“Indeed, Lady Inverhall,” he said with a warm smile, his eyes twinkling. “A new shipment from the publisher just arrived yesterday withThe Highland Hunt. I also have a great assortment of the latest poetry collections for you, if you would like to look.”
“Ye are too kind!”
“Your Grace,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said. “Is there anything I can help you find this afternoon as well?”
“Just perusing today, thank you,” he said as he wandered over to a section on military history, pulling down a volume on Napoleonic strategy.
She lingered in the aisle, watching him bend slightly over the leather-bound volume he had pulled from the shelf. His broad shoulders hunched in concentration, fingers tracing the margins of the text as though memorizing every line. The faint crease between his brows, the way his lips pressed together in thought—she had never seen him so absorbed, so entirely focused. It was arresting.
A part of her wanted to reach out, to disturb the moment, but another part simply delighted in watching him like this, so utterly engrossed that he did not even notice her approach.
“You like these sorts of books, Yer Grace?” she asked softly, stepping closer, her voice a gentle intrusion into his world.
“I have studied military strategy since I was a boy,” he replied, not looking up.
“Were they yer bedtime stories?” Elspeth asked lightly, the corner of her mouth tugging in a teasing smile. She caught the brief twitch at the corners of his lips, as if he were resisting a smile.
Hugo held the hefty volume with care, the leather cover worn and fragrant with age. “This is an edition of Napoleon’s memoirs I have not encountered before. An English translation, freshly imported from Paris,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “I find the best way to understand a battle is to study the mind of the man who fought it. Even if he was but a diminutive Frenchman.”
“The best way to understand a man is to understand the stories he loves to read,” Elspeth countered, sliding a small, well-worn book from a nearby shelf, a collection of Greek myths and folktales, its edges soft with use.
Hugo glanced at it, the faint curl of his lips betraying his scorn. “Superstition and fancy. Not much use for a man who seeks logic and order.”
“Logic and order cannae explain everything, can they? I ken the life of Napoleon well. He was a voracious reader of all things, includin’ poetry, drama, and mythologies.”
“Is that so?” His brow arched, and she could hear the hesitation, the unfamiliar softness in his voice.
“Logic and order daenae explain why people believe in witches, or why an old man might fill his life with books instead of ledgers,” she said, stepping closer, the sway of her hips unintentional yet deliberate.
He looked at her then, from his book to hers, eyes narrowing slightly, curiosity replacing his earlier dismissal. “Did Napoleon read Scottish fairytales?”
“Most likely,” she replied, lifting a collection of Scottish Folk Tales. “He read everything. Ye need to ken the strategy of an opponent, but ye also need to understand the magic of their land, the power of their stories.”
“Hand me that book, then,” he said, shaking his head, a faint exasperation in his tone. “And any books you would like to have at the house.”
“That is most generous, Yer Grace,” she said, warmth spreading in her chest. “Ye daenae mind if I pick up a few?”
“You are a guest of my house, my lady. Pick up anything you wish.”
Her hand brushed against his as she reached for the book, a bold, deliberate touch that startled her with its closeness but feltright all the same. The warmth of his palm lingered under hers, a jolt and a comfort all at once.
“Let’s make a deal, Yer Grace,” she said, eyes dancing. “Ye read one of me stories, and I can read one of yer choosin’. We’ll find a balance, just like the best tales do. A bit of order and a bit of chaos.”
He looked at her then, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.
His voice dropped to that low, rumbling tone that always seemed to vibrate through her chest. “A deal it is, Lady Inverhall.”
The scent of old paper and dust gave way to the sharp, bracing air of the London street as they walked out with their books in hand, giving them to the driver to store.
As they stepped into the waiting carriage, Elspeth’s hand was still tingling from Hugo’s touch. She sat down across from him, opening and closing her hands in her lap.
The small space of the cab felt suddenly charged, the silence between them a palpable thing as she thought desperately of what to say.
“I have an appointment with the land agent now,” Hugo finally said. “But I received word from the driver that he is at dinner. I must meet him at his club in an hour.”
“Oh,” Elspeth said, unsure of what to do with herself. “I can head back to the townhouse, if ye like.”
“We can dine first. There is a new establishment on Oxford Street that is suitable.”
