Page 48 of To Swoon and to Spar
Penvale was sitting bent over a novel—anovel!— in an overstuffed armchair before the fireplace, sniffling in a highly suspicious manner.
Jane—so gleeful that she worried it was possibly injurious to her health—crept into the room to get a better look at him, her presence unnoted. He was near the end of his book, a lock of hair partially obscuring his expression.
“Dusty in here, isn’t it?” Jane observed airily.
He jerked his head up, revealing red-rimmed eyes. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked her warily.
“Only a minute or so,” she said. “You seemed so engrossed in what you were reading that I didn’t wish to disturb you.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Is it something about crop rotations?”
“Jane—”
“Irrigation systems?” she persisted. “I understand irrigation is very emotional.”
“So help me—”
“Perhaps it’s about sheep?” She batted her eyelashes, then almost immediately regretted it, as it made her feel like she had some sort of strange eye twitch. “We do have an awful lot of sheep around here. So much baa-ing.”
“It’s your bloodyPersuasion,as you are perfectly well aware,” he burst out, brandishing the book with what Jane considered to be a reckless disregard for the integrity of its spine.
“That book was quite expensive, and if you can’t treat it with the proper respect—”
“I’ll buy you another bloody book—I’ll probably have to do so anyway, since this one has caused me to actuallyshed tears.” He sounded appalled; Jane, naturally, was delighted. “Over a letter, of all things!”
“Ooooh. Captain Wentworth’s letter.” Jane sighed dreamily, sinking down onto the arm of Penvale’s chair and pressing a hand to her breast. “Isn’t it lovely? ‘Half agony, half hope’! It’s the most romantic thing.” She peered over his shoulder at the page before him. “You’ve wept on the page!”
“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s why I said I’d have to buy you a new one. This is horrifying.”
Jane huffed. “It’s all right for gentlemen tocry,you know!”
“I’m perfectly aware,” Penvale said indignantly, although Jane guessed he likely had not shed a tear in years. Jane herself was not prone to excessive displays of feeling, except with regard to events within the pages of her favorite novels. “I simply don’t wish to cry over abook. Anovel,of all things.”
Jane poked him in the shoulder. “So you like it, then?”
Penvale once more looked furtive. “I— Perhaps. It’s all right.”
Jane bit the inside of her cheek to prevent herself from smiling—the sight of which would likely only cause him to dig in his heels further, stubborn man that he was. “And yet here you are, when doubtless you have plenty of other business with which to occupy yourself, unable to tear yourself away from the pages of Miss Austen’s work.”
“It’s a dreary day,” he hedged. “Awful weather. Can’t get anything done outdoors.”
(A quick glance out the window assured Jane that she had not lost her senses entirely and that it was, indeed, still a bright, sunny spring day.)
“Of course,” she agreed solemnly.
“My study is terribly dark and chilly, you understand,” he added.
(His study was, in fact, warmed by a fire and had the benefit of an almost unseemly number of candles and lamps.)
“Frightful,” she said, nodding.
“My eyes were struggling to read the fine print in some documents my solicitor sent me, so I thought to give them a rest.”
(He must truly be desperate for an excuse if he was willing to risk her suggesting he get spectacles, she thought.)
“By… reading something else?” she inquired.
“The text is larger.”
(The text was quite small.)
