“To be fond of dancing was a certain step toward falling in love . . .”

In this little area, she’d made a single note, a lone word: “Sigh.”

Despite himself, Val’s lips tipped up again in a smile.

That was very much Myrtle. She would dream of being held and holding someone in—

Val turned the page, on to the next, and then stopped. He quickly flipped back.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife . . .”

Beside the passage, she’d left a little circle with eyes drawn on, and a frowning mouth.

He paused.

Was it that she disapproved of the author’s sentiment? Or did she recognize the truth the author had written and regret that this was the way of their world?

And he wished she were here. He wished she were here now so that he could ask her specifically and find out what she’d been thinking as she’d drawn that tiny mark upon the pages of this particular passage. And all the passages.

Cursing, Val snapped the book closed and slammed it down with a thunk upon the side table.

Dropping his elbows atop his knees, he buried his head in his hands and dug his fingertips into his temples.

What was this hold she had over his thoughts?

Why could he not stop thinking of her?

He would.

Eventually.

As soon as she left and he was free to wallow in his misery, then he could find peace once more.

Because that was a certainty. There was no peace in losing himself completely to a woman as he’d done before. For when one lost that person, the grief of that loss was a far greater, far more vicious pain, and as such, loneliness was more palatable.

A lone bark echoed outside, slashing into his frustrated musings and bringing his head whipping up.

A familiar bark that was followed moments later by a barrage of frantic yipping.

With a frown, Val came to his feet. Striding over to the window, he drew the curtains back and looked below.

His black coat brightly visible upon the snowy-white earth, Horace was instantly recognizable, and Val sighed, searching out the troublesome sprite who’d be accompanying his dog.

Only, a quick scour of the streets revealed . . . no one. That was, no one but Horace.

Why would she send his dog out without accompanying him? She wouldn’t. Unless . . .

“I believe two men are watching my townhouse,” she said, and then stared at him as if expecting he’d be as shocked and horrified as she herself was.

He shook his head.

“Yes.” Myrtle lifted two small, gloved digits. “Two. You see, I suspect they might have an interest in my father’s curiosity collection . . . And his collection is quite vast . . . some of the oldest and finest, and everyone knows of his treasures . . .”