It is a truth universally acknowledged that a lady reading a novel at a house party will get absolutely no peace.
“There you are, Miss Wilson!”
I lower my book, cursing Mr. Barstow’s persistence. To my mortification I notice Lord Ashford watching us, a wry smile on his handsome face.
“Barstow,” he says suddenly. “Your aunt sent for you just now. Better hurry.”
His voice brooks no argument. Barstow scuttles out, glaring.
“Thank you,” I say warmly, blushing as his gaze lingers on me.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb your reading—” he murmurs.
I shut my book with a snap.
The Tiny Library 