And with that, the lady turned on her heel and hurried off . . . leaving Val, book in hand, staring after her.

He’d not feel guilty. He’d not feel guilty.

She was the one who’d been looking in his windows.

And who’d made a pest of herself.

He’d nothing to feel bad about or for.

And yet, no matter how many times he silently reassured himself that he was in the right, an emotion that felt very much like guilt sat like a stone in his belly as Val came to the shocking discovery that he was capable of feeling, after all.

And he vastly preferred it when he’d felt nothing.

With a curse, Val stomped off, bringing his mount back to the stables and heading indoors . . . with a copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice in hand.

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Kneeling at the kitchen hearth—the cold kitchen hearth—Myrtle assessed the fire.

Or rather, her feeble attempts at a fire.

After all, there’d have to be an actual fire in the hearth to constitute a fire.

The bucket of coal and the lone handful of leftover logs she’d found outside lay in an untidy mess about her.

She sat back on her haunches.

How had she lived in this household, and Mrs. Belden’s, and in all her seventeen years never paid attention to just how those fires were made?

It was because she’d been born a lady and never been required to know about things like fires.

And it was a terrible way to have gone through life.

A raise. When her miserable family finally got ’round to remembering they’d left her and came back to collect her, the first thing she intended to exact from them was an assurance that they’d double the wages of every last servant.

Giving up on her futile attempt at building a fire, she turned her thoughts back over to . . . the duke.

He was a surly one, her neighbor.

Even more so than she’d credited.

Yesterday’s visit with him had been conducted for several reasons, however. One: she’d been alone and the quiet of the house had left her uneasy. Two: based on the rumors Cassia had shared, Myrtle had wished to verify whether he was a safe enough fellow to be around. And three: if her brother had been correct in what he’d shared about the duke, well, then the gentleman had to be deuced lonely, and as such, his surliness wasn’t surliness, but really sadness.

And she’d never been one who could simply turn the other way where “sad people” were concerned.

For that matter, he needed a friend as much as she herself did.

It was why she’d given up her only copy of Jane Austen’s works.