Page 32 of Counting on Love

“You needn’t. I’m going now.” She stood. “Perhaps you might direct me to the library if the Earl permits visitors.”

“Oh, he never minded, milady. And I’m certain Lord Taverston won’t. I’ll show you.”

The maid led her away from the breakfast parlor, down a long corridor. She could hear a faint whistling of the wind outside, and it grew chillier the farther they walked. She pulled her shawl tighter. This might not have been such a good idea.

Near the end of the corridor, the maid stopped abruptly, curtsied again, and said, “That’s the door there. It won’t be locked.” She giggled. “Mr. Taverston says there’s nothing there to steal.” Then she gasped, looking mortified. “Beg pardon, milady. I didn’t mean…”

Georgiana smiled. She rather liked that the poor girl was a little gauche but trained well enough to recognize when she’d said something amiss. A lax household would be terrible, and she didn’t expect Lady Iversley would be lax. But Georgiana disliked households where the servants were all impeccable and all terrified.

“I’m just going to keep myself out of the way until the others wake.”

“Yes, miss,” she murmured, curtsying again and then hurrying away.

Georgiana opened the door. It swung soundlessly on its hinges. For all it was tucked away as an afterthought, the room seemed well maintained. It was even a little warmer than the hall had been. She glanced about and noticed a small brazier set near the wall, in front of a curtain that must be keeping out drafts, and a second curtain, parted only enough to let in a little light. Surely the brazier was not lit. That would be foolish, an unattended fire in a library.

Unless, she thought, nose crinkling with distaste as she looked around, they hoped to burn the room down. What a sorry excuse for a library!

The carpet was nice at least, thick underfoot and woven with the Earl’s coat of arms. There were two leather chairs with end tables in corners and an overstuffed kissing chair near the right wall. The left wall’s shelves held rows and rows of what appeared to be account books. Lord help her. She moved to the right wall and scanned. Hardly better.

Oh! For a moment, she didn’t dare breathe.

The Principles of Analytical Calculation.

She was dreaming. None of this was real. She was still in bed next to Alice.

She ran her fingertip down the spine. It felt real.

Timidly, she pulled it from the shelf and opened it. Then put it to her nose and breathed in the scent. It was real. Heavens, her fingers were trembling. She had never seen a copy before; it was not the sort of book her subscription library lent out. She hadn’t dared ask Father to purchase it. Oh! Her knees felt weak.

She stole a peek at the page she had turned to at random. But the words and notations swam before her eyes. She shut it quickly. She had weeks to pore over it. Perhaps a lifetime. She was not going to sully the experience by attempting to read a page when she hadn’t slept in two days.

When she replaced it, gently, onto the shelf, she saw Newton’s Principia. An old friend. Smiling to herself, she picked it up and took it to the kissing chair. Settling in, tucking her feet up beneath her, plumping up the pillows, wrapping her shawl tighter—though, in truth, it was warmer than she had first thought it would be—she opened the book. She would read the preface—again. That would require no great effort and, oh! She could think of nothing more soothing to her unsettled heart.

*

Reginald rubbed his eyes and realized he’d been staring at the same column for several minutes without actually seeing the figures. They would not add up. His scratch paper was covered with numbers, tallied, and crossed out. This was a waste of time.

In anticipation of the day’s festivities, he’d come early to his cubbyhole to work for an hour or two on the manuscript. It had been months since he’d sent any pages back to Bastion. The man had likely given up expecting more. But he couldn’t concentrate on the Greek when the ledgers lay there before him accusingly. If he pushed on through, he should shortly have the books finished and ready to present to Benjamin. Then he could get back to his Greek. But his brain was not working properly. He kept skipping numbers and adding wrong.

He needed a bit of fresh air. Unfortunately, the morning fog had not burned off and it was now starting to drizzle. Which meant—God only knew what—card games or poetry readings or, Lord help him, charades. The puzzles were always so obvious. He had to pretend to be stumped or else he would annoy his fellow players.

Hopefully, the bulk of the entertaining would be Jasper’s responsibility, aided by Olivia and Mother. It would be wearisome having to witness his brother courting. Wearisome and embarrassing.

Well. He could go have another cup of coffee, and take it out to the small terrace where it was roofed. He stood and rattled back the curtain.

A body sprang, with a startled shriek, from the kissing chair, and something thudded to the floor.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, his heart banging in his chest.

A lady stood before him. A houseguest. Lady Georgiana or Miss Fogbotham? Good God. He drew in a steadying breath.

Whoever it was, she moved her leg, her foot he supposed, with two quick jerks as if to nudge under the chair the book that she had dropped. They all read those silly novels. He didn’t know why they imagined it was a secret.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, pulling her shawl up over her shoulders like a surrogate dignity. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“Neither did I.”

She’d been exceptionally quiet. Asleep, obviously. Her hair was mashed to one side and her eyes were a bit puffy. Surely this was the cousin. He tried to set her at ease. She was, after all, a guest in their home.