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Having no sons, the earldom would pass to a distant cousin after Hugh’s demise—a cousin who ignored his invitations to Covington Hall and refused to accept his offer of tutelage. Thus he’d begun preparations to secure his tenants’ future on the unentailed land with his solicitor.
Though, hopefully, his last breath wouldn’t be drawn until years to come.
It’s never too early to set things in motion.
“Good afternoon, sir. May I help you find anything in particular?” A sales clerk approached with a wide smile, breaking Hugh from his maudlin thoughts.Christ! Death, succession…The meeting with his solicitor left a deeper impression than he’d suspected.
“No, thank you. I’ve already found it.” Hugh reached for the first book displayed to his right—The Village of Mariendorptby Miss Anna Maria Porter—and waved it triumphantly in the air before excusing himself from the shop employee. He didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t entirely sure how to explain what he was looking for.
Something with less sex and nudity wouldn’t be amiss.
But he couldn’t voice such a requirement publicly. So, Hugh keptThe Village of Mariendorptat hand and wandered the enormous selection of books, climbing the staircase to the next level when a flash of ebony appeared in his peripheral.
It can’t be.
This area of the shop held lounging rooms for customers to peruse the book of their choosing in comfort, and sitting in the middle of gleaming mahogany tables and leather armchairs was Miss Clara Netherfield.
Alone.
Not a chaperone in sight.
Unable to resist the magnetic pull toward her, Hugh edged nearer, studying her bent head and the novel in her lap. “Tell me you’re not brazen enough to read T.L. Kenny in front of everyone this side of the Thames.”
Shoulders stiffening in surprise, a mutinous line tightened her mouth once she glanced upward and saw him. “If I am, it’s no concern of yours, my lord,” she retorted, slamming the book shut with a snap. Her narrowed gaze dropped to the item in his hands. “You don’t see me questioning the subject ofyourreading material.”
Damn, but he adored her firebrand nature.
No, you don’t.
You mustn’t.
"I'm nearly twenty years your seniorandyour social superior." He didn't usually bandy his title about, but in this case, Hugh rather liked the idea of getting Miss Netherfield’s dander up with the casual reminder. "You have no right to question any of my decisions."
Oh, she loathed that edict.
The swell of her ample breasts rose with a deep inhale of breath—no doubt to lambast him with a proper flaying of her tongue—but then something over his shoulder drew her attention, and Miss Netherfield deflated before his very eyes.
“Excuse me, my lord.” Immediately, she stumbled to her feet causing him to rise as well. “I must… I’ve tarried here too long. My parents will expect me home soon. Good day.” An absent-minded curtsy accompanied her words. The abrupt change from impassioned vixen to meek mouse kindled his protective instincts.
He didn’t like seeing her spirit subdued.
Muscles tensed as if to physically defend Miss Netherfield, Hugh surveyed the lounge. Men and women surrounded them, relaxing in solitude with their books and newspapers. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing to warrant her hasty retreat.
“Lord Evanston! Didn’t expect to see your crotchety old bones at this level.” The friendly jibing boomed from a younger gentleman behind them as he helped the elderly lord to a comfortable seat.
Evanston’s ascent to the second-story of the bookstore amazed Hugh as well. Though they weren’t close acquaintances, he’d heard the older man complain during Parliamentary meetings about bad knees, preferring to occupy a place on the ground level of Westminster rather than risk the steps to higher seating.
At a loss for the change in Miss Netherfield’s demeanor, he turned back to question the little minx only to find her hurriedly scaling the steps to the story above them.
You won’t lose me that easily.
Fewer patrons occupied the third-level of the bookshop. It was a well-known fact that the higher one climbed the Temple of Muses, the shabbier the books became—worn copies of novels being relegated to the furthest reaches of the building while shiny new releases remained in coveted positions down below.
Hugh stalked Miss Netherfield across the parquet flooring until she darted between two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Thanks to another row of shelving, their game of cat and mouse ended, both of them trapped in the dusty shadows together.
“Why are you following me?” There was his cheeky girl.
She’s not yours.
