the furthest one which was bare other than a window. Beneath it stood a writing desk. It would be too easy if evidence of Hayes' activities were in plain sight, but something could hide in the room.

With no lights lit, the library was left in relative darkness, lit only by the moonlight seeping through the window. It was just enough to see the shapes of furniture and books, but to read anything, one would have to bring it to the window.

"Check the desk for letters from your sister," he suggested to Mary, while he inspected random pieces of paper found on other surfaces or stuffed between books.

They worked in silence. Him bringing anything that looked promising over to the window while Mary rifled through correspondence on the desk before opening and closing drawers in search of anything hidden away. He focused on the task at hand, but it was difficult to ignore the sounds of Mary muttering under her breath as she worked. Was the woman never quiet?

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" she suddenly asked.

Thinking she might have found something, he turned to her, but she was pointing to a wooden statue decorating the desk. It was carved from dark wood into the shape of a man with an incredibly large, incredibly erect manhood.

"Is he holding a stick?" Mary poked it with a finger.

"That..." He cleared his throat. "No."

She frowned and tilted her head to the side as she inspected the effigy.

"Then what is..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes widened. "Ooh! I have never seen one before. Are they truly this big?"

Glancing at the figure, which looked as if it was essentially a tripod, he shook his head. "No."

"I've only read about them before," she said, her eyes still trailing the shape of the statue. "It's difficult to imagine what one would actually look like from words alone."

Why wouldn't she stop talking about it? He groaned inwardly. "Can we please return to the task at hand?" he suggested sharply. "And one might question what type of literature you are consuming. It hardly sounds like something fit for a young lady."

She scoffed. "If men were to decide, nothing would be fit for a young lady other than needlework and playing the pianoforte. Maybe a splash of watercolour."

"I'm not sure anyone should read that sort of book," he muttered, turning her back to her.

"I'm not surprised," she returned. "Of course, Mr Dull Osborne would not approve of something so scandalous."

Dull? He frowned. While he had always considered himself to be of a calm and sensible disposition, he had never thought of himself as dull.

"I suppose you're a little less dull than I imagined, considering that you work for the Rose Agency," she continued, opening and closing drawers a little louder than necessary.

"I'm not dull." He wasn't sure why he debated with her. It hardly mattered what she thought of him. Would she still consider him dull if she knew he was a spy working for the War Office? A thought struck him, and he abandoned his search for a moment to look at her. "Does Olivia consider me dull?"

Mary glanced up from the pile of papers she was rifling through. "Olivia? Oh. I don't know."

Something about her tone rankled him. "You never cared to spare my feelings before," he said. "Do not begin now."

With a sigh, she put a stack of what looked like letters down and met his eyes. "To be honest, we rarely talk about you in that sense."

In other words, he wasn't interesting enough to discuss when he was not present. Not like Dash, who was discussed at every opportunity, obsessing over every detail. Who was he seeing. Who had he rejected. How many times had he danced with so and so. The young rake gave them plenty of opportunities to talk as well, as he continued to flirt with every new lady arriving in London.

Unlike John, who had looked to no one but Olivia for years.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Mary put her hand on his arm. How did she move so quietly? His attention had been elsewhere, and he'd do well to remember where they were and why. She must have sensed his plummeting mood because she was giving him what he assumed was meant to be an encouraging look, but really just looked like pity.

"Once this is all over," she said. "I will fulfil my promise to you and make sure Olivia sees you as a potential match and not just a friend."

"I don't see how that's possible. You say I am dull. How can you convince her I am something you do not see yourself?" The situation was beyond absurd. An image of Mary trying to expound on his merits to Olivia, but failing and calling him dreadfully boring, made his lips twitch. In truth, he'd be equally unlikely to convince someone that Mary was a good match.

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Well, you're not completely without charm. And you are not bad looking."

"Not bad looking." He chuckled. "Please, do not encourage me so."

Rolling her eyes, she swatted at his shoulder. "I'm only being honest. Which is exactly what you told me to—"

A sound outside the library door halted her words, and their eyes met. The handle turned. With a curse, John grabbed Mary's waist and swung her around, trapping her between the bookcase and his body. She gasped but didn't scream. And didn't slap him. Leaning down, he stopped a mere inch from her face and listened to the door swinging open and footsteps entering the room.

Mary drew a shaky breath, and he tried not to notice how it pushed her soft bosom against the barely adequate constraints of her dress. His eyes met hers behind the mask in the semi-darkness as she stared up at him with her lips parted.

He'd never paid much attention to her, his eyes always drawn to Olivia, but at that moment—with her skin illuminated by moonlight and her hair outlined in silver—he realised, possibly for the first time, that she was rather beautiful. Not that he cared. His gaze dropped to her mouth. It looked soft and inviting, with a pronounced Cupid's bow.

"Beg your pardon!" A man's voice brought him back to the present. For a moment, he had forgotten why he had grabbed Mary to begin with. "Didn't realise someone else was in here."

Turning his head to the intruder, he forced a drawl. "Would you mind?"

The other man chuckled. "No. Not at all." His steps retreated before he called over his shoulder, "Oh, I suggest finding another room. Hayes isn't too fond of guests using the library."

"We'll leave in a minute," he promised.

With another low chuckle, the man disappeared, closing the door behind him. John twisted his head back to look at Mary. He should move. There was no longer a reason for their ruse, and yet his body would not obey.

Mary heard the soft click of the door latching, but couldn't tear her eyes off John. He stood so close. No man had ever held her like this and it was surprisingly pleasant to have his hands gripping her waist. A faint woodsy scent mingled with something lemony tickled her nose, making her curious. She leaned a little closer, the tip of her nose brushing against his neck as she inhaled. He tensed.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice strangled.

"You smell nice," she mumbled. "Is that bergamot?"

"What? Yes, I believe so." He leaned back slightly to stare down at her but did not release her.

With burning cheeks, she realised that hadn't been the proper thing to do. One did not simply sniff other people. This house party was doing strange things to her. How much alcohol had been in that punch?

Neither of them moved. Their breaths mingled as they looked at each other. When his hand came up to her face, she held her breath. He adjusted her mask, and she almost felt disappointed. But why? What had she hoped would happen?

His hand lingered a little longer than necessary at her temple, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her body felt tense and unfamiliar. As if it was waiting for something. Lowering his hand, his fingers gently traced along the side of her arm, chasing goosebumps over her skin. Behind the mask, his eyes looked darker than normal, but it might be a trick of the light.

Was he going to kiss her? Or even worse... Did she want him to?

It was a question she didn't need to answer as he pushed away from her and returned to the desk to look through the letters she had abandoned earlier. They were lucky the guest who had walked in on them had not noticed. It took her a moment to collect herself enough to help him. How was he so unaffected by their closeness when her heart was racing?

I'm not attracted to John Osborne. I cannot be.

It must be the atmosphere of the party. Nothing else. And she would continue to remind herself of that for as long as she needed to.

"Nothing," he finally said after they had looked through all the correspondence on the desk. "If Hayes has letters from your sister, he keeps them elsewhere."

"His bedchambers?" she suggested.

"Possibly." John raked a hand through his hair. "That won't be nearly as easy to gain access to. Let's see what we can find tomorrow in broad daylight. There might be a writing desk in the drawing room or somewhere else where he keeps such things. For now, we might as well return to our chambers. I don't think there is much else we can find out tonight."

She nodded, and they left the library together. When John touched her elbow to guide her upstairs, she tried not to notice the tingling awareness of his fingers on her bare skin. It was nothing more than a reaction to the day they'd had. It had to be.

~~~~~~