“While I should be consulting you for suggestions, after all, you’ve read every conduct guide ever written; thrice over. I think a tour would be best.”
“Only because they were the only things in our library,” she directed her attention toward Kate before turning to me. “I have more than enough embroidery to pass the time. You need not plan your day around me, Mr. Wayland.”
“I have no other engagements. Also, as I mentioned before, I have something I think will interest you. It’s in the library.”
She perked up, eyes luminous with interest. “The library?”
“Yes, it’s quite extensive.”
“The library? Or the thing you wish to show me?” She bit back a smirk, amused at her entendre.
“Juliet!”
She turned to Kate with feigned innocence. If I hadn’t seen the self-satisfied delight in her countenance mere seconds ago, I would have believed her ignorant facade. I liked this side of her. I wanted to learn all of her facets.
I rose and rounded the table to her side. She paused for a moment before taking the hand I provided. I could feel Kate’s eyes burning my back as I escorted her to the library.
* * *
JULIET
It was the first time we had touchedwithout a bloody handkerchief between us. My hand rested on his forearm, warm and solid beneath my touch. This was closer than he had ever been, at least when he was not rattling the foundations of my life. With a steadying breath, I was met with his scent for the first time. There was a hint of mint with vanilla and orange and the barest hint of ink underneath. The combination was sensual, masculine, intriguing.
My heart fluttered, and my stomach danced about. I had never felt like this at a man’s touch before. Not when I danced with His Grace, not when he slid my betrothal ring onto my finger, nor any other time I could recall. We were not even touching, not really. He was in half-dress. There were at least two layers of cloth between my hand and his arm. Still, the feeling was similar to my panics, but my breathing was steady, and it was an altogether pleasant sensation.
He led me around a corner through an open set of dark mahogany doors. I was immensely grateful for his solid warmth underneath me, the only thing keeping me upright when I saw it. Every single wall of the room was covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, painted a greenish blue. There were additional freestanding shelves, as well. A small cozy bench abutted one of them. Sunlight gleamed through each of the five windows, casting shadows. Charred ash, leather, and burnt candle scents perfumed the air. There were two small settees and a large, low mahogany table off in the corner near the expansive brick fireplace. And every single shelf was lined with books. I had thought the library at Grayson House was magnificent; it was nothing compared to this. This was the most beautiful room I had ever seen.
My strength returned. I broke away from his arm to peruse the nearest shelf. Seconds, minutes, and hours later, I had a pile on the nearby table. When I would find the time to embroider and mend my gowns was of little concern; not when faced with all this ink, paper, leather, and these stories. Mr. Wayland cleared his throat quietly, bringing me back to myself. Before I could offer apologies for my inattention, I caught sight of the fond, amused expression he wore.
In lieu of chastisement, he handed me another novel. I struggled to juggle the three in my hands to take his offering. With some effort, I managed to set those down on the table in favor of his,Mansfield Park.
“I believe you’re fond of this author. This is her latest. It was published just a month ago.”
I could feel the gaping expression on my face, unladylike in my floundering. There were no words, no way to express my gratitude. A book, so new, would have cost a fortune. I wished that I had worn my gloves. It felt wrong to touch something so precious with bare hands. I collapsed onto the nearest settee, reverently opening the cover—the tome cracked with disuse, no use. I had never held an untouched novel before. I brushed my fingers delicately over the title page with reverence.
I finally managed to stammer my gratitude and express a hope that he would allow me to read it when he finished.
“It’s yours. I bought it for you.”
I was speechless again. Never before had I received a gift of this magnitude. Reality slammed back into me with that thought. I could not possibly accept it.
The words that followed broke my heart. “I thank you, Mr. Wayland, but I could not possibly accept such a thing. It would be inappropriate.”
He hid his disappointment well, but it was still discernible in his eyes. “If it would make you feel more comfortable, we could call it a loan. Given how quickly you devoured the others, I should think you’ll need more reading material for your visit.”
“A loan. That would be acceptable,” I agreed, more eagerly than I should.
“A very long loan. It’s possible you could borrow it for so long that I forget to ask after it.”
I could not hide my smile at that thought.
“If you can bring yourself to leave the others behind, I thought we might take a tour of the grounds. There’s a spot I find has excellent light for reading, and I thought you might find it agreeable.”
“I should like that very much.”
“I shall meet you at the front entry. Shall we say in twenty minutes?”
I nodded my assent, reluctant to leave my new haven but eager for the opportunity to open the novel. The promise of his company had nothing to do with my enthusiasm.
