“Thank you,” she said. “That would be lovely. If you don’t mind, I’ll browse a bit.”
“Take your time, my lady, take your time. Do let me know if I may offer any assistance.” He snagged his spectacles off his face and scrubbed at them with a cloth in an effort to banish the motes of dust that had settled onto the lenses.
She turned to the stacks, relishing the distinctive scent of the paper and ink, the heady richness of the tomes bound in leather. She had probably half an hour or so before Victoria would return, before she would once again become captive to propriety’s dictates.
It was here amongst the shelves that she was happiest, she thought. Within the pages of the books she had collected, she could soar away to distant lands, forget for a while her own worries and live vicariously through characters who laughed, struggled, suffered, and loved. They became as familiar as old friends, and she frequently found herself rereading old favorites, rediscovering the magic of their journeys, and reveling in their victories once again. They were comfortable and predictable and constant—everything her life had not been.
The bell adorning the door of the shop jingled cheerily to herald the arrival of a new customer. She heard, distantly, Mr. Finchley’s greeting, and a low response. Her attention was caught by a book on a high shelf—The Corsair, by Lord Byron. Personally Jilly considered his work a trifle overblown, but he was a frequent subject of London salons and drawing rooms, and she had yet to purchase that particular title. She stretched onto her toes, reaching for the volume. A curl fell from its pins, bobbing before her eyes, and she puffed it away in annoyance. Blast, she was still some inches from snatching the volume from its shelf. An inarticulate sound of irritation broke from her throat as she debated calling for Mr. Finchley—the man was only an inch or two taller, and he would doubtless have to fetch a stool to retrieve the volume for her. It seemed an imposition, and not one she was sure she wished to make for a book she wasn’t even certain she actually wanted.
That blasted curl again—she pushed it back once more and fisted her hands on her hips, staring up at the volume as if she could will it to leap down into her hands.
As she considered her choices, she heard the approach of another patron, the clear staccato of booted feet on the floor behind her. She paid no attention, expecting the man to pass her by, but the footsteps paused, and a silky chuckle washed over her, eliciting a rise of gooseflesh upon her arms.
“Allow me.” A muscular arm clad in a dark blue coat sleeve slipped past her vision, handily reaching the volume that had so vexed her and fetching it down.
He had spoken only two words, but she had already known who she would find as she turned to accept the book.