His heart leapt at the revelation that she, too, had longed for a physical connection. It took all his willpower to disentangle himself from her arms, stroll over to the bookshelf, and pluck a volume at random.
“You may claim the sofa if you like,” he said guilelessly. “I’ll take the armchair.”
33
Never before had Viv so cursed her own damn words!
Her ideal courtship consisted of quiet time to read or write in companionable silence, she believed she’d said. Something about rarely having the luxury to do nothing.
It was true. Fully, completely, 100 percent true. And yet, a quill was the last thing she wanted to hold in her hands.
Drat this incorrigible man! He looked unconscionably attractive lounging in an armchair in the waning sunlight, immersed in a tome by—oh, who cared what he was reading? She wanted to yank the book from his hands and toss it into the fireplace. There was probably even a card in her pocket that explicitly gave her the freedom to do so.
That had been his first gift. Seeing her. Understanding her. And providing her with every freedom in his power.
Such as the freedom to glare at him while he pretended to be more interested in a book than being alone in a private parlor with her.
Well, two could play at that game, could they not?
To prove she categorically held no desire or intention of seducing the damnable poet-no-one-knew-was-Sir-Jallow lounging loose-limbed over in the armchair, she stuck her nose in the air and marched over to the bookshelves, intending to make believe she was happily ensconced in a book, just like him.
Her heart skidded.
The bounder had filled the shelves with things she actuallywantedto read.
He hadn’t been paying attention only to her. He had noted the titles and the authors of the volumes on her sparse shelf at home, and fleshed out an entire bookcase full of related works.
Jacob—or someone very knowledgeable on the subject—had even deduced key themes and motifs Viv enjoyed returning to and had filled the second bookcase with new-to-her authors. Volume after volume, begging to be read.
Utterly diabolical.
“Whose books are these?” she asked with suspicion.
“Hmm?” Jacob glanced up from his book, as though he’d forgotten she was in the room.
She scowled at him.
He grinned at her. “Mine. You can borrow as many as you like.”
Viv harrumphed and turned back to the shelves. She didn’t want to borrow a handful of books. She wanted to live right here, in this very room, until every word on every page was etched into her brain.
It took ten minutes to narrow the top contenders down to three. She carried them to the other armchair—she wasn’t tempted by the sofa, either!—and curled her legs beneath her to pretend to read.
Hours disappeared without her noticing.
Suddenly, the novel was over, the picnic between them was half gone, and her hopelessly wrinkled skirt was littered with lime-biscuit crumbs.
She’d read an entire book?
In one sitting?
The faint shimmer behind the diaphanous curtains looked like moonlight. She’d missed the sunset completely. A low fire burned behind the grate. Just enough to warm the edge of chill from the air. It and the candles gave the room a soft, golden-orange glow.
Jacob’s novel was on the tea table beside them. His arms foldedloosely over his flat stomach, and his legs stretched out toward the fire. His eyes were closed.
“Jacob,” she whispered, so softly even she could barely hear herself.
His eyes flew open at once. “Shall I light another sconce for you?”
