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“Let me be very clear. I am headed north to escape everything you are, and everything you represent. You are all I loathe about the aristocracy—arrogant, vapid, without purpose, and altogether too reliant on your title and your fortune, which you have come by without any effort of your own. You haven’t a thought in your head worth thinking—as all of your intelligence is used up in planning seductions and winning silly carriage races.
“You’re so arrogant. I have half a mind to die just to prove you wrong.”
“Stop believing whatever everyone has said about you for all these years. There’s nothing about you that is unmemorable. The last week has been the most memorable of my life, for Chrissakes. Because of you. Stop imagining that you’re something you’re not.”
“Happiness. That’s what books smell like. Happiness. That’s why I always wanted to have a bookshop. What
better life than to trade in happiness?”
And she knew, this place, this man—he would always be home.
Vaguely, it occurred to her that other people found love to be a pleasurable experience, filled with roses and doves and sweets and whatever else. Those people were obviously cabbageheads. Because she loved the Marquess of Eversley quite desperately, and there wasn’t anything remotely pleasurable about it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry I cannot be the man you wish me to be.” Tears threatened again and she shook her head. No more of that. “It’s you who don’t see. I only ever wished you to be the man you are.”
“The irony of it is this—I would have given you whatever you asked. I would have begged you for forever if you hadn’t been so quick to steal it.”
