I could still picture Lucas straining as he held that old guy by the throat, his anger so fierce, I knew he wanted to throttle the man.

An image of Viola’s pained expression as she watched Lucas stride through the village with that mystery blonde came to mind.

Could it be . . . ?

Were Lucas and Viola Alnster’s very own Beatrice and Benedick?

As I returned to the bookstore, I considered the possibilities. Watching them interact last Saturday had been so entertaining because the air between them fairly crackled with electricity.

Chemistry.

Did they care for each other beneath the barbs and insults? Only they couldn’t do anything about it because of the feud West kept burning between him and Milly.

Like the Montagues and Capulets.

“Except these are real people and it is not a play,” I muttered, chastising myself.

These were people’s feelings and emotions and—

“I totally want to meddle.” I clenched my teeth together, expression sheepish, as I let myself back into the store.

I wanted to Much Ado About Nothing the crap out of Viola and Lucas’s situation.

But I shouldn’t interfere. I shook my head, slumping into the armchair by the unlit fire. West Elliot was clearly a giant man-child who couldn’t give a rat’s ass that he’d divided a village with something that happened decades before. A man like that wouldn’t sit back calmly while his youngest son fell in love with his ex’s only daughter.

Viola’s sad eyes flashed across my mind again.

She was such a great girl. She deserved happiness, in whatever form that came.

Moreover, Lucas Elliot had just gone up quite a bit in my estimation.

“I shouldn’t meddle,” I murmured. “I definitely shouldn’t meddle.”

Meddling was bad.

Oh crap.

“I’m totally going to meddle.”

Fifteen

A shade of angry purple had bled through the sky above Alnster, causing it to weep torrentially. Rain pounded off the road outside, and the sea rumbled its displeasure, foaming and discontent.

The damp brought such a chill, I’d lit the fire in the bookstore.

I’d woken up to the rain, and it hadn’t let up in its ferocity. Viola had braved it to join Caro and me at the store, but no one else had ventured near Much Ado About Books.

Somehow it was one of the most perfect days I’d spent in England. Caro was curled up on the armchair by the fire with a copy of The Handmaid’s Tale, while Viola lay sprawled on a faux fur blanket I’d brought down from upstairs. She lay on her side, elbow bent, head in her palm, flicking through the pages of Wuthering Heights.

I was on the other armchair, my feet tucked up under me. Still determined to make my way through every Shakespearean play during my stay in England, I was rereading Hamlet.