“Not that I haven’t read it before,” she prattled. “I have. Several times.” Skipping over with a jauntiness in her step, she turned the book his way once more and stared expectantly at him as he read the title.

He skimmed his eyes over the gold-embossed words there. “Pride and Prejudice,” he read aloud. “By . . . a Lady?” Val looked at her.

She stole a furtive look about. Who did she think was here? Lord knew it appeared her family was not coming to his rescue anytime soon.

“May I confide something?” she whispered when she’d returned her attention to him.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he muttered.

“You must not share this with anyone,” she continued, “but since we are friends now—”

“We are not.”

“I trust you’ll honor my confidence.” She paused as if for effect. “The author . . . is a woman.”

“I gathered as much by the inscription.”

“By the name of Miss Austen,” she added over his droll interruption.

Lady Myrtle’s smile widened in what he would have taken as an impossible feat; that was the sole reason he found himself focused on that grin, and not the way it lit her eyes or—he swallowed hard. What the hell were these thoughts?

“She and her family are neighbors of my aunt Leslie and uncle Francis, and it was during my summer visit with them in ’09 that I learned I’d be sent off to boarding school,” she shared. “Miss Austen stumbled upon me, crying at the lake between our families’ properties.”

Unbidden, an image entered of Myrtle as she’d been, with her cheeks stained with tears and her eyes swollen from crying, and his gut clenched, and he didn’t want to think of her sad. What was this? He didn’t want to think of her . . . in any way.

“And then,” Myrtle went on in wondrous tones, ones that demonstrated an obliviousness to his turbulent thoughts, “she shared with me that she, too, was sent to boarding school, and that it would not be forever. She told me good came of it, because she was able to nurture her love of writing.” Myrtle paused only long enough to catch a breath. “I would share my Austen collection with you. Not that she is my Miss Austen, per se,” the lady went on, and he had a sudden and familiar-around-her urge to dig his fingers into his temples. “She belongs to everyone. That is, the gift of her writing does,” she said without even pausing for a breath between those two ridiculous statements.

The gift of her writing. What a load of ridiculousness that was.

Lady Myrtle held the book out, all but pressing it against his chest, and then when Val made no attempt to touch that title, she did.

He grunted, automatically snapping it from her fingers.

At his side, Lady neighed loudly.