Page 71 of Bookshop Cinderella

“And yet your team won twice, thanks to you.”

“And you, since it was only due to your advice not to overthink thingsthat I did so well. Although,” she added with a wink, “the glass of champagne I gulped down just beforehand probably helped, too.”

He couldn’t help a chuckle at that. “No doubt,” he said and made an expansive gesture. “Now that you’re here, would you like a tour?”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself in the head.

“Oh, yes, please.”

The damage done, he mustered his fortitude and gestured to the nearest shelves. “Here we have history and geography. And over here,” he added, stepping a safer distance away from her as he began circling the room, “are books on world politics.”

He led her around the room, ticking off the subjects of each collection as quickly as he could without seeming rude, until they were nearly back where they started. “And lastly,” he said, glad this tour was almost over, “we have novels and poetry. Well,” he finished, pausing by the door, “now you’ve seen it all.”

“All?” she echoed, glancing around, tilting her head back, her gaze traveling the floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with volumes. “You could store all the books in my shop here and it wouldn’t take up a third of the space.”

“Ah, but most of your books are far rarer than most of mine,” he reminded her. “Nearly all of what you see here was acquired by ancestors of mine who cared less about the books themselves than they did about simply filling the shelves with leather-bound volumes appropriate for a duke’s library. Very little in this room is rare, or even particularly noteworthy.”

“So, their concerns have traditionally been aesthetic rather than literary?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“And which view do you share?”

“Both,” he said at once. “And neither.”

“A curious answer.”

“Not really.” He gestured to the shelf beside her. “Most of the novels, the modern ones anyway, are my acquisitions. You see, I don’t acquire books to impress others, nor am I an avid collector. I simply buy books I think I would enjoy reading.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I doubt my father would agree. He, like many of the dukes before him, had little interest in books with popular appeal. He found such things frivolous.”

“From his portrait in the gallery, I’m not surprised,” she said, laughing.

Staring into her laughing, upturned face, he appreciated how close they were standing, and arousal flickered dangerously inside him.

She turned toward the books, tilting her head as she began scanning the titles. “Is it all right if I take a book with me to read on the train?” she asked, pulling out a volume partway, then shoving it back into place. “I forgot to bring one to read when we came up on Friday.”

“Of course. Take anything you like.”

“Thank you.” She continued reading titles, moving closer to him as she did so, but as the soft, delicate scent of talcum and flowers floated to him, he did not step back.

Instead, he closed his eyes, breathing deep, his heartbeat quickening. She moved again, and without opening his eyes, he could discern precisely how close she was just from the warmth of her body. Another inch, he judged, maybe two, and she’d be touching him. The arousal in him deepened at the thought, spreading through his limbs.

She moved, her shoulder brushing his arm as she reached for a volume overhead, and he jerked back, coming to his senses.

“While you look for a book, I’d best carry on with what I was doing,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “If you need anything, I’ll be back there, in the muniment room.”

Her face lit up like a candle, and he knew he was doomed. “You have a muniment room?”

“I do, yes.” Resigned to more torture, he turned, gesturing to the doorway at the other end of the library. “Care to have a look?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned, beckoning her to follow, and he led her into the small, dim cubbyhole of a room attached to the library, where all the estate papers and records were kept.

“Heavens,” she said, glancing around at the stacks of papers, photographs, diaries, and rolled-up maps that crammed the shelves, littered the writing desk, and spilled from the drawers of the ceiling-high filing cabinets. “How do you ever find anything in here?”

“It is rather a mess, I know.”

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