“Someday, the whole world will discover Miss Austen,” the lady went on in reverent tones. “She will be known as the most famous, the most talented, the most gifted writer of all time.”

“Shakespeare. Keats. Coleridge. Chaucer.”

Lady Myrtle punched the air with a finger in rapid succession to each word she spoke: “Man. Man. Man. Man. All men.”

He should have known better than to engage her.

“Miss Austen, however—”

“Is a female?” he asked dryly, immediately startled by the fact he’d managed . . . any form of humor. Even the sarcastic type.

Lady Myrtle beamed. “Precisely.” Her smile dipped, and her slightly too-high-and-broad brow wrinkled. “Where was I?”

“Leaving?” he ventured hopefully.

Either ignoring or failing to hear him through her distracted thoughts, the lady tapped her chin in a contemplative little way. “Where were we . . . where were—” Her eyes brightened. “I have it! Christmastide!”

He groaned, but once again her ramblings were loud enough to rouse neighbors at this early hour, had there been any about, and drowned out the sounds of his annoyance.

“My cousins and their parents also celebrate the Season—”

“Who also share your Scottish blood and customs and ways, and as such, one would expect your family all celebrates.”

She lifted a finger high and waggled it under his nose. “Ah, yes, but only half of their family is Scottish, as my aunt married a very English gentleman. Mr. Francis Smith.”

Lady Myrtle said it and stared at Val like he was supposed to have some bloody idea who in tarnation Mr. Francis Smith was.

Mayhap if he was silent, however, mayhap if he failed to indulge her in any way, she’d just cut out with her infernal telling and let him get back to his household and his damned misery and—

Apparently, the lady required no input from him.

“Leigh Hunt also spoke out in support of reviving the celebration of the Christmastide Season.” She paused and gave him a long look. “I take it you know who Leigh Hunt is?”

“The essayist,” he said automatically, even as he sought to sort out why in hell he remained here.

Shock and confusion. That would do it to any gent, especially one who’d been removed from society as long as Val had.

“Hmph, of course you do.” The lady waggled insolent brows at him. “Hunt being a male writer and all.”

Val growled.

“As I was saying,” she continued, apparently a good deal less affected by his unintentional—though customary for him and suitable to this moment—surly response. “Queen Charlotte introduced the custom of the Christmas tree . . . which I expect you, as someone who knows absolutely nothing about the holiday, will find particularly shocking, and . . .”

As she gabbled on, a long-ago fireside discussion between him and another, a lady who’d not gone out of her way to annoy him and who’d been capable of making him smile, intruded on the present.