Isolde moved past her friend with a smile, stepping into the salon.
The salon was beautiful, carefully arranged to be comfortable, respectable, and pleasant.
Made up of two large, circular rooms, the walls first room was papered with bookshelves, top to bottom, with sliding ladders reaching up to the highest shelves. Lower bookcases formed a sort of maze, filling up the rest of the space. Sofas, chaise longues, and padded window seats allowed readers to sit and enjoy their books. There was tea to be had, too, and a long, curved mahogany counter – a present from Lord Bell, if Isolde remembered correctly – served as the area where subscribers checked their books in and out.
The second room, smaller than the first, was full of atlases, biographies, books of philosophy, mathematics, geometry, history, and so on. Lord Bell’s favourite room.
For her part, Isolde enjoyed the first room. That was where the novels and poetry could be found.
Depositing Pride and Prejudice at the counter, Isolde delved into the bookshelf-maze.
Perfect, she thought absently, running her fingers along the book spines. This is my place.
She had always felt safe among books, and the circulating library – Maria’s library – was nothing short of perfect. Her favourite place. No men to bother her – well, there were men, but not the rakish kind – and no noise. Just peace and quiet.
Peace and quiet and books.
In a place like this, one could forget almost entirely that a man such as Viscount Henley even existed.
On cue, Isolde turned a corner and walked face-first into Viscount Henley’s chest.
“Oof,” she gasped, staggering backwards. A pair of strong hands came out to steady her, brushing briefly against her shoulders. She pulled back reflexively, and the touch disappeared.
“Lady Isolde,” the viscount drawled. “What a surprise to see you here.”
I could say the same.
“I didn’t take you as a bookish gentleman,” Isolde heard herself say. She drew back a little further, putting more distance between them. Yes, distance was the key. If she could keep space between them, everything would be fine. That was what they had lacked in Isolde’s dream – distance.
She shouldn’t have thought of the dream. Images flashed up behind her eyes, of Viscount Henley and herself locked in a scandalously close embrace, her own breath catching in her throat.
Silly, really.
“I’m looking for a book,” he responded, knocking her out of her daze.
She cleared her throat, folding her hands demurely before herself. “Well, I assumed as much.”
He gave a tight grin. “I’m looking for a book written by… eh, A Lady.”
“Well, once again, you are in the right place.”
The grin widened, becoming a little more sincere. Isolde felt an answering tug on the corners of her mouth.
No. Stop it. The Ice Queen does not smirk.
“I’m afraid the author is anonymous, and this is her… second novel, I believe. I do not know the title, but,” he dug in apocket, and came up with a familiar volume, “she wrote this one already.”
Isolde snatched at the book before she could stop herself. “Sense and Sensibility! Why, I had no idea you enjoyed this book?”
“It’s not for me,” he answered, taking back the book and flipping through the pages. “My stepmother visited yesterday and asked me to procure it for my sister. The new novel, I mean. I had never heard of this…this Lady, but I read Sense and Sensibility after my stepmother left, and I must admit it was a remarkable read. I read it in its entirety, finishing it this morning.”
This time, Isolde couldn’t entirely fight back a smile.
“Well, I’m glad. She is one of my favourite authors. And I can help you find her latest novel – Pride and Prejudice, it is called.”
The viscount was listening to her, an odd look in his eyes. Intent, like a fox watching a hare.
No, nothing so predatory. Something intense, though, something that sent shivers through Isolde’s chest. She cleared her throat, smoothing out her bodice to distract herself.
