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“Letters she believes we may find useful in Italy. Apparently she has been considering our journey.”

Charlotte smiled. “Did she suggest we abandon it?”

“She suggested we stay longer.”

“How sensible of her.”

“I thought you might approve,” he said.

He set the letters beside their map, on the desk where the lamplight pooled. A book lay open near the lamp, marking the place Charlotte had reluctantly left that afternoon, its pages ruffled by the draft from the window. On the shelves behind him, his volumes had begun to mingle with hers, a battered atlas leaning against a volume of poems.

He had acquired considerably more than the two shelves they had negotiated.

Charlotte had discovered she liked finding evidence of him throughout the room, the half-finished cup of tea, the pencil behind the inkwell, the rumpled cushion where he read.

Alexander caught her looking, and a faint flush rose along his jaw.

“I can move those,” he said.

“I was thinking they look very well there.”

“Then I shall leave them,” he said, with relief.

She crossed to him and straightened his coat where it had folded beneath his arm, smoothing the wool with her palms.

“Your mother loved her gift.” Charlotte smoothed a small crease from his lapel, smiling at the memory of his mother turning the pages.

“I hoped she would.” Alexander glanced down, a smile curving his mouth. “Though I confess I was relieved when she opened it.”

“You made her very happy.” Charlotte rested her palm against his chest. “She could see how much care you had taken.”

He covered her hand with his, and his gaze softened. “Thank you for your story.”

“I enjoyed writing it.” Her throat tightened a little as she remembered his mother reaching for her hand. “I had wanted her to know what her kindness meant to me.”

“I am glad.” He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, lingering there before drawing her closer.

She smoothed his lapel again, lingering on the small motion. “And I enjoyed watching you give her the book.”

He caught her hand and kissed her fingers, his lips warm against her knuckles. “I was afraid I should never finish it.”

“You did.” Charlotte smiled, smoothing her hand over his lapel.

“With two unfortunate accounts of my childhood.” Alexander shook his head ruefully, though amusement warmed his eyes.

“I am sure they were scarcely noticeable.” She lowered her gaze, hoping to conceal the smile tugging at her lips.

“Scarcely noticeable?” He tipped his head to catch her eye. “My mother read one aloud twice.”

Charlotte laughed, and she caught his sleeve as he drew her closer. “I found it illuminating,” she said, with a sly smile.

He laughed and drew her closer. Charlotte went willingly, resting her hands on his chest and feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath her palms. Through the open door came the quiet sounds of their household settling for the evening, the clink of china, a footman’s low murmur, the soft click of a latch. Dinner would be ready soon, and afterward, perhaps a little reading. They might return to their map. They might spend the entire evening talking and discover, as they so often did, that neither had opened a book.

She had once thought loving him would require her to surrender the life she had made.

Instead, she found herself looking forward to coming home so she could share it with him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly.