My rebuttal shot from my mouth. “And a woman would want a perfect husband.”
Miss Page laughed, and not in a soft, demure way. “You are right. It is not a very realistic book, is it?”
I shook my head, quite enthralled with our conversation—indeed, quite enthralled with Miss Page herself. “No, but your opinion is enlightening. I might have taken the text too seriously and forgotten the element of entertainment. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.” My friends were not voracious readers as I was, and it was rare Ihad someone to discuss books with. It was why I had begun to write my book reviews to begin with. Perhaps that’s why speaking to someone who appreciated literary analysis and spoke with such candor was so thoroughly enjoyable.
“You are most welcome,” she said.
I reminded myself of the man she hoped to marry to keep my thoughts firmly in place. “I do hope your intended enjoys books as much as you do.”
“He is partial to art.” Miss Page’s smile dimmed. “But he is of the gentle type and will allow me to read to my heart’s content.”
I could not interpret her expression. Did this please or disappoint her? With a woman as passionate as Miss Page, I could at least conclude that she would have a love match. How could someone not fall in love with her? She was nearly as perfect as the fictional Sir Charles, but with a spirited personality that made her unique and desirable.
“Then have you secured his proposal?” My stomach tightened while I anticipated her response. I wasn’t staying in Quillsbury beyond the hour, and I would never see Miss Page again, but the selfish devil in me did not want her to answer yes.
“I am invited to dinner tonight at his home with my sister and her husband. He never entertains company, so I hope a proposal is imminent.”
“Congratulations,” I whispered. I did not mean the words enough to utter them any louder.
“It is all thanks to you,” she said. “I focused on his interests, like you advised.”
“So no bribery?” I teased.
Her cheeks took on a pink hue again. “Not quite.”
Of course, she did not have to bribe him. Any sensible man of his acquaintance would be overjoyed to learn they had secured Miss Page’s regard.
“Haven’t you selected a book yet?” a feminine voice at the end of Miss Page’s side of the bookshelf called to her. “I secured the poems Miss Peterson recommended, hidden on a bottom shelf, and my nose is itching abominably.”
Miss Page gave a compassionate frown to the woman just beyond my sight. “Forgive me. I am ready.”
The woman sneezed. “Good. I will wait outside.”
When she passed by my side of the shelf, I glanced her way. There was something vaguely familiar about her profile, but I did not have a decent look to identify her.
“I must go,” Miss Page said, her reluctant tone pulling at me. “My sister is waiting.”
Ah! Her sister. That must’ve been why she seemed so familiar. She resembled Miss Page.
Miss Page offered me a parting smile. “I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Prologue.”
“Thank you.” The silly nickname repeated in my mind.
Prologue.
Was that all I was ever meant to be to someone? Days ago, I was not just content with a future of that nature, but I had planned on it. With every step Miss Page took to the door, I felt an invisible thread between us being pulled taut. I had to grip the shelf beside me to keep from chasing after her and insisting she consider me instead of that fool she was chasing.
For the first time in six years, I questioned my life plan. When I married Miss Delafield, she wouldn’t care to know anything about me beyondwhat she already knew, let alone my thoughts on books I read—not after the vexing memories of our youth together. When the door shut behind Miss Page, breaking the thread between us forever, I sighed in bitter disgust.
I suddenly wished I had never come to Quillsbury. I had never felt more dissatisfied.
Chapter 6
Arabella
The door of Inkwell Books Etc. closed behind me with a thud of finality. A cool summer breeze encircled my drooping shoulders, and yet part of me felt alive from my stimulating conversation with Mr. Prologue. If anyone should write literary reviews for the papers and magazines, it should be a man like Mr. Prologue, with principles. Admittedly, I had only read a few of Mr. Ashworth’s reviews, but only because they were not to my taste at all, and I refused to sully my thoughts with his perpetual rudeness. His inflated ego had marred his view of what made literature worth reading.
Mr. Prologue’s intellectual insights, however, had made me reconsider a text that I had been quite certain about. If only I had been promised as an infant to a man as wonderful as him, I would not be in this ridiculous situation chasing Mr. Clodwick. A regretful sigh sang from my lungs, and I pushed away from the door. I would always remember my fleeting acquaintance with Mr. Prologue fondly.
