“You will be most pleased, I suspect, with Pride and Prejudice,” the young woman said, petting his mount on his nose. “Though you cannot go wrong with either of her titles, I assure you. This, however, is my favorite, and as such I always recommend other young women begin with this one.”

His brow dipped another fraction. Other young women?

“Not that you’re a young woman, per se—”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

“Just that, the extent of my interactions, aside from that with my brothers, has been reserved to discussions with other young ladies. I’d recommend Miss Austen’s works to men, too. That is, other men . . . if I knew of any.”

One Christmas, when Val had been a small boy, of mayhap seven or eight years, his father had gifted him a rainbow-painted top with a needle-thin handle. To this day, he remembered the very moment his father had set the child’s toy a-spinning. He’d followed its circular dance upon the nursery floor until his eyes had gone crossed and he’d felt dizzy from watching.

This moment with Lady Myrtle McQuoid felt very much like that one.

“You’re speechless,” the lady said with that same grin in place.

In fact, he might even go out on a limb and wager his coveted privacy and solitude that wide upturn of her lips was their natural state.

“Miss Austen has that effect on women.” She paused. “And men,” she amended. “As I mentioned—”

“You do not know men aside from your brothers,” he snapped, providing the words for her to spare himself from her cheerful chattering.

She beamed. “Precisely. Though I do know you now.”

He stared dumbly at her awhile, as it took several long moments of silence for her words to register.

“We do not know one another,” he finally exploded, shaking the book between them.

“Well, technically we do know one another. We’ve met several times.”

My god, she was a headstrong, vexingly obstinate thing.

“Two,” he clipped out. “We’ve met twice.”

“Two is more than zero, thereby suggesting we do know one another.”

Mad. He was going mad.

Or mayhap he’d already descended into full-blown insanity?

There’d been any number of times since his wife’s passing when he’d believed himself mad. This proved his actual descent, and all because of a slip of a lady poised between girlhood and womanhood.

“Get out,” he snarled, holding her book toward her, wanting her gone.

The lady held her palms up and drew those gloved digits close to her chest. “Oh, no, Your Grace. That is a gift.”

“I don’t want any gifts, and I don’t need them.”

“You will want it once you begin reading her.” She waggled her eyebrows. “And technically you do need this particular gift, as you don’t have any copies of Miss Austen and you haven’t read her works.”

“My l—”

“Please, call me Myrtle.”