Page 15 of Ella’s Desire

“Aye. Penned by Jean Renart. Do you know it?”

Ella sat straighter, her gaze focusing on him fully for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I do. I read it once when I was at court. It was a beautiful story.”

“I have it still at Berkley Manor. It was the only book I kept after my mother died. You can have it if you like.”

“You would give me her book?” Ella looked at him in wonder.

The victory, though small, had made him glad to have mentioned it. It would make the news he would share more welcome. Or so he hoped.

Ella had always wanted a copy of Roman de la Rose. She never asked her father for books; he simply bought ones he thought she might enjoy. To ask for more had seemed greedy when he was already so generous. Now Calville was offering her exactly what she’d coveted for years. Giddy excitement quickened through her.

And yet, it had been his mother’s book. He obviously had cared greatly for her, enough to have kept it after she had died.

Ella set her book aside and hugged her knees to her chest. “How old were you when your mother died?”

He shifted his gaze from her to the floor on the other side of the room. “I was ten.” He shrugged. “Too old to need my mother.”

He did not look away from the invisible spot on the floor. Despite his flippancy, it was obvious her loss still pained him.

“I was seven,” Ella said. “I think it’s difficult no matter what age you are. Did you ever read it?”

He frowned slightly. “Read what?”

“Roman de la Rose.”

“Nay. I tried it, but…” He shrugged again. “I don’t enjoy reading stories.”

She eased back into her seat. Was that a pull of disappointment at her heart? Ridiculous. “Do you find them silly?”

“Boring.”

“Boring?” She gaped at him. “How could you possibly consider them to be boring? They are full of deceit and adventure and love and travel. They have everything.” She got off the bench and came to his side.

He looked up at her, surprised. Her stomach gave a little twist of shyness at how close she stood. There was a pleasant scent about him, like soap and sandalwood.

“I presume you have not read Floire et Blancheflor.” She held out the book to him. “I’d like for you to read it.”

He did not pull it from her hand, but instead simply continued to watch her. “Here? Now?”

She laughed. It wasn’t what she’d meant, but it would at least ensure he read it. “Aye.”

He took it from her and opened it to the first page. It did not possess the beautifully painted pictures as some of their books did. As much as she would like to see the story painted out in bold blues and vibrant reds, the ones with more detail were far more costly.

“It’s in French, as Roman de la Rose is,” he mused.

“Aye, all books with stories are French.” She leaned over his shoulder, desperate for him to start. “English texts are only ever on religion. Read.”

He smiled lightly, held the book aloft and began to read. She tried to keep from cringing at his monotone voice. He’d only gone through two lines when she knew it would not get any better. His reading was awful.

While his French was immaculate, his words were without inflection, without color or taste or vision. They were simply said, read aloud like London’s caller blandly announcing another hour passed.

“No wonder you hate to read.” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken the words out loud until his droning ceased.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asked.

“Aye, egregiously so. You read without passion.”

His mouth lifted at the corner. “’Tis a book.”