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With a little shrug, she purposefully strode away from the bookshelves. There was no time for maudlin reminiscence. Cracking the door open, she peered into the corridor.

The hallway lay dark and silent. This deep into the night, not even the servants were about.

Good.

She stepped out, turned left, and tiptoed toward the study. Moving as quietly as she could, she turned the doorknob. After one last glance around, she slipped inside.

Closing the door shut behind her, she let out a breath of relief. The easiest part was over. Now for the hard part.

Lydia quickly assessed the room and made her way toward the lone desk by the window. Moonlight spilled across the pile of correspondence.

Now what?

She needed to find the letters that contained any information about the betrothal. But how could she possibly find something like that without reading every single one? She eyed the candle sitting idly on the desk’s edge and shook her head. Lighting it was too risky—anyone passing by would see the glow under the door.

Lydia drew in a steadying breath and lowered herself into the chair. A mountain of letters lay before her, most still unopened. She picked up the topmost envelope and held it to the moonlight streaming through the window. Squinting, she read the scribbled name and subject line before immediately discarding it—just an invitation to a ball.

The second letter was another invitation. The third was correspondence from the estate manager. She cast it aside and reached for the next one.

Perhaps she was going about this the wrong way. Why sift through letters when there was almost certainly a betrothal contract somewhere?

She flung the letter she was holding aside, ready to move on, until a familiar name caught her eye.

She picked the letter back up and squinted, reading it again.

Miss Penelope Prescott.

Oh, so they had exchanged correspondence directly… Somehow, she expected the letters to be between Penelope’s father and Thorn. Lydia squirmed from the uncomfortable twinge in her heart.

The sudden slam of a door somewhere upstairs jolted her back to reality, followed by loud, purposeful footsteps.

Damn.

What if Thorn had woken and decided to visit his study for some odd reason?

She couldn’t be caught here.

Slipping the letter into her pocket, she pulled her hood over her head and rushed out of the study. She reached the library quickly and closed the door behind her. Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened to the rapidly approaching footsteps, waiting for him to enter the study.

Instead, the footsteps grew louder and louder, until they stopped right outside the library door.

The handle squeaked and began to turn.

Lydia darted away, pressing herself into the shadows between the bookshelves. She stood as still as she could, her breath caught in her throat.

The door opened, and Art stepped into the room.

Lydia froze, her feet rooted to the floor. Her first thought was to stay perfectly still so he wouldn’t hear her. Her second thought was that it was a stupid plan because he might not hear her, but if he moved between the shelves, he’d definitely see her. Her third thought was that she needed to jump out the window as quickly and quietly as possible, preferably without breaking any bones in the process.

Beyond that, her mind ceased to function, and her body refused to move.

Art was here, in the library, with her.

Just like the first time they had spoken.

And just like the first time, Lydia was hiding in the shadows.

She couldn’t see him from where she stood, but she heard his soft footsteps, followed by the scrape of the tinderbox igniting. Moments later, flickering light started dancing on a tiny candle. The shadows stretched and shifted as he moved closer to the bookshelves. For every step he took, Lydia crept backward, inching closer and closer to the window, carefully matching her steps to his to mask the sound.