“I beg your pardon?”
She did wish she didn’t enjoy the deepness of his voice so much, like he was inviting her into a secret world the two of them shared. Slowly she began walking toward him. “Earlier, you opened the book and immediately began reading.” Or pretended to. “But no ribbon, slip of paper, or favor from a ladylove marked your place. The corner has not been bent. I can detect no means by which you could succeed at such a feat, so how did you know precisely where you left off?”
He studied her intently, the way one did someone they were measuring up in order to determine if they could be trusted. “I’ve read it before.” He waved his hand in a gesture to encompass the entire room. “I’ve read them all before. I like to open them randomly and start reading.”
She lowered herself to the sofa. “You’ve read all these books?”
“Yes.”
“And the ones in your bedchamber?”
“Those as well.”
“Hence, you’ve been here long enough to read each one?”
“No, I bring books I’ve already read.”
“Why?”
He released a long, slow breath, and she could see that he was striving to determine how best to explain. “These books... I draw comfort from them. I enjoy spending time with characters I know or going on adventures I’ve already been on. I can open these books to any page and I’m immediately... transported to someplace I know will... bring me... contentment.” He shook his head. “I fear I sound rather mad.”
“No, I never thought of it that way. I read a book and, when I’m finished, I never go back to it. I’m too eager to read the next one. I want the new, not the familiar. But I find no fault with either approach. And it’s such a perfect day for becoming lost in a story. I don’t suppose you could recommend one for me.” She was interested in reading one of his favorite novels because she thought doing so might reveal something about him. How could a story be a favorite and not in some way be a reflection of the man?
“I don’t know you well enough to know what you might enjoy,” he said.
Therefore, to know him she was going to have to let him know her better. She supposed she could just randomly select a book, but of a sudden, she wanted him to do the choosing. “I fancy stories that offer hope and by the end bring me joy. Or even better, make me sigh and hold it close. It’s allright if it saddens me in the middle, but if I have any tears at the end, they have to be because I’m happy for the characters. I want someone to fall in love. I want toseethem fall in love.”
“Frankenstein fell in love with his monster. I have that book somewhere around here,” he said drolly.
She smiled softly, even though she experienced a little discomfort doing so. She wanted to believe he was teasing and not being an utter arse. “I think the scientist was more in love with himself. The story made me rather sad. I felt sorry for the... creature. But he wasn’t the real monster. Frankenstein was.”
He arched a brow. “I’m surprised you read it when it doesn’t meet your requirement for happy tears at the end.”
“When people are mentioning books they’ve read, or plays they’ve attended, or operas, or avenues for new entertainments... I find it useful to be knowledgeable about those things so I don’t stand there like a ninny with conversations going on around me—and not being able to contribute or offer insights. Being a gentleman’s mistress isn’t all bedding, you know.”
He scrutinized her as though she’d said something significant. After what seemed eons and was at least three lightning flashes, he asked, “Have you readGreat Expectations?”
She shook her head. “Dickens’s stories are a little too realistic.”
He set aside what he’d been reading, got up, walked over to a stack of books, and took a tome from the bottom. He returned to his place and setthe novel between them. “The character Pip falls in love.”
She ran her finger along the spine. “Are they together at the end?”
“You’ll have to read it.”
She picked up the book and folded back the cover. “Ah, Charles Dickens signed this one.”
“Yes, my father knew him, quite well actually, as did I by association.”
“What was he like?”
“I was quite a bit younger and too much in awe to really notice.” He opened his book—to a different page, she noted—and turned his attention to it.
End of discussion, then. Only she wasn’t quite ready for it to be finished. “I shared with you what I like to read. What do you favor?”
Very slowly he closed the book and turned his head toward her. His eyes had gone that dark pewter again, and she was beginning to suspect they did that whenever he was aroused. She didn’t think she was doing anything particularly provocative. She merely wanted a little more conversation.
But his gaze was intense, serious, his breathing slow and steady. He was still, so very still. He reminded her of a scorpion that had been on display in a glass case at the insect symposium. They’d dropped a huge spider into the enclosure. Both creatures had circled around the inner edges until suddenly the scorpion had gone deathly still—
