Chapter 3
Rowan
The town of Quillsbury and I were meant to become better acquainted. At least that is how I comforted myself when the smithy in town delivered the sorry news about my carriage wheel. After hours of waiting for news, I learned the damage was beyond repair. A completely new wheel had to be built, which meant I had to stay for at least another day and a half.
My courage to face Arabella Delafield had better not fail by then.
I checked myself into the Wit’s End Inn, ordered dinner in my room, and ate down my frustrations with a rather surprisingly pleasant meal. Admittingly, I had had rather low expectations with the inn’s name.
“Hastings,” I said to my valet between bites. “A slight detour in plans should not affect my ability to win the bet before my friends, do you think?” Only three of us remained unmarried, and the race was on. Was I fooling myself to think having a promised arrangement meant I could beat them to the altar?
Hastings paused in pressing my jacket, smoothing back his already impeccable brown hair. “It is not likely, sir.”
Hastings was not a man of many words and had a serious temperament with a dry sense of humor. With the wisdom of being ten years my senior, he had become a trusted advisor to me—and likely not by his own personal choice. He had married a few years back, and I valued his insight on a subject I knew little about. Besides, Hastings had befriended myfriends’ valets, and based on the information he’d gleaned, his opinion about the gentlemen was often correct.
“Good,” I said, pushing the potatoes around on my plate. “Because I considered taking my horse and riding ahead to Writcombe, but as I am already ahead of schedule, I have decided a little extra time might allow Miss Delafield to adjust to the idea of our marriage.”
“The idea has merit, sir,” Hastings replied.
As did the idea of refining my practiced speech from the carriage. I could write a dozen literary reviews for the most prestigious magazines and newspapers, but a proposal of marriage was far more delicate. I had to be selective with my words. If I had not forgotten my feelings about Miss Delafield from twelve years ago, there was a strong chance that she had not either.
A stark image of her thirteen-year-old self flashed in my vision. She stood hovering over the fireplace as she casually tossed a book into the scorching flames and watched it burn. The twisted sort of smile about her mouth had haunted my dreams for years.
A shiver ran down my back just thinking about it. Was I quite certain I wanted to marry a book murderer? I blinked and shook my head. Of course I was. I had a bet to win. I had the Third Folio to claim. I had a duty to our parents. Specifically, I had the promise I had made to my mother, God rest her soul.
Sheer determination finally lulled me to sleep that night after a few recurring memories of Miss Delafield’s haunting smile over the fire. It was so clear, it was as if I had seen it again that very day. I slept well enough after that and was up early the next morning for a walk about town. Quillsbury was quite lovely at this hour. Proprietors tidied their storefronts of the otherwise empty cobblestone streets. Lights flickered in shop windows, opening for another busy day. If I had been at home, Iwould still have been asleep, having melted my candles into tallow stubs from reading into the early hours of the morning. I had to admit, I rather liked the quiet, slow pace at this hour of the day.
A feminine figure entered the bakery just ahead of me, the familiarity causing me to pause. Was that Miss First Page?
I had no intention of writing a second page together since I was about to be married, but I had left the inn without breakfast, and a baked good would be just the thing. Surely, a paragraph together wouldn’t be too much with an intriguing respecter of literature. A strong waft of yeast and treacle greeted me the moment I pulled open the door. Miss Page, with her tidy brown hair below her straw bonnet, and a woman I presumed to be her maid with red hair and a serviceable gray gown, stood at the counter conversing with a plump woman with white hair peeking out of her mobcap.
“A fresh batch of hot cross buns will be ready in a snap,” the baker assured me.
“Sounds delicious,” I said, coming up beside Miss Page. “I will have one of those as well.”
“Yes, sir.” The baker stepped away from the counter to see to our orders.
Miss Page turned to me, the flowers on her white day gown the same arresting shade of blue as her eyes—a shade that seemed both unnervingly familiar and so wholly unique at the same time.
“Mr. Prologue, we meet again.”
I felt compelled to explain. “My carriage wheel broke, and my departure was delayed. It appears I am a guest at the Wit’s End for at least another night.”
“How dreadful about your carriage.”
“Thank you. It is less dreadful when I have an excuse to bump into someone who appreciates Shakespeare as much as I do. I thought I was the only one wandering about town at this early hour. I am glad to be mistaken.”
Her shrug made the chestnut curls by her face dance. “I could not sleep.”
Only then did I notice the slight darkening under her eyes. “Surely not because of a certain man who had you jumping to the edge of your seat yesterday?” I raised a brow.
She bit her lip, dropping her gaze. “It feels silly sharing my thoughts with a stranger—”
“Uh, uh. A prologue, not a stranger.” The only people I shared confidence with were my close friends and occasionally Hastings. And yet, I was asking a near stranger to do so with me. Had I been taken in by those down-turned sapphire eyes? In my defense, a man could write poems about their distinct almond shape, their bright luminescent hue, and the thick frame of lashes. If only I could pin what they reminded me of.
Her small smile grew. “You’re right. Being a prologue changes everything. I should have no problem telling you then that the man I hope to propose to me has not yet realized my expectation for him. Because of extenuating circumstances, time is of the essence.”
This man was an idiot. Miss Page had plenty to recommend herself—she had beauty, was well-read without the shy traits of a wallflower, and had a first-rate personality. “Your dilemma sounds like a justifiable reason to lose sleep. What do you plan to do?”
