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“I’ve already seen the ballroom,” Lady Marcella informed him, turning on her heels and striding from the room.
Reginald followed her, conscious of his valet going along. If he’d been watching the situation, it might’ve been almost comical—a lord’s to-be bride hurrying through a tour of his own noble estate, while her future groom hurried to keep pace with her, accompanied by his harried valet.
“This estate was built by my prestigious ancestor in the seventeenth century,” Reginald said. “He wanted, like many of us now, a place to visit which existed outside of the busy life of London.”
Lady Marcella climbed the stairs quickly, her delicate hand trailing over the marble bannister. “I’ve yet to find an estate which was not built by a prestigious ancestor,” she said.
She lighted onto the floor, which was lined with rows of portraits. Many of them were Reginald’s deceased family members, but there were quite a few impressive pieces of art, too. His grandfather had been an avid art collector, and Reginald’s father had never found the heart to move any of the Renaissance portraits of old Saints and literary figures.
It was quite apparent that nothing he said would impress Lady Marcella. He’d already committed to giving her a tour of the estate, though, so Reginald felt as if he had little choice other than to finish what he’d started.
“On this floor, we’ve several bedrooms,” Reginald said. “We also have an impressive library.”
Lady Marcella halted her quick pace and whirled suddenly around. “Is it impressive?” she asked. “I think I ought to be the judge of that. Don’t you?”
“If you feel so inclined,” he replied.
Reginald stepped past the lady and pulled the door open. He wasn’t especially interested in reading himself. Books weren’t something which highwaymen, or reformed highwaymen, considered to be of particular interest. Still, the library with its ceiling-high shelves and thousands of books was the sort of place that Matthew Smythe would probably enjoy. His wife, too. Emma Smythe owned only one novel, a romance about a knight and his loving damsel, but she read it over and over.
It’s a pity I didn’t think to take a few books from here before I left for London. Father would’ve never noticed.
“Oh…” Lady Marcella murmured.
When Reginald glanced at the young woman, her eyes were wide with something like wonder. She seemed at a loss for words, and her coral lips were slightly parted. Those weresuchlovely, delectable lips. Reginald wondered how they might feel. They looked so soft and coral, like rose petals against Lady Marcella’s smooth, creamy skin.
“This is—I’ve always thought that my father had the most impressive library of anyone.”
Finally, he’d impressed her with something. Reginald was tempted to point out that she’d finallylikedsomething, but he remained quiet instead, watching and considering the lady.
She stepped to the shelves, looking as though she scarcely believed them. Lady Marcella raised a trembling hand and traced a finger along the spine of a gilded, leather-bound volume.
“Does ours rival his?” Reginald asked softly.
“It surpasses it,” Lady Marcella replied. “Ours is half this size. There must be thousands of volumes here. It would take a lifetime to read all of them.”
“Conveniently, you only have one.”
Lady Marcella turned to him, her eyes wide and guileless. “I—I think…” she trailed off.
“Yes?”
A sudden guarded expression crossed her face. It was strange, as if an open book had been suddenly closed before him. Lady Marcella turned her head away. “It is impressive,” she said. “That is all.”
“You’ve an interest in reading?”
“Anyone could tell you that. I read far more than a lady ought to. Does that bother you?”
Reginald frowned. “Not really, in truth. I suppose it’s the time I spent in London. I don’t particularly care if you’re interested in reading or whatever other intellectual pursuits you may have.”
“What if I wished to become one of those lady novelists?” Lady Marcella asked. “What if I wished to spend my days locked in a room and writing at my desk?”
“I suppose there are worse ways to spend one’s days.”
Lady Marcella narrowed her eyes and nodded curtly. “You’ve a most unexpected way of thinking, My Lord. It’s very ungentlemanly. Have you abandoned your aspirations of becoming a gentleman again, through an elaborate performance?”
“I suppose that’s my contradiction,” Reginald replied. “I can’t decide if I ought to be a gentleman or if I ought to be honest.”
“Why not an honest gentleman?”
