“You should keep it,” he heard himself say.
“Keep what?”
“The book.” He nodded toward the volume she still held. “You clearly intend to read it. I see no reason why you should not.”
“Your Grace, I cannot—”
“You can,” he replied gently. “Lady Marchmont’s collection is for use. I, at least, give my approval.”
The logic was thin, and he knew it. He found he did not care.
Her gaze dropped to the book. Something flickered—hope, quickly smothered.
“Why are you being kind to me?” she asked.
The question was blunt—almost rude in its directness—and Sebastian appreciated it immensely.
“I am not being kind. I am being curious. You are reading books I have read myself, and your notes suggest genuine engagement with the material. I find that… interesting.” He hesitated. “I findyouinteresting.”
The moment the words escaped him, he knew they were a mistake. Her expression shifted—not quite closing, but becoming more guarded—and he saw her draw back into herself like a snail retreating into its shell.
“You should not find me interesting, Your Grace.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am no one,” she said, without self-pity. “Because even this conversation skirts propriety. You are here in pursuit of a wife amongst the young ladies of good family, and I am here to arrange my cousin’s hair and ensure her sleeves sit properly.” She lifted her chin a little. “We both know our roles. It would be wiser to perform them.”
She was right. Entirely right. Everything she said was sensible, proper, and exactly what a woman in her position ought to say.
And yet—
“What if I am tired of performing?”
The words startled him as much as they startled her. For an instant, something unguarded passed between them—too brief to name, too swift to claim.
“Your Grace—” she began.
“Forgive me.” He took a measured step back, restoring the distance he had allowed to slip. “You are quite correct. We haveour roles. I overstepped. Keep the book, Miss Ashwood. Let us call it a secret between fellow readers—nothing more.”
She hesitated. He saw the struggle—the cautious instinct to refuse, the yearning instinct to accept—before she gathered the volume to her chest with quiet care.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, very properly. “You are… very good to allow it.”
“I am not certain goodness has much to do with it,” he replied, a touch wryly. “Curiosity, perhaps. Respect, certainly.”
A faint, almost incredulous breath escaped her. “Respect?”
“For your mind,” he said simply. “It would be a pity to see it starved for want of books.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Sebastian.”
The name slipped out before he could prevent it. She stared at him, startled, and he wondered what madness had possessed him to offer his given name to a woman he scarcely knew—and ought not to be speaking with at all.
“I—I should not,” she said quietly.
“No. You should not.” His voice was equally low. “Nor should I have offered it. But—” He hesitated, aware of how thin the ice beneath them already was. “I am… very tired of ‘should.’”
