“It won’t t-take long. Just…” Words eluded him. All the things he wished he could say to her. All the emotion he wanted to convey. It was tangled up in his head and his heart. There was no way to express it. Only a simple request. A husky plea. “Just…wait for me.”

Her chocolate brown eyes glistened. He was reminded of the day they’d met. Of how she’d looked at him. How she’d offered him her hand.

She’d only just come into his life, and now she was leaving just as quickly. And he wasn’t ready for it, lord help him. He wanted—needed—a little more time.

She nodded slowly. “Very well, I’ll wait.”

Chapter 17

Clara was true to her word. She waited for Neville, for goodness knew how many minutes. It was long enough for the fire to dry her dress and take the shivering chill from her bones. Long enough for her teeth to cease chattering.

All the while the rain pelted the curtained window of his room, and storm clouds moved across the sun, casting dark shadows across the furnishings and floor. She rose from her chair to light a lamp. There was one located on a wooden table near the bed. A slim book bound in red morocco leather lay closed beside it.

She didn’t like to pry. What Neville chose to read of an evening was none of her business. But as she removed the globe from the oil lamp and lit the wick, she couldn’t keep her gaze from drifting over the gilt-stamped title on the ridged spine.

Poems
—

First Edition

—

Tennyson

—
Vol. II

Her mouth went dry. Neville was reading Tennyson? And not only Tennyson, but the very volume that contained Sir Galahad?

She reached to touch the book, only to draw her hand back. She hadn’t read poetry in four years. Not since the scandal in Hertfordshire. No one had expressly forbidden her from doing so. Not Mama, and certainly not Simon. But both of them had implied it was a contributing factor to her shame. And she’d known it to be true. Poetry, especially the sort which rhapsodized about gallant knights and fair damsels, had only served to exacerbate her tendency toward romantic daydreams.

And now the pleasure she’d once felt in reading Tennyson or Wordsworth was forever tainted. How could she enjoy any of it when all it did was serve to remind her of her own humiliation?

She returned to her chair by the fire, an ache settling into her heart. She was resolved to think about things logically. To focus on reality, not romance. Even so, the idea that Neville was reading the poetry she’d once loved so dearly moved her deeply. It was as if he was seeking to know her. To discover who she really was.

And she wished…