He didn’t know why he’d been so insistent on joining her tonight. She obviously hadn’t wanted his company, not that he could blame her for that. She had the right of it. Where she was concerned, he didn’t seem to know his own mind. He wanted to avoid her, and yet when the opportunity presented itself to be in her company, he’d leapt on it like a ravenous hound being tossed a bone. She intrigued him, damn it all. With her mixture of innocence and worldliness, she was a puzzle box he wanted to figure out how to open.

And she made him feel guilty about his treatment of her from the moment the letter had fallen out of her pocket. He’d assumed she was as conniving as Elise and, as a result, had treated Miss Trewlove abominably and unfairly.

When he reached the library, he merely stood in the doorway and took a moment to appreciate what had always been his favorite chamber in the residence. He had a keen desire to bring Miss Trewlove here. He imagined her sighing in wonder, gasping in delight at the two floors of bookcases, the upper one accessible by a wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner. He had no idea how many books lined the shelves. A couple of thousand at least. Not that any of them were visible at present. The staff had suspended sheets of white cloth over the shelves to protect the treasures stored there. Including the one he’d come to find.

He strode over to a far corner of the room, near the spiral staircase, carefully set the lamp on a low table draped in white, reached up, and yanked down a sheet to reveal a section of books. He was relatively certain he’d last seen the one he was looking for in this area.

He couldn’t decide if Miss Trewlove would be appalled that the books within these walls were shelved with no rhyme or reason or if she’d find the chaos delightful. Although he had a feeling she’d roll up her sleeves and pull every book off the shelf in order to arrange them in categories, no doubt taking pleasure in touching each and every one. When he’d first stepped into her shop, he’d been cocooned in wonder. Nothing within her walls was left to chance. It all reflected a celebration of the written word. She’d gone to a great deal of bother to arrange everything just so. She’d not told him that, of course, but it was evident in the way every aspect came together in such a pleasing manner to reveal her absolute love of books.

And so it was that he wanted to gift her with something that would make him feel less of a disappointment, less of a cad, less judgmental. Therefore, he’d come here in the dead of night to—

“My lord?”