“And how about you?” Randolph asked Angelica.
“Ordinarily…” She stopped herself and glanced about. “This is a lovely shop.”
“I’m glad you think so. I’ve always had a particular fondness for books. They allowed me to pretend I was someone else. They offered escape.”
“What were you escaping from?” She asked the question quietly, almost reverently, as if being given an insight to his soul truly mattered.
With anyone else, he would have ended the revelation there with a shrug of his shoulders and a flip answer. But not with her. She deserved better. “My brother is ten years younger than I. We never had much in common.”
“Where is he now?”
“In Scotland, attempting to gain his independence, as he put it.”
“And your parents?” she asked softly.
Randolph grimaced. “My father woke up one day and decided he’d had enough of being an earl. Only a hastily written note left behind on his desk informed me he’d gone to America.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“He writes me every now and then. Usually when he’s running low on funds.” Randolph shifted his weight and propped one shoulder against the bookcase beside him. “Meanwhile my mother, the timid lady who lived in constant fear of his temper, used the occasion of his departure as an excuse to leave for France indefinitely.”
“One could say you have something of a temper as well.”
He knew she didn’t mean the words as an insult, merely an observation, yet his skin still stretched and tightened while heat began rising to the top of his head. “Don’t ever compare me to my father,” he told her darkly, then swallowed and forced himself to relax upon noting her startled expression. Had he just proven her point? He sighed. “Again, I apologize for the other evening, especially if I frightened you. It really wasn’t my intention but I cannot—”
“Shh… It’s all right. It could not be helped.”
His fingers flexed. “Nevertheless. I should have practiced greater control.”
She stared at him and he stared back, their gazes locked. A moment passed, then two, three. “My preferred genre includes all things gothic,” she suddenly blurted.
He almost laughed. It really couldn’t be helped. She was so wonderfully surprising, he probably would have kissed her again if they’d been somewhere more private. Heaven only knew he’d been able to think of little else but that one kiss they’d shared since it had happened. Her response had been remarkable and the hunger he’d experienced… God, it was enough to drive a man mad.
He cleared his throat, allowed a crooked smile. “Then I would expect you to have a greater appreciation for my home than you do.” It was meant as a joke of sorts, but she did not laugh or smile in response.
“The books I read tend to include supernatural occurrences and the macabre.” Her voice faltered. She clasped her hands together. Swallowed. “While I enjoy such stories, I have no interest in experiencing them for myself.”
“Of course not. Who would?”
She stared at him and he caught something in her eyes, something fleeting in her expression – a hint of interest almost entirely obscured by whatever uncertainty plagued her.
He cleared his throat. “Have you readNorthanger Abbey?”
“By Miss Austen?” She scrunched her nose. “I’m not a big fan of romance.”
He smiled. And then, because the shopkeeper and Miss Harlow were quite engrossed in a lengthy poetic discussion, he grabbed Angelica by her hand and pulled her toward the back of the shop.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to seduce you?” He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “What do you think? Perfect spot for it, is it not?”
The edge of her mouth twitched, her lips began quivering, and then, for the first time in two days, she actually laughed. The sound punched him squarely in his chest, and God help him if it didn’t feel good or right. Whatever her worries might be, most likely pertaining to her mother’s financial straits and her own need for marriage, perhaps with a touch of doubt relating to him, he’d convince her they were unfounded. They would be good together. They had to be because otherwise…
He supposed he could always travel to London, endure a Season while taking his time to select someone else. Except he didn’t want anyone else. He wantedher– Lady Angelica with her lack of pretense and forthright honesty. A woman ready to champion those who could not defend themselves, who voiced her opinion without apology and kissed him back with fervor.
“Here we are,” he said once they reached the part of the shop where they’d find the book he sought. Four bookcases stood between them and Miss Harlow, offering them the sort of privacy they ought not to be permitted. Still holding Angelica’s hand, he placed it against the spine of the book he wanted her to select. “This is not the average romance novel. Indeed, it stands apart from all of Miss Austen’s other works to the point where I dare say you’d find it intriguing.”
Her gloved fingers traced the gold embossed title on the first volume. And then she glanced up at him with the sort of profound curiosity that threatened to either stop his heart or make it race faster. “Have you read it yourself?”
