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so closely, but it was the primary means by which he procured new stock for his bookstore. Usually the widow’s request was not driven by an urgent need for funds, but more as a method to tidy a library. Given she had let her maid go, he had a strong suspicion the young widow needed more than a bit of extra pin money. Judging by the state of the room, Mr. Middleton had spent every shilling on his collection.
    She moved to the other window and repeated the procedure, tugging open the curtains and tying them back. Her slight frame strongly lent the impression of youth. At first glance, one might easily mistake her for an adolescent. Yet her refined manners, the rich timbre of her voice, and that air about her that she had seen and experienced far more than a mere girl indicated she was many years older. Likely just below his own seven and twenty. Still, a young woman. If he recalled correctly, Mr. Middleton had been a young man as well. The thought of saving to provide for his wife had likely been far from his mind. With death came tragedy, but it was especially hard when it took someone so young, snatching a loved one well before his or her time.
    It made him acutely aware of how fortunate he was. He could leave this house and return to Vincent. Hold the man close, feel the strong beats of his heart, the warmth of his breath. Sensations that were now mere treasured memories for Mrs. Middleton. Hopefully he and Vincent would have the long years together that had been denied the young widow. And now that the threat of marriage was gone, the hope was solidly within his grasp.
    Another little tug on the ties and then she turned from the window. The polite hint of a smile could not hide the sadness lurking in the depths of her brown eyes. She flicked her wrist, the motion encompassing the entire room. “You needn’t stand by the door. Please, have a look around. There aren’t any I particularly wish to keep, so the entire lot is available if you so desire.”
    If the bookshop’s account could manage it, and if the shop had the space, he would readily buy them all, if for no other reason than to help her. “Thank you.” He tipped his head. “The collection is quite impressive, to the point where the shop could not hold it all. A few crates will likely need to be the limit, though it will require some self-restraint to narrow the selection.”
    She nodded in understanding. The skirts of her somber black day dress rustled softly as she crossed the room. When she made to drop down before the fireplace, he held up a hand and stepped from the door.
    “You needn’t bother with that. I can see to it.”
    Crouched before the dark hearth, she looked up at him askance, her eyes wide with uncertainty. He might be the son of a marquis, but that did not mean he’d ever had the opportunity to grow accustomed to others waiting on him.
    “Truly. I’m well versed in starting a fire. Please, leave it to me.” He shifted his leather bag to his left hand and held out his right to help her to her feet.
    A brief hesitation and then with a barely audible murmur of thanks, she laid her small, pale hand in his and stood. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
    “Thank you for the offer but no. I would not want to risk an accidental spill. Tea does not rub along well with Shakespeare.”
    The edges of her lips lifted, this time in a hint of a genuine smile. She clasped her hands before her. “Well then, I shall leave you to it. If you have need of anything, please do not hesitate to ask.” With that, she left the room.
    Shrugging out of his greatcoat, Oliver glanced about. Where to start? He could spend days perusing so many books. A part of him did not want to miss even one, for the one he missed could be the ultimate treasure. But he had been on such appointments enough times to know he needed to push aside the urge to set up a pallet in the corner and not leave until he’d laid his hands on every volume. In any case, he would much rather