Page 110 of The Betrothal

Ben radiated with joy as he pulled me around the space, pointing out his father’s writing and his special interests. I noted the publications on family studies and books I now registered as his father’s works on the benefit of ‘family-enabled societal structures’, the core concepts which made up so many of my modules at university.

I smiled politely, and Ben saw it for what it was, tugging me away to the furthest end of the large library until we arrived at a vast arched window with the shape of a long reading chair below, shrouded in yet more cloths. Ben found the section of books where bound manuscripts became colourful covers, and he stopped.

I looked up at his face, golden in the sunlight, as he swept his eyes over them.

“These were my mother’s,” he whispered happily. “She loved to read.”

My chest clenched with sorrow for the boy who lost his mother, the mother who chose him.

He turned a beaming smile on me. “Go on.” He ushered me forwards. “Take a look.”

I scanned the spines; they spoke volumes about who his mother was. Romance novels mixed with books on children, gardening, and tucked away into the corner, a cracked spine of a book on nurturing neurodivergence.

My gaze caught on a weathered blue spine I recognised immediately. Ben was quietly observing me, and he followed my gaze. “This one?”

I smiled. “It’s my favourite,” I admitted.

He pulled it from the shelves, opened it, and flicked through the early pages. “The Blue Castle,” he read.

“Hmm,” I mumbled. “It’s about an unloved and deeply trapped young woman who decides to break free of her family. She runs away and ends up falling in love, living in the wilderness with a man who defies societal norms. It’s a story about choosing yourself and having the courage to seek out what you want, despite expectations.”

Ben was smiling. “Interesting.”

“Uh-huh.”

He moved, clapping the book closed and sweeping behind me to snag the cloth free and reveal a wide-looking chaise. Something that was certainly not an antique but had been customised to pretend to be one.

The green-grey velvet cushion must have extended five feet from the back, and a deep footstool met it. It was beautiful.

Ben sat, drawing himself up against the back. He plumped the smaller cushions and spread his legs.

Turning his face to me, the picture of sincere innocence, he tapped the space between his legs, then paused. Rising to root around under a wooden window seat, he returned, tearing open the vacuum-sealed pack of a blanket. He reclined into the chair and tapped the seat once more.

I clambered over his legs and settled between them. Ben twisted to bring one leg to bracket me. I slowly lowered my head to his chest.

The blanket was thrown over our laps, the fresh clean scent of their fabric softener wafting from it, and the book placed on top.

I waited, settled comfortably, the thud of Ben’s heart soothing in the quiet space.

“Would you read it to me?” he asked softly.

“Really?” I asked.

“Of course.”

His hands came to wrap around me, and I cracked open the front cover, gulping at the first edition markings, and began to read.

“Right, you two,” Seb interrupted us. “You’ve had long enough. Alex is preparing our lunch and you, miss, require the full tour.” He lifted our blanket, finding us wrapped in each other, and pouted at the sight.

A gruff laugh came from Ben, vibrating through my body.

Seb offered us both his hands and helped us to stand.

“We have the drawing room, dining room – you’ve seen the great hall – there’s the morning room, billiards room, and I know you’ve spent some time in the orangery, but we’ve just restored a ton of the furniture.” Seb paused. “And the primary suite.”

Ben laughed again.

“Food in fifteen, Killer, so where to first?” he continued.