With comfort in hand, he climbed the stairs. At the top, the narrow landing branched off into a door on either side. He went through the one on his right, into his bedchamber, simply furnished with a fourposter bed, a table beside it, an armoire across from it, and a high-backed brocade chair in the corner. He carried on until he reached the window.

Taking a sip of his scotch, he leaned a shoulder against the window casing. When he was in a contemplative mood, he preferred to become lost in whatever lay beyond his own window. In the early mornings, he’d watched drays pulled by large horses make their way through the mews. Late at night, he’d often witnessed drunkards stumbling around. He’d seen a number of cats, a few dogs, and the occasional child. And sometimes, like tonight, his gaze would drift upward to the faint glow from her window spilling into the darkness and defeating a small part of it. Often he wished it would reach into his soul and conquer the black void that resided there.

Because it was a terrible abyss of emptiness and despair, craving that which he’d never possessed and never would: love. Having put his heart at risk once, he was determined to never do so again.

Watching shadows moving behind the drawn curtains on the top floor of the bookshop, he wondered if the window looked into her bedchamber, if he was observing his neighbor preparing for sleep. He wondered if Fancy Trewlove took the Earl of Rosemont into her dreams.

The poor girl was going to be disappointed when she attended her first ball because her hopes of being introduced to Rosemont would be dashed. He would not bow before her, take her hand, and kiss it. He would not ask her for a dance, hold her in his arms, and sweep her over a polished parquet floor. He wouldn’t tell her that she had the most expressive brown eyes he’d ever seen. He wouldn’t confess that more than once during dinner, he’d decided that her mouth had been perfectly designed for kissing.

No, the Earl of Rosemont would do none of those things.

Because now he knew her plans, and he wanted no part of them or her.

Chapter 5

At half seven the following morning, Fancy rapped her knuckles on the door to her brother’s suite of rooms in the hotel. It was quickly opened by a tall footman who bowed deferentially. “Good morning, Miss Trewlove.”

“How are you this fine morning, James?” She skirted around him, removed her hat and gloves, and handed them over to him.

“Very fine, miss. It’s kind of you to inquire.”

Hardly. It was simply good manners, although she was given to understand the nobility never thanked their servants or engaged them in idle conversation. “I’ll see myself to breakfast.”

“Very good, miss.”