Chapter 2
Arabella
The small town in the country was the perfect discreet location to bribe a man to be my husband.
Bribe might be too strong a word. Coerce?
Trick? Was there a ladylike word that suited my task?
I stared at the neat row of leather spines in the quaint bookshop I had discovered on my first trip to Quillsbury and tried to find the right descriptive word in my head.
I blinked away my stupor. Words were not coming easily to me these days, which meant the poor heroine in the story I was writing was terrifically doomed.
Alas, Penelope was imprisoned in a tower and would remain there until I convinced the elusive Mr. Clodwick to marry me and bring back my muse.
I had exactly four days to secure a proposal before my return trip to Writcombe.
If I failed, I would be forced to marry Mr. Ashworth, my childhood nemesis and up-and-coming literary critic.
If that happened, I might as well bury my weeping muse in the church graveyard, for I’d never see it again.
I filled my lungs with the scent of books—earth and wood, glue and ink—letting the essence permeate my person, hoping it would cure me and knowing it would not. Marriage was not a trifling subject, and the anxiety of the matter was wearing me thin.
My eyes fell on a popular novel, and it immediately reminded me of Mr. Ashworth and the literary review he’d written about it in Papa’s magazine subscription.
I frowned in disgust. I had disagreed completely.
Though I had yet to finish some of the newer books Mr. Ashworth selected, the few harsh appraisals I had read had told me enough.
He hadn’t changed at all. After all these years of not seeing him in person, it was quite obvious that he still had the same vexing personality he’d had since his adolescence.
Even Clodwick—dimwitted, tone-deaf, and boring—was a more suitable alternative to Ashworth. He, at least, knew how to be a decent human being. In my distracted state, I pulled a neighboring book from the shelf before remembering I had read it already and replaced it.
“You had better hurry!” Tabitha hissed from the end of a row of shelves. “You would not want to miss Mr. Clodwick when he finishes getting his hair cut.”
I bit back my own impatience. Tabitha hated reading and had been breathing down my neck since we had arrived.
I should be grateful that my married sister had introduced me to Clodwick last year and had generously allowed me to visit her without notice.
I should also be grateful that she had gone along with my mad scheme to secure a proposal and had accompanied me on this outing.
But if I could not write words, I had to read them.
“Just a few minutes more,” I begged. “A good book will help me rally my courage to chase down Mr. Clodwick.”
She wrinkled her nose. “How can something so musty help anything?”
“Books are the perfect distraction. I can be braver when I pretend to be someone else. And it isn’t musty but the smell of fresh paper. It’s marvelous.”
Tabitha itched her petite nose, making her russet curls bounce. “Then fresh paper makes me sneeze.”
I resisted casting my gaze upward in petty frustration.
“Very well, I will hurry. Wait for me outside.” If the smell of books could not help me, a gripping novel surely would—one with a spirited heroine who had men falling at her feet, someone I could emulate.
Afterall, no one had come close to falling in love with me before, and I required all the help I could get.
I lifted my gaze to the top shelf and spotted a row of works by Shakespeare.
Between the mass reprinted single volumes and multi-volumes of his collection, there was an unbound book—a thick pamphlet stitched together with a simple paper wrapper.
My attention piqued. Could . . . could it be a Shakespeare’s first quarto?
Good heavens, it might be. It was shorter than its neighboring spines and a degree narrower, just like all his first edition plays where the paper was folded into quarters, making eight pages per sheet. And it certainly appeared old enough.
All thoughts of marriage disappeared. This was the sort of rare book I had only ever dreamed of collecting.
My heart soared, and I stood on my toes and reached for it.
Instead of grasping the spine, my hand took hold of another hand—a very masculine one.
A warm sensation crawled down my arm, causing me to shriek.
I yanked back my hand, whirling to meet the stranger who had suddenly appeared by my side and wanted my book.
Mussed hair, dark brows, and a pair of deep-set dark eyes arrested my gaze.
His firm jaw tightened, and his lips pursed into a sharp line.
But my eyes were not done. They dropped to his well-fitted jacket over his athletic shoulders and chest, oddly streaked with dirt.
He could have been a hero in a gothic novel.
