Page 46 of Ruined by the Wrong Earl

She closed her workbook where she’d been sketching shells and describing their unique physical attributes and reached for her reticule. Her family had never paid for a subscription to the circulating library. Her father would have enjoyed it, but he’d travelled too often to make it worthwhile to pay the annual fee. Her mother would consider it a waste of money and would rather spend it at the dressmaker or milliner.

A quick carriage ride and they were at the Bond Street establishment. He opened the heavy oak doors, and she swept inside. The place was a hubbub of activity. Ladies and gentlemen perused the shelves and spoke with clerks. The smell of leather-bound books was as comforting as a pot of hot tea on a cold winter day. She glanced up at the tall rows of bookshelves, the leather spines a kaleidoscope of colour. Tall, wheeled ladders allowed clerks access to the top shelves.

A yearly fee of forty-two shillings entitled a member to take out twelve books from the circulating library. Visitors could browse the collection, and if they found a novel they wanted to own, a special arrangement could be made with the bookseller to purchase the book. It was beneficial for both the patrons and the bookshop.

It wasn’t just popular novels that were available for borrowing. The library collection included a vast number of research books. Nora already owned two treatises on shells, both gifts from her father. Approaching the library clerk, she eagerly requested Sir Hans Sloane’s, A Voyage to the Islands of Madeira, Barbados, Nieves, St Christopher and Jamaica; and Martin Lister’s Historia Conchyliorum.

Ralston wanted to read the many newspaper subscriptions. They made their way to a reading room where tables and comfortable armchairs and settees were arranged before a fireplace with a marble mantel. A large window allowed for plenty of sunlight. Patrons could peruse newspapers, magazines and books in casual comfort here. And any books they’d requested were fetched by a clerk and delivered to the reading room.

The door opened and a servant wheeled in a tray and offered both coffee and tea to those reading or waiting for their reading material to be delivered.

Nora could spend an entire afternoon here, drinking tea and flipping through books on seashells. Ralston waited for her to be seated on a sofa and then sat beside her. His thigh brushed her skirts, and muscles she wasn’t usually aware of tightened inside her. Her skin tingled as if he had caressed her flesh. Desire hummed though her, making her shift on the cushion. What was it about him that caused her to react so swiftly? Whatever it was, these powerful feelings occurred too easily and too often. They made her tremble and struggle to find solid ground, even though she was sitting.

A clerk with ink-stained fingers delivered their books and papers and just as quietly left the room. Nora flipped through the book by Martin Lister first.

‘Did you know the Dowager Duchess of Portland had the largest collection of shells in Europe?’ Nora asked.

Ralston lowered his paper. ‘Wasn’t she quite eccentric?’

‘Quite so. Upon her death, her estate had over four thousand separate lots for auction.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, his attention returning to his paper. ‘This caricature of the Prince Regent is quite entertaining.’

Nora leaned close to look at what had captured his attention. Her eyes widened at Candace’s artwork in The Morning Post. Prinny sat at his dining table with friends stuffing coins into his mouth, his fleshy jowls drawn even larger. Candace had said she’d sold her work under a nom de plume to a printer, but she’d never thought that printer would turn around and swiftly sell it to a major publication like the one Ralston was reading. She sucked in a breath in surprise. She wondered if even Candace knew it was in today’s publication.

Nora swallowed, holding back any audible gasps. She’d promised to keep her sister’s secret. Taking a quick breath, she said in a controlled voice. ‘The artwork is amazing.’

‘And quite humourous,’ Ralston drawled.

They spent a good part of the afternoon sharing what they’d read. He flipped through the Saint James Chronicle, New Lloyd’s Evening Post and The Observer. Her book were thicker and took her more time to browse. All the while, she was highly aware of him—the scent of his sandalwood cologne, the touch of his thigh as he reached for another newspaper, the curve of his lips as he found something else humourous in the pages. Even the rumble of his voice when he leaned close to share what he read.

If he looked at her with the slightest hunger, she wasn’t certain that she’d be able to resist him. It wasn’t just lust either. It was even more dangerous. Until now, she hadn’t realized how much she liked their time together—how much it made her feel connected to him. These unwanted emotions tugged at her chest, treacherous. She needed to get up and step away from him.

She closed her two books and rose. ‘I’m going to request another, and I hope they have it.’

He glanced up. ‘Shall I go with you?’

She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. I’ll be back soon enough.’

She took a calming breath as she waited for an available clerk at the circulation desk. Looking up with wonder, she admired the books on display. A feast of available knowledge.

‘Miss Nora Magarian.’

She turned to find Baron Umbridge standing behind her.

‘Pardon. I believe I should say Lady Ralston.’

She blinked, still not quite comprehending that he was in the library. She found her voice. He looked older to her, his belly bigger beneath his coat, and crow’s feet by his eyes. He’d combed strands of his thinning fair hair across a shiny scalp. ‘Lord Umbridge. Are you borrowing books?’ It was a silly question. Why else would he be here?

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m selling them. I do not need them in my home any longer. I’m newly married.’

She blinked once again, not making the connection. Why would he no longer need books because he’d wed?

As if he read her mind, he explained. ‘I found my wife reading novels too many times. I do not wish to fill her head with ideas.’

‘I don’t understand, my lord. What possible ideas?’

‘She should be focused on giving me an heir and her duties to me, not reading petty romance novels.’