One would think I would be gleeful, considering my situation, but I only felt a hollow sense of accomplishment. Once I accepted Mr. Clodwick’s proposal, there would be no going back. But then again, with Mr. Ashworth as my alternative, it wasn’t much of a decision. I had recurring nightmares for years about the day he and his friends had found the story I had been writing—reading it out loud and laughing over it. I had cried for hours in my hiding spot, long after I had secretly observed the most humiliating moment of my life.
Mr. Ashworth had never been kind to me during any of our family visits, but this had solidified my dislike of him. Dislike might be too weak a word. Iloathedhim.
Writing was part of me, and that would never change. I slaved over each word I wrote, breathing life into my work with fragments of my soul. I would never, ever marry a man who belittled my purpose on this earth.
Mr. Clodwick might be an interesting choice to some, but a man who perceived beauty in brushstrokes and handcrafted sculptures would surely appreciate the allure of captivating stories and memorable turns of phrase. It might not be a love match, but it was the only way I knew how to be happy.
Chapter 5
Rowan
Every small town ought to have a proper bookshop. Inkwell Books Etc. was proving to be a delightful way to pass the time. While the majority of books were for sale, the proprietor, Mr. Wordsworth, showed me a selection on a shelf near the back that belonged to his lending library. The book I had selected yesterday had been my sole companion for the entire evening, and I had crafted a half-page synopsis along with my opinion of the work to be printed in the Quarterly Review.
I had been writing reviews since my second term at Oxford, and for some insane reason beyond me, people enjoyed reading my thoughts on various works of literature. Publishers had begun sending me presentation copies of newly released works so I could bring attention to their books with my reviews. If only I had more time in Quillsbury, I had a feeling I would find another gem or two in this bookshop to share about. But as my carriage would be ready soon, my present goal was to return my book and part ways with the quaint little town.
Finding my way to the shelf of worn spines, I searched for the alphabetical spot for Samuel Richardson’s novel. A thick volume shifted on the other side of the shelf, opening a window of space between the books. A most beautiful face appeared in the gap, capturing my complete attention.
I grinned. “We meetagain, Miss Page.”
Miss Page’s pretty smile, along with her head and shoulders, was framed perfectly between the rows of books. “Good morning, Mr. Prologue. How are your carriage repairs coming?”
“Excellent. The smith should have it ready at the turn of the hour.”
She shifted a book in her arms. “I am so pleased for you. Where do your travels take you next?”
“Sadly, a place that cannot compare to Quillsbury.”
“It is delightful here, is it not?” She set her arm on the shelf and casually dropped her chin on it.
I stepped closer without invitation. “Yes, the people here are . . .” I paused, wondering if I dared describe her. “Charming,” I finished.
A blush colored the tips of Miss Page’s ivory cheeks lightly dotted with freckles. “Surely, you appreciate the books as well. This is the second time we have met in this very place.”
“Indeed, I always appreciate good books.” At the moment, I also very much appreciated the lovely vision in front of me. She wasn’t an exceptional beauty that men would trip over to be near, but I found her fine features to be just to my taste. Her bright, intelligent eyes to the round curves of her lips . . .
The thought of her mouth pulled me back to reality like a splash of cold water to the face.
I was loyal to Miss Delafield, even if our engagement was not yet finalized. Since that fateful day on the ship, I had kept myself aloof from other women because of my promise. Never had I felt such a powerful pull of temptation to do otherwise. I cleared my throat and shifted my thoughts and our conversation to safer ground.
“Unfortunately, the book I borrowed did not live up to my expectations.” I lifted the copy ofThe History of Sir Charles Grandisonso she might see it. “Have you read it?”
“Oh, yes. I thought it was quite good. Why did you not care for it?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had read it too. I frowned at the black cover with gold script. “I liked the epistolary form well enough, but Sir Charles is too perfect to be realistic.”
“There is nothing wrong with a virtuous hero,” she argued.
I shook my head. “The problem is that thereis nothing wrongwith him. It is in our flaws that we are unique and relatable.” I made a mental note to add that to my review.
She scoffed. “I must disagree. Sir Charles would be the paragon of a husband. The only part of the book that was unrealistic is Harriet Byron’s constant mooning over him.”
I chuckled, surprised and pleased to have a woman speak her mind without simpering about. “And here I thought mooning was in a woman’s nature.” Though I did not expect Miss Delafield to do so, part of me wished this woman in front of me would.
Miss Page scrunched up her nose. “For some, perhaps. But you must remember it was a man who wrote this story.”
A devilish grin crossed my face. “A fair point indeed.”
She gave a delicate shrug. “I suppose a man would want a woman who is obsessed with him.”