I did not fully understand the entire picture before me, but what I knew was enough.
This disheveled man, handsome though he may be, did not deserve a first quarto any more than I did.
In fact, I could argue that I would take better care of it if his ill-kempt attire were proof of anything.
First quartos were historic relics of literature.
His scowl deepened, and with the war speed of Ares, we both reached for the book again. This time our hands both met the book’s spine—mine at the bottom and his at the top. We yanked it from the shelf, but there was no clear victor. Indeed, there was hardly enough space for a proper tug-of-war.
“Ladies first,” I argued, pulling it toward me.
“Ah, but chivalry must step aside for fairness. I clearly had the book first.” He drew the book closer to him this time, coincidentally pressing the back of my hand to his rather firm chest.
I tried to pull the book away, but he was much stronger than me. “That cannot be possible. We both reached it at the same time.”
His jaw worked together—I might have been watching with rapid interest. Only, of course, because I had not been this close to a man before and not because I was ogling him. At least, I did not think so, even if I was oddly fascinated by his every feature, including a freckle on his sharp jawline.
Ahem, not that I noticed.
After a moment, I found my voice. “I suppose we are at an impasse.”
His brows tightened and then relaxed again.
“Unfortunately, we cannot share it.” The tension suddenly left the death grip between us, and the stranger released his end of the book.
“Forgive me, it’s yours. I became excited and did not act in the manner of a gentleman.
” He took a purposeful step back, allowing me breathing room.
I glanced down at the cover. Romeo and Juliet.
The most historic star-crossed lovers of all time.
And it was mine. I swallowed. This man’s generosity sent a wave of guilt crashing through my resolve.
“Are you certain you want to give it to me?” He was a true gentleman to relinquish such a prize, but what did that make me? Abominably selfish?
“Will you at least humor me and tell me the date it was published?” he asked.
“Indeed,” I whispered, opening the book. I held it out for him to see the date.
He let out a low whistle. “1597. She’s a beauty.”
I liked that he called the collection a she, giving it a feminine note, and with an air of respect that he no doubt offered to all the ladies of his acquaintance.
I could not even blame him for his rudeness moments ago because his passion aligned with my own.
Indeed, I was the one with her manners in question.
“You . . . you should take it.” I could barely force the words out. I wanted this copy. I wanted it far more than I wanted Clodwick.
“You don’t mean that, and we both know it,” he said. “There is a bench outside the shop. You can excuse any guilt you feel by letting me peruse your copy for a few minutes after you purchase it.”
I smiled. “For such a small favor, I feel quite indebted. Thank you.”
The gentleman retreated from the shop to wait for me outside while I found my way to the proprietor of the shop, seated behind a counter. He paused his work in mending a broken spine long enough to help me.
“Find another gem, Miss Delafield?”
As Quillsbury was on the other side of Surrey from Writcombe, I had frequented the shop with my yearly visits to my sister. Enough time, it seemed, to become well acquainted with Mr. Wordsworth. “A gem, indeed.” I held up the book to show it to him.
Mr. Wordsworth’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, I thought that one might catch your eye.”
“You know my taste well.” As I did not carry enough pin money to pay in full, I requested the cost be added to my sister’s tab, which thankfully was in good standing.
I would have to request money from Papa, but I knew he would indulge me.
Although he did not like it known about my writing for the protection of my reputation, I had inherited my love of books from him.
After paying for the book and wishing Mr. Wordsworth well, I let myself out of the shop. Tabitha stood outside in deep conversation with an older woman I did not recognize. I pointed to the bench behind her, and she nodded.
The gentleman stood at the opposite end of it. “Please, have a seat, Miss Page.”
“Miss Page?” I frowned. Had he confused me with someone else?
His grin was disarming. Intriguing. Marvelous. For a fleeting moment, words were flying through my head with the utmost clarity.
“Forgive me,” he said. “As we have no mutual acquaintance to introduce us, I took the liberty of coming up with a name for you myself: Miss First Page. Seeing as all I know about you would fit in a few paragraphs, it felt fitting.”
I laughed at his cleverness and took a seat, handing him my new book. “Then you can be Mr. Prologue—the beginning of our acquaintance.”