Violet was so occupied by her thoughts that she had been spreading butter on the same piece of toast for the past few minutes; the bread in question was growing soggy. She shook her head, then took a bite.

There was no time for lovesick musings; she cringed at the fact that she had even thought the word lovesick. Because she was certainly not that. She had read enough to know that the drippy, lovesick girls in novels were without exception frightfully dull, regardless of the fact that they were frequently the heroines of their stories. Violet refused to count herself among their ranks—particularly since doing so would bring her dangerously close to an uncomfortable admission about her feelings for her not-so-beloved husband.

After she had picked away at her breakfast for a suitable amount of time, Violet retreated to the library, as she so frequently did when she found herself at loose ends. The library was her favorite room in the house. She had not seen it until the afternoon of her wedding; when she and James had arrived at the house after their wedding breakfast, she’d teased him that he might have saved the effort of courting her by just showing her this room.

“It wasn’t a terrible amount of effort, courting you,” James had said, with the satisfaction of a newly married man who had experienced an exceptionally short engagement without the inconvenience of a trip to Scotland. “You were quite willing.”

“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” Violet said, arching her brows at him. “Given that Mother was standing there observing the entire thing?” She hesitated a fraction of a second, then added, “You didn’t have much choice, either.”

Brief as that hesitation was, James must have heard it, for the smug grin faded from his face almost instantly, replaced by a look of intense focus. He dropped her hand, which he had been holding in his own, and instead stepped closer to her, seizing her shoulders in a grip firm enough to prevent escape, but not forceful enough to hurt. “Violet.”

Something in his tone had her eyes flicking up to meet his immediately. He dropped one of her shoulders to cup her cheek in his hand, and she turned her face into his palm, relishing the contact.

“I would’ve made the same choice, even if your mother hadn’t caught us.” His voice was quiet, intent, and she heard the truth in every word he spoke. “Admittedly, it might have taken a bit longer”—his mouth quirked up slightly, and she answered him with a weak smile of her own—“but I have no doubt that we would still have found ourselves here, in this library, and probably having a far more interesting conversation.”

He finished speaking, but he did not drop his hands, nor did he break his gaze. He was so very handsome, she thought, as she thought nearly every time she looked at him—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair slightly mussed by her own fingers on the carriage ride over, his vivid green eyes staring unblinkingly into her own. And she loved him. And he had told her exactly what she needed to hear.

“I’m glad we agree, then,” she told him, attempting to inject her usual note of airiness into her tone; whether or not she was successful, she was not entirely certain, but he pulled her into his arms all the same.

After that, not much was said for quite a while.

And the library got a very thorough inspection.

Now, standing in the same room recalling that moment, Violet swallowed and pushed the thought back. Regardless of the fact that the library was now used strictly for studious pursuits, rather than amorous ones, it was still a lovely room. The walls were papered a dark green, the carpets were deep red, and it was full of settees and armchairs, none of them terribly new, which meant that they were all exceedingly comfortable. The windows along one wall were large, offering a view of the garden behind the house, but the true beauty of the room was in the books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined three of the walls and, most importantly to Violet’s mind, these books were not for show. They were worn, with cracked spines and peeling letters.

“My father’s library at Brook Vale Park is full of books he’s never read,” James had told her once as they sat curled up upon one of the settees. “So as soon as I bought this house, I set about filling it with all the books I read and loved, regardless of whether they made for the most impressive collection.”

“That explains the collection of Grimm I found yesterday, then,” Violet said with a grin, nestling closer to him. “Not the most serious or literary volumes.”

“Quite,” James said dryly, but then had said very little else for some time to follow. Violet was once particularly good at silencing him, in a number of thoroughly enjoyable ways.

Once.

This morning, however, Violet did not find the library to be the sanctuary it so frequently was. She felt . . . anxious. She couldn’t settle to one thing. It was Thursday, meaning that she had nothing on her schedule for the day until a musicale hosted by the Countess of Kilbourne much later that evening. Upon her return the previous evening, she had instructed Wooton to tell callers that she was not at home, assuming that she would be exhausted from her whirlwind travels. She was rather regretting that now—it was still early, and the empty hours seemed to stretch out endlessly before her.

Boredom was something with which Violet had little experience, though certainly not for lack of trying on the part of good society. Any occupation more strenuous than needlework was frowned upon in well-bred ladies—and Violet, despite her best efforts to thwart her mother over the years, was certainly that. So while many of the paths that she might have enjoyed had she been a gentleman were closed to her, she had managed, thanks to a fair bit of craftiness, to keep herself well enough occupied. While her mother had despaired of the hours she spent holed up with her books (“You’ll develop a squint! What man will marry a lady who squints?”), she would have been considerably firmer in her disapproval had she known that, in addition to the improving novels that Violet kept placed strategically, and oh so visibly, about her bedchamber and the drawing room, her daughter was also reading every scientific text and volume of poetry she could get her hands on. She would have been even more appalled to learn how much time Violet spent composing poetry of her own, and writing letters to the editors of scientific journals—under a pseudonym, of course. She was bold, but she was not insane.