Petra laughed and kissed his forehead. “I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll play piquet if you’re up for it. Backgammon if you’re not.” She followed Guy to the door, which he was holding open for her.

“Come into the library,” he said as they reached the gallery overlooking the hall. He ushered her down the stairs with an all-encompassing gesture.

Petra wasn’t sure whether a tête-à-tête in the library was her best move when she hadn’t had time to marshal her guns. The next steps in the game she was supposed to be playing were not yet mapped out, but as they reached the grand hall, Guy’s hand on her waist, warm, intimate, imperious, propelled her toward double doors at the rear.

“What can I get you, Petra? More tea, if you must. Sherry, madeira, a glass of claret?” He went to the sideboard where decanters were ranged like soldiers. “Or, a glass of champagne? Perfect for this time of day.” He rang the bell even as he spoke.

Petra glanced at the tall case clock. It was almost five o’clock and champagne, crisp and dry, was very appealing. She wandered across to one wall of floor-to-ceiling books, idly glancing at the titles on the leather-bound spines. She’d expected the usual heavy Greek and Latin tomes, encyclopedias, reference books, dictionaries, all generally to be found in a gentleman’s library, and they were certainly all there, but she was fascinated to see Thackeray and Austen, Trollope and Scott, Gaskell, Hardy and Dickens represented, all easily accessible on the lower shelves. Somehow she hadn’t thought of Guy as someone who would while away the hours with a good book. Salmon fishing and grouse shooting, certainly, but long evenings alone by the fire immersed in Dickens’s London? Another interesting piece to add to the slowly forming picture of Lord Ashton.

Guy perched on the massive mahogany desk in the bay window, one leg swinging casually, watching Petra as she wandered along the shelves. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “A penny for them?”

Petra turned back from the shelves. “I wasn’t expecting such an array of novels,” she answered frankly.

“Why is that? Do you think it strange that men in general read such books, or me in particular?”

“Both, I suppose,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever considered what men in general might read for pleasure, I know that my brother has read some Walter Scott, but I can’t imagine him reading Jane Austen or Mrs. Gaskell, or most of these.” She gestured to the shelves behind her. “They have a too small and generally too domestic canvas for a man’s more . . .” She hesitated, looking for the word. “More muscular interests, I suppose.”