Page 14 of The Matrimonial Advertisement

“Farming manuals? Architectural journals?”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “Are those really the only kind of books you keep at the Abbey? I was certain I saw a copy of something by Mr. Dickens on your shelf.”

He flashed a wolfish grin at her. The brief movement tugged at the burns on the right side of his neck and jaw. It was a sobering reminder that Miss Reynolds would have far more to accustom herself to as his bride than the meager offerings in his library.

“I may have one or two of his novels,” he admitted.

“Which one or two?”

“Which are your favorites?”

She folded her hands at her waist, appearing to rest them on the swell of her skirts as she walked. “It’s quite hard to choose, really. I did find Hard Times to be rather instructive. And I greatly enjoyed reading The Old Curiosity Shop.”

Justin raised his brows. “You enjoyed the death of Little Nell?”

“No, not her death, but…it’s such a moving story.” She glanced up at him, her bonnet ribbons blowing in the wind behind her like two silken streamers. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Thornhill?”

What he thought was that she looked damnably pretty at the moment. Was it too soon to tell her so? If theirs was a traditional courtship and betrothal, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But what were the rules when one became engaged through a matrimonial advertisement? And did those rules even apply anymore? After the crude way in which he’d addressed her at the King’s Arms, a soft word or a compliment would likely be as nothing to her. He’d already proven himself to be a vulgar, mannerless brute.

“Justin,” he said gruffly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re engaged to be married, aren’t we? I see no reason why you must continue to call me Mr. Thornhill. My name is Justin. I give you leave to use it.”

“Oh.” Her voice was faint.

“What about you?” he pressed. “Or am I to address you as Miss Reynolds until we’ve solemnized our vows?”

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I wouldn’t prefer it. I would dislike it intensely.”

She took a quiet breath. “Well, in that case, I suppose you’d better call me Helena.”

“Helena,” he repeated. He tightened his hands at his back. “We proceed apace.”

“Indeed. Everything is moving so quickly.”

“Isn’t that rather the point?”

She tugged at the fingers of one of her gloves, little agitated movements that expressed her disquiet more eloquently than words ever could. “Yes, but—”

“But?”

“It will take some adjustment, won’t it? No matter our intentions.” Her eyes found his. “You must be patient with me.”

“Of course. Always.”

His words seemed to reassure her a little, but Justin would have had to be a fool not to recognize the lingering doubt that shadowed her gaze. She didn’t trust him. Not yet. And he couldn’t entirely blame her. Thus far, he’d done little to earn her confidence. Quite the opposite. He’d been too sullen. Too volatile. It was all well and good when he was growling orders at Boothroyd, but if he wanted to win the regard of Helena Reynolds, he was going to have to do better.

He made an effort to collect his scattered thoughts. “We were discussing Mr. Dickens.”

“So we were.”

“The Old Curiosity Shop, I believe.”

“You were about to tell me you didn’t like it.”