His mouth hitched in a wry smile. “Something like that.”

“I can wait,” she said. “After all, we have the whole of our lives.”

His gaze lingered on her face. “We do, don’t we?” Lifting his hand, he stroked his knuckles along the edge of her jaw. It was an infinitely gentle caress. Almost as gentle as the words that followed. “How are you, sweetheart?” he asked. “If you’re feeling weary, you must tell me so.”

She was disarmed by his touch, just as she always was. “I am weary,” she admitted. The hours-long carriage ride from Malton had been arduous, and she was still weak after her bloodletting.

“Would you like to retire to bed?”

“At this time of the morning? No, no,” she said. “A cup of tea and some cake will soon put me right.”

“I know something else that might do so.” His eyes glimmered with a flash of devilry. “Shall I wait to share it with you until after you’ve eaten something?”

Her interest was instantly piqued. “On no account,” she said. “What is it? Tell me.”

“It isn’t something for me to tell you. It’s something for me to show you.” He stood and offered his hand.

She took it, permitting him to assist her to her feet. She’d never seen him look so pleased with himself. It lent a boyishness to his stern features. A trace of vulnerability that fairly stole her heart away.

Weary or no, in that moment, she believed she’d follow him to the ends of the earth.

Luckily, he asked her to accompany him no further than back out into the hall. From there, he guided her down a corridor toward the rear of the house, through a double set of stone archways that led to a large wooden door.

He pushed it open.

A familiar fragrance assailed her. Books. She recognized it immediately—which rather spoiled his surprise.

Or so she thought.

But when Jasper nudged her across the threshold and into the room, the sight that greeted Julia wasn’t just a bookroom or a library. It was something else entirely.

It was paradise.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh my.”

Bookshelves lined the walls, stretching two stories high, every one of them packed full to bursting. But not with the large, leather-bound tomes one usually found in a well-stocked private library. Not with expensive books on art or classical history, or dry volumes on agriculture, animal husbandry, or economics.

“They’re novels,” she said in wonder. “They’re all novels.”

Jasper stood behind her as her eyes skimmed the shelves. “Not all of them. That would be impossible in a library of this size. But a fair number of them are. Six-shilling novels and penny serials, mostly.”

Julia was in awe. “However did you acquire so many?”

“They’re inexpensive to accumulate. I started buying them when I was a lad. It was how I spent all my pocket money. When I inherited the estate, I discovered my uncle had shared a similar passion—though his tastes veered more toward the horrid than the adventurous or romantic. His novels account for the greater part of the collection.”