Page 22 of To Know Miss May

His heart dropped.

Upon his return to the Mount, Emma and Nicholas had approached him in secrecy, revealing the fact that they’d fallen in love with each other over the last year. While thrilled for them, August knew the risk involved, for the Cuffs and the Pengellys had been at odds for as long as August could remember, and they certainly wouldn’t look kindly on their children falling for one another—in true Romeo and Juliet fashion. Nicholas and Emma hoped their parents would one day understand, but no one was so naïve as to believe such a miracle could occur.

“If ye pretend to ’ave an attachment to Emma,” Nicholas had explained, “only for a month or so, then no one would e’er expect to see anythin’ ’tween Emma and meself.”

August had been hesitant at first, not wishing to lead anyone astray or bring Emma’s name into the gossip circles of the Mount, but after more conversation, he knew this was the best way to help his friends.

Only now, however, did he see the true effect of his agreement. He could not pay as much attention to Miss May as he wished to if he was going to keep up appearances with Emma.

But surely one evening speaking with Miss May would not injure his plan with Emma and Nicholas. He was three-quarters certain that it wouldn’t. At any rate, he wouldn’t risk injuring Miss May now by walking away without a natural departure.

He stared down at her again, ready to ask another question about her reading habits. To his surprise, she was no longer looking at the books, but over August’s shoulder. He followed her gaze, finding Mr. May watching them with a focused look. He caught August’s eye, then hurriedly looked away.

Had Mr. May been watching them the entire time? August knew how his behavior would appear to a protective father, and while he wished to know Miss May further, he couldn’t very well risk upsetting his supervisor—or allowing the man to think that August had any intention where his daughter was concerned. Not while August’s duty lay with Emma. He could only pray their ruse would not last long. A woman as delightful as Miss May would not remain single forever.

Consciously, he took a step away from her. Whatever Mr. May thought, August would be wise to tread carefully where the man was concerned. August had plans to live on the Mount for the rest of his days, and doing anything to upset his supervisor at the one job he wished to work would hardly be wise.

“I s’pose your father will be wantin’ ye back with the others,” he said softly.

She sniffed, though he couldn’t tell if it was due to a watery nose or out of derision. “Yes. ’E doesn’t like me speakin’ o’ books very often.”

So, it had been out of derision, then. Before August could ask for more information—and possibly risk upsetting her further—he watched her reach up to take another book.

“I think I’ll choose this one,” Miss May said, pulling down a copy of The Hermit’s Cell.

“A fine choice,” he stated.

“Ye’ve read it?”

“No, but any story involvin’ a hermit must be a classic.”

She smiled at his teasing, though it faded faster than before.

He couldn’t end the evening this way. Never mind his agreement with Emma and Nicholas. If his duty to them prevented him from being kind to another person, they wouldn’t have wanted him to agree to it anyway.

“I must say, Miss May,” he said, taking the book from her as he held all three together in his hands, “ye’ve inspired me. I think I’ll make more time for readin’ now.”

“Will ye?”

“Yes. In fact…” He paused, peering up at the books. “Yes. If ye promise to ensure that I be ’ome when ye return these books, I’ll promise to read one book o’ your choosin’ within the week.”

She arched her brows. “A week? That be a lofty goal, sir.”

“Do ye doubt me?”

“Very much.”

He laughed at her forthrightness. “Go on, then,” he said, motioning to the bookshelf. “Ye must choose one for me.”

She gave him a look, as if to see if he was serious. When he motioned to the shelf again, she shrugged and turned to the books herself.

She looked through the titles before a smile spread slowly across her lips. “That one. Right there.”

She pointed to the top shelf, and he ran his fingers along the spines.

“No, to the left,” she corrected. He moved his finger to the left. “No. No. Yes, that one.”

“This one?”