outing would do her some good, Cleo suggested they visit her favorite place, a bookshop she had discovered shortly after arriving in Town.
The bell chimed over the door as they entered the shop. Cleo inhaled, loving the musty, leathery aroma. Mr. Schumacher greeted them warmly, coming around his wide oak counter.
“Ladies! So good to see you again. Anything I can help you with today?”
“Just browsing, Mr. Schumacher,” she replied, untying her bonnet’s ribbons beneath her chin.
Marguerite did the same, smoothing a hand over the top of her raven-dark hair.
“Well, you always manage to find something with no assistance from me. Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything.” Beaming, he gestured widely with his hands, welcoming them to peruse the towering shelves stuffed haphazardly with books. Cleo was certain they were organized in some order and fashion that Mr. Schumacher alone understood. Patrons, however, were hopeless to understand what that pattern might be.
Marguerite trailed behind her, evidently content to let Cleo browse the many books. Cleo pulled out one title and then slid it back in its home, strolling along and running her fingers over spines.
“See anything you like?”
“Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder with a smile. “But I will.”
“Of that I have no doubt. You read more than any soul I’ve ever known.”
“Books were such a rarity growing up. The only thing I ever read with any regularity was Mama’s Bible. Or sheet music. When I practiced the pianoforte at the rectory, the vicar would sometimes let me read from his collection of books.” She smiled at the memory. “The reverend was a good man, but his reading preferences were different from my own. He didn’t own a single novel.”
She selected a battered novel by Mrs. Radcliffe and tucked it beneath her arm.
Marguerite arched a dark eyebrow. “I’d hazard to say he would not have approved of that one.”
She laughed. “Most assuredly.”
Cleo exclaimed with delight as she found a thin volume of poems. Thumbing through it, she saw that it was all melodramatic rubbish. The best kind. Pleased, she hugged the book close.
“I’ll be back. I want to see if there are any books of children’s rhymes. My friend Fallon enjoys reading to her daughter.” Marguerite moved down the aisle.
Cleo continued to browse as Marguerite moved off. Surrounded by so many books, she could forget the world around her . . . especially so close to the chance of escaping into other worlds. Better worlds.
“Good morning, Miss Hadley.”
As the familiar Scottish voice ribboned its way through her, she questioned her sanity and whether she had conjured the words from memory. Surely he couldn’t be here of all places. Not in the one place in this city she considered hers.
Inhaling a bracing breath, she turned. Her ears had not deceived her. Her skin heated as she recalled their last encounter and his intimation that they were alike.
“Lord McKinney,” she murmured, pleased at the flatness of her voice. “What are you doing here?” Blunt to the point of rudeness perhaps, but she didn’t really care. After their last exchange, she needed to keep things aloof.
“It’s a bookshop. I’m looking for a book.” His gray eyes narrowed. “What? You don’t think I’m following you, do you?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”
He nodded slowly, those gray eyes of his watching her closely as if he really believed she thought that.
She waved at the books. “You don’t strike me as much of a reader.”
“I don’t know whether to be offended or complimented.”
She frowned, wondering how he could have read a compliment in that.
He elaborated, “You either think me a dullard uninterested in books . . .”
“Or?” she prompted at his pause.
“Well, that you think of me at all to form any opinion is quite gratifying.”
She exhaled. “I assure you I don’t think of you.” Pulling her books close, she moved to
The bell chimed over the door as they entered the shop. Cleo inhaled, loving the musty, leathery aroma. Mr. Schumacher greeted them warmly, coming around his wide oak counter.
“Ladies! So good to see you again. Anything I can help you with today?”
“Just browsing, Mr. Schumacher,” she replied, untying her bonnet’s ribbons beneath her chin.
Marguerite did the same, smoothing a hand over the top of her raven-dark hair.
“Well, you always manage to find something with no assistance from me. Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything.” Beaming, he gestured widely with his hands, welcoming them to peruse the towering shelves stuffed haphazardly with books. Cleo was certain they were organized in some order and fashion that Mr. Schumacher alone understood. Patrons, however, were hopeless to understand what that pattern might be.
Marguerite trailed behind her, evidently content to let Cleo browse the many books. Cleo pulled out one title and then slid it back in its home, strolling along and running her fingers over spines.
“See anything you like?”
“Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder with a smile. “But I will.”
“Of that I have no doubt. You read more than any soul I’ve ever known.”
“Books were such a rarity growing up. The only thing I ever read with any regularity was Mama’s Bible. Or sheet music. When I practiced the pianoforte at the rectory, the vicar would sometimes let me read from his collection of books.” She smiled at the memory. “The reverend was a good man, but his reading preferences were different from my own. He didn’t own a single novel.”
She selected a battered novel by Mrs. Radcliffe and tucked it beneath her arm.
Marguerite arched a dark eyebrow. “I’d hazard to say he would not have approved of that one.”
She laughed. “Most assuredly.”
Cleo exclaimed with delight as she found a thin volume of poems. Thumbing through it, she saw that it was all melodramatic rubbish. The best kind. Pleased, she hugged the book close.
“I’ll be back. I want to see if there are any books of children’s rhymes. My friend Fallon enjoys reading to her daughter.” Marguerite moved down the aisle.
Cleo continued to browse as Marguerite moved off. Surrounded by so many books, she could forget the world around her . . . especially so close to the chance of escaping into other worlds. Better worlds.
“Good morning, Miss Hadley.”
As the familiar Scottish voice ribboned its way through her, she questioned her sanity and whether she had conjured the words from memory. Surely he couldn’t be here of all places. Not in the one place in this city she considered hers.
Inhaling a bracing breath, she turned. Her ears had not deceived her. Her skin heated as she recalled their last encounter and his intimation that they were alike.
“Lord McKinney,” she murmured, pleased at the flatness of her voice. “What are you doing here?” Blunt to the point of rudeness perhaps, but she didn’t really care. After their last exchange, she needed to keep things aloof.
“It’s a bookshop. I’m looking for a book.” His gray eyes narrowed. “What? You don’t think I’m following you, do you?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”
He nodded slowly, those gray eyes of his watching her closely as if he really believed she thought that.
She waved at the books. “You don’t strike me as much of a reader.”
“I don’t know whether to be offended or complimented.”
She frowned, wondering how he could have read a compliment in that.
He elaborated, “You either think me a dullard uninterested in books . . .”
“Or?” she prompted at his pause.
“Well, that you think of me at all to form any opinion is quite gratifying.”
She exhaled. “I assure you I don’t think of you.” Pulling her books close, she moved to
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