Page 46 of Beyond the Cottage

Wonderful.She’d encouraged him.

“Gretta, that was—”

“Don’t over-analyze it. I briefly forgot who you are now, but I’ve remembered.”

The hope on his face fizzled out.

Happy to pretend the past five minutes never happened, Gretta snatched up the bottle and went to an overloadedbookcase. She scanned its contents pessimistically. “Don’t you own a single novel?”

He came up beside her. “I’m afraid my reading tastes run to the practical.”

“Your reading tastes are unbelievably boring.”

He pulled a slender, ancient-looking volume off the shelf and skimmed the first page. “You might like this one.”

“Trolls and Nymphs,” Gretta read.“A Paradoxical Conflict. Sounds gripping.”

“I didn’t finish it myself, but the composition is quite narrative.”

“Do you have anything…I don’t know, spicier?”

His cheeks got red. He tersely shook his head, and Gretta smiled.

By spicy, she meant interesting, but now she wondered if he kept a stash of more salacious reading material on hand. When she’d snooped through his bedroom, she hadn’t thought to look under his mattress.

“Here, this one’s good,” he said, shoving an encyclopedia for the letterFat her.

She took it with a smirk and picked out a few more books. “I think I’m all set. Let me know when supper’s ready.”

Chapter 17

Aknock came, and Gretta hopped off the armchair in front of the bedroom fireplace. The night was warm, but she’d lit a fire to ward off the damp and get some light.

She paused at the door, putting an ear to it. “Who’s there?”

“Me.”

“What do you want?”

“I brought supper.”

Gretta checked her pocket watch. The evening had blown by much faster than the others.

With an evil grin, she unlocked the door and scampered back to the chair. As Ansel came in with a tray, she theatrically opened the book she’d been reading.

He abruptly stopped.

“You can put the food over there,” she said, flicking her hand at the table. “I want to finish this chapter.” She licked her finger and turned a page.

When he didn’t move, she peeked over the book to find his jaw clenched and his neck flushed. She hid a smile, pretending to be engrossed in reading.

He set the tray down. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Absolutely. You wouldn’t believe the literature I found under your bed. Some interesting artwork, too.”

He faced her with a hand on his hip.

“Of course,” she continued, “such filth must have belonged to the room’s previous occupant, seeing as how practical your tastes run. Mine aren’t so refined, I’m quite enjoying the plot ofA Strumpet’s Love.”

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