She was protecting her business. In spite of her ambitions. Or perhaps because of them. She didn’t strike him as a woman who would accept failure of any kind, including when it came to securing her lord. “I’m certain I’ll be in want of another book before long, Miss Trewlove. Sleep well.”

Pushing open the door, she slipped through and closed it in her wake. He heard the turn of the lock. She’d left a gaslight burning, and he waited until the main part of her shop went dark. Although the windows sporting little shelves for books and knickknacks prevented him from having a clear view inside, he still managed to follow the journey of a lamp’s glow as it rose higher—no doubt her climbing the stairs—until it disappeared from his sight, assuring him that she would soon be safely tucked into her rooms. Glancing around, he considered returning to the pub for another brew but as she was no longer there, the din within those walls that usually drowned out his thoughts didn’t hold much appeal.

He headed down the street and turned the corner. Looking up at the brick building, he could see pale light spilling out of a window on the top floor. She was in her rooms now, undoubtedly preparing for bed, removing the pins from her midnight-black hair, dragging the brush through the long strands. Braiding it. Then she would slowly unbutton the bodice of her navy frock—

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He was not going to be enticed into falling into her web of deceit by her passion for books or her ability to create a shop that invited one in and offered comfort as welcoming as a warm blanket on a chilly evening. Or her large eyes or her pretty face or her kindness to a pub serving girl or her welcoming of a stranger.

He passed the mews that ran between her shop and his residence. Continuing on, he took a right at the street, turned up the path to his terrace house, jogged up the steps, and let himself in. Reaching for the gaslight, he turned up the flame until the soft yellow glow illuminated the front parlor. He went straight ahead through the tiny hallway, ignoring the narrow stairs that led to the floor where he slept, and entered the small room where he ate the meals prepared by the woman he’d hired to come in daily to cook in the small kitchen beyond and keep things tidy. A stuffed chair rested near the fireplace, and he’d spent many an evening reading there. He went over to the plain table that housed a solitary decanter and poured himself a tumbler of scotch.