Chapter One
Oxford, Late February…
Duke Humfrey’s Library was chief among the Bodleian—the Oxford University’s libraries—a cathedral filled with tier upon tier of oak shelves displaying book spines darkened by centuries of hands, the air thick with the musk of vellum and old ink.
A faint draft wandered down the long chamber, carrying the dry whisper of paper rubbed thin with use.
Sunlight fractured through stained-glass windows, spilling jeweled patches across the flagged floor and catching on the iron chains that tethered rare manuscripts to their desks.
John Spencer, Marquess of Stonefield, sat at one of the long tables, shoulders drawn tight beneath his bottle green coat.
A white cravat cinched his throat, starched so stiff it might have choked a lesser man.
He leaned over an open volume on estate taxes, though his eyes blurred as soon as they touched the words.
If tenants hold under a lease exceeding…
His vision wandered, sliding to the space at the end of the chamber.
A parcel lay in front of him, wrapped neatly in brown paper and string.
Its scent rose in delicate threads—warm cream, cinnamon apple, and vanilla—sweetening even the smell of ink.
He had queued on Holywell Street before dawn for those pastries.
A marquess did not wait in line. Yet he had waited.
Because, while she pretended not to care, she devoured every crumb later.
Theresa was nowhere to be seen. She swept the floors, dusted the rows of books—tasks the students ignored, or worse.
Yet John had watched, and he had noticed.
She moved with precision, not only putting books in their places but mastering their contents.
He found her a contradiction—mystery and open book, servant and scholar, aloof and yet the one person who saw him.
From their first meeting, he had known she amounted to more than the role she played.
He thanked her for refilling the ink and for her help when he got lost among the shelves, and she had looked up at him with wary composure, instead of turning away.
Small courtesies, but they had meant something—a beginning.
Two years on, they meant everything. She had become his truest friend at Oxford, his confidante, the one who stayed when other companions scattered to clubs and cards or other careless endeavors he couldn’t afford since he was already a marquess with all its duties waiting for him after graduation.
And—though he could scarcely admit it even to himself—she had become his secret, his love, his heart.
One more term. Then Stonefield. Then tenants and titles and every responsibility the title demanded. His guardian, Alfie, had promised to help him through the summer, but after that, John would have to assume most of the responsibility. That didn’t worry him as much as what he’d leave behind.
Theresa.
The thought throbbed like a pulse if I could only bring her home.
The hinges at the far end of the library stirred, a door opening with the faintest sigh. His gaze snapped up.
She wore a dark blue gown, plain but well-kept, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a dusting rag clutched loosely in one hand. Her hair was pinned up, neat enough for propriety, but a curl had already slipped free to brush her cheek.
She did not smile. She never did in public.
But her eyes found his. And held.
Heat climbed the back of his neck. He shifted in his chair, noticing how tightly the coat pulled across his shoulders.
A slight tilt of her head. A glance toward the back staircase. Barely more than a breath of movement, but he understood.
John closed his book with deliberate care, slid the parcel under his arm, and rose. His pulse throbbed as he gathered his notes. He left the desk without a backward glance, though every nerve sang with awareness of her.
*
The tower room smelled faintly of dust and coal smoke.
Still, Theresa had claimed it with her own touches: lavender sachets tucked between the blankets, a broken mirror propped on the ledge, a few rescued scraps of comfort from student dormitory castoffs.
The mirror had a cracked edge, its silver warped, yet it showed her enough—pale cheek, dark eyes, a fringe she trimmed herself with blunt scissors.
Such was her life these days: modesty in place of grandeur, secrecy in place of safety.
Once she had walked polished halls in Vienna; now she scrubbed floors in Oxford, slept most nights tucked into this forgotten corner above the library.
Oh well, at least she had plenty of books to read and could continue studying Ovid.
She could look herself in the mirror with more respect than any of her relatives, especially her father and brother, whose last name she’d cast off as soon as she set foot in England—no longer Theresa Magdalena von Hofst?tter, just Theresa Hofer.
Plain instead of vain. Honest, instead of…
well, whatever one called the crimes her father and brother got away with because of their stations.
She straightened the blankets of her makeshift nest, smoothed the lopsided pillows she’d salvaged from a rubbish heap, and told herself not to think of him. John.
Her mind wandered all the same. To the way he kissed her as though the world might end if he stopped.
To the way he caught her cry with his mouth, as if sound itself belonged only to them.
Then finally to the impossible thought that she belonged to him, here in this secret tower, even when the rest of the world looked right through her.
A short-lived dream.
She pressed her hand to the woolen coverlet, her throat tightening. Graduation loomed. He’d soon leave for his estate. His family. And she—just the girl who scrubbed the library so she could be near books, near learning, near safety? Once he graduated, it would be goodbye.
Yet every time John entered the library, the air changed.
When he came near, the skin on her back prickled.
She cherished his kisses more than she cared to admit.
And the grandest part of it all… he saw her.
Not the duster in her hand, not the plain dress, but her soul.
She didn’t need to be in a silk ballgown coming down her parents’ winding marble steps in Vienna; he’d see her if she brushed his coat between the stacks of books.
When she spoke, he listened, and he laughed at her jokes.
He loved that she was Viennese and wished to see Vienna for himself.
They had shared their dreams and secrets: his parents had died, another family had taken him in, and love had remade his life.
And his love had remade hers.
She carried his confessions like jewels, hidden deep where no one could steal them. That night, she lay awake with them glinting in her chest, each memory a spark against the dark. She could not help herself—she needed to see him again.
When she descended the stairs into the stacks, she smelled it at once: vanilla, cinnamon, apple, and cream.
Her lips parted before she meant them to.
He had brought her sweets again. She drifted past the shelves of Roman histories, the Latin poets, and saw him at the far table, posture taut, spectacles glinting, parcel waiting.
His blond curls caught the light, making him look less a marquess and more a handsome young man on the edge of discovering the world.
She peeked through the door, and he spotted her as if he’d been waiting for her. And the look in his eyes—hungry, intent—stole her breath. If only he didn’t have to leave her behind soon.
She fled before the strength of it undid her, up the stairs, heart pounding, into the tower room where the world belonged only to them.
The boards quivered under the weight of his steps.
“Theresa,” he called, low but urgent.
She turned as the door closed. He set the parcel aside, crossed the room in a stride, and caught her in his arms. His mouth claimed hers, and her bones felt as though they’d turned to liquid. Vanilla ghosted between them. His hands framed her waist, calm and desperate at once.
“Tell me you missed me,” he breathed.
“I counted the hours till your classes ended.” She tugged him closer, reckless now. “You owe me interest.”
“There was a line for the pastries.” His laugh rumbled low, until no space remained for laughter, only heat, only the way he kissed her until the world narrowed to this tower, this man, this moment.
But beneath the sweetness, fear lurked. One more term. Then he would go.
And once he left her behind, she would shatter.