I glanced at Mr. Wayland, seeking approval for some unknown reason. He merely nodded encouragingly and pulled out a book of his own. With his permission, I greedily turned to the first page.
* * *
MICHAEL
I could not recalla single plot in my novel, ironically titledSelf-Control. Clearly, I had none. But I was mere meters from her. Jules. Kate had called her Jules. It fit her, elegant in its simplicity.
In the dim light of the carriage, she was even more striking than she had been in the drawing room. Or perhaps time had dulled the memory of her slightly. Her hair had escaped her coiffeur with the London dampness and was curling intriguingly about her temples and neck. The carriage air was thick with an enticing citrus scent, the one I identified as hers. It competed with Hugh’s cloying cedar-scented soap.
I couldn’t help but sneak glances at her. She was the most expressive reader I had ever seen, biting her lip to hold back a grin, covering her mouth to stifle a gasp. I recalled enjoying the novel but not to this extent; I had never enjoyed anything to this extent. Her reactions were fascinating. I wanted to catalog each and every one. I desired her thoughts on each of the novel’s characters. I needed to discuss the events with her. Our chaperones were the only thing preventing me from crossing the carriage to her, from reading at her side.
The novel seemed to have served its intended purpose, distracting her from her previous ire. I should have ridden separately, given her time to adjust to the idea of me without my presence. I was anxious to see her, though, to prove that her allurements were all in my head—clearly wishful thinking.
It was fortunate that Hugh and Kate had both fallen asleep quickly once the tension in the carriage faded. Neither would have been able to keep silent about my obvious infatuation. She was just so passionate. I couldn’t help but wish to be the sole focus of that passion. No one looked at me with even an ounce of the longing she had displayed for the book. I craved that attention from her.
Aching to hear her voice once more, I considered and rejected more than a dozen topics while pretending to read my own novel. There was little I wouldn’t do to experience the same scrutiny of my person she was showing that book. Her eyes widened with anticipation at something in the novel. Never in my life had I felt this kind of desperation for a woman’s attention. I was reduced to repeatedly reminding myself that she deserved the opportunity to read in peace. Needling her would not endear me in her eyes. Kate would not hesitate to send me away if I upset her, or worse. I choked back a sigh and forced my attention toward my own reading.
“Not enjoying your novel?” Her quiet voice drew my gaze across the rocking carriage.
“Honestly?”
She nodded.
“I haven’t comprehended a word. I’m a bit distracted at present.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she forged on with feigned ignorance. “Distracted? Do you have difficulty reading in a carriage?”
I felt a grin spreading and caught my lower lip between my teeth to snuff it. “Something like that. Are you enjoying your novel?”
“Yes, very much. Thank you for bringing it. You mentioned you had read it?”
“I have. I quite enjoyed it.”
“May I ask an impertinent question?”
“My favorite kind.”
“Have you been visiting the library at Grayson House?”
Warmth filled my chest. I swore to myself that I was merely offering suggestions to a fellow reader, convincing myself that it was better if she did not know the identity of her personal curator. Clearly, I was a liar.
“I visit a great many places. It’s difficult to recall.”
My evasion earned an eye roll. I was fooling no one. Least of all her.
“So, you have not been leaving several carefully selected novels on the table for someone, definitely not me, to find and borrow.”
“I’m a busy man, Duchess. I don’t have time to scour libraries in the hopes of choosing a novel that a hypothetical visitor to said library would enjoy.”
“Too many fortunes to steal? And, again, I am not a duchess.” The words and tone were incongruous. There was none of the clipped irritation I had become accustomed to with her. Still, the epithet was a good one. Better to remember where she belonged, far away from the likes of me.
“Fortunes to win. And, from my understanding, soon-to-be one. You certainly act the part well.”
“Humph,” she pouted, sinking just the slightest bit lower in her seat, perfect posture collapsing an infinitesimal amount. “Well, if, on your travels, you come across a lady or gentleman who selects novels for others’ perusal, you should let them know they have excellent taste. And their efforts are appreciated.”
“If I meet such a person, I’ll be sure to let them know.”
Her gaze met mine, steady, sincere. “Thank you.”
