Myrtle would be a romantic. She’d be the kind of lady who wished for more than a title and dreamed of falling in love, and being in love, and she deserved it. She deserved a man whose spirit was as romantic as hers, and capable of . . . of . . . what Val had once been.

His throat went dry, and his mouth along with it, making it difficult to swallow.

Not that he wanted to be the man she loved.

He didn’t.

He was just . . . noting that he wasn’t that man.

Which meant there would be some other gentleman.

And something, something dark and insidious, sank its fangs within him, unleashing a poisonous jealousy for the one who’d possess her.

The eventual suitor and husband who’d make love to her mouth and to all of her and—

With a growl, Val angrily turned the page, finding his place, fighting the urge to look at those little marks that proved a window of sorts into her soul and thinking, and which only further deepened his knowledge of Myrtle McQuoid—and this bond he’d formed with her.

“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavor to conceal it, he must find it out.”

“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together, and as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses . . .”

He lingered on the passage.

This was it. That was all there was to this growing awareness of Myrtle. It was written right here. As a rule, outside of formal meetings, well attended by chaperones and servants, gentlemen and ladies did not share of each other’s company. Val shared even less. It was only because he’d been in close quarters with her without the benefit of anyone present that there’d been this . . . intimacy. This bond forged.

Why, it would have been the case were it . . . anyone else he’d found himself suddenly keeping such intimate company with. And when thinking of it in that light, well, it wasn’t quite as terror-inducing or mouth-drying. It was . . . normal.

He’d simply come to learn about her as a person, and an interesting, clever person at that.

As such, it was only natural that he would admire her and think about her and want to spend more time with her and—

Gritting his teeth, Val fanned the pages once more, starting at the beginning. This time, he turned them more slowly, and as he did, he ran his gaze over the passing paragraphs, no longer resisting that urge to search out the markings she’d made.