Dearest Josephine

do something, anything, make a choice, say a word. But all he could do was stare at her puffy eyes.
“I’ll go.” She climbed off the sofa and rushed to the door.
“No, no, please stay.” Elias blocked the exit.
Cadwallader Park contained several libraries, all of them grander than his retreat. Had Josephine come here to escape attention? And what caused her to cry? Life’s misfortunes or the book now abandoned on a cushion?
“What type of books do you like?” Elias asked. He stood close to her. Too close. His cheeks burned, perhaps to hint at what might happen if someone found him with Josephine.
“Fairy tales, mythology, novels with romance and ghosts. Really, I enjoy all fiction,” Josephine said. She gazed up at him, her mouth stretching into a smile.
“You’re welcome to borrow from this collection.” Elias studied her features—the faint sunspots on her cheekbones, how her upper lip folded when she grinned. Indeed, she was beautiful, but like a rainstorm, not a piece of china.
Like a sprinkle of dried heather on a sideboard.
Josephine turned on her heels and meandered across the study. With a sigh, she collapsed onto the sofa, her head lolling against the backrest. “I daresay you’ve been avoiding me, Mr. Welby. Because I am engaged does not mean we can’t be friends, and I think we should.”
“Be friends?”
“Yes,” Josephine said with a nod. She grabbed a fistful of her skirt and proceeded to pluck thorns from the fabric. “Sebastian wants to discuss only parties and hunting. I doubt he’s read a novel from cover to cover.”
“So, you wish to be friends because my cousin bores you?” Elias rubbed his jaw as a smile tugged his face. He couldn’t take his eyes off Josephine. She was magnificent and bold and uncouthly direct. No other girl compared to her, not in the slightest.
“We have fun together, don’t we?” Josephine sat up straight, her expression reminding Elias of the afternoons they’d spent in Mrs. Darling’s old clothes, practicing lines of Shakespeare with Kitty and Fitz. They were friends despite Elias’s avoidance.
They’d been friends for quite some time.
“Mr. Darling arranged the betrothal,” Josephine said. “He wrote to Mother a few months ago and proposed I marry Sebastian. Now, before you judge me—”
“I don’t judge you.” Elias perched on the chair across from Josephine. He leaned against his thighs, a knot twisting his stomach. Of course, money and station must’ve been involved in the arrangement, for no lady would agree to marry Sebastian without benefits.
“Are you pleased with the match?” he dared to ask.
“Girls don’t get to be pleased, at least not in the real world.” Josephine grabbed the novel she’d been reading before Elias interrupted her and flipped through its pages. “Books are kinder. They allow girls to go on adventures and fall in love. I do believe literature holds the best of us . . . or perhaps it reflects the better versions of who we are.” She hugged the volume, her voice faltering. “I’d like to live in a book.”
“I know how we can manage.” Elias rose from the chair and went to a shelf beside his desk. He wanted to beg Josephine to reconsider the engagement. He wanted to live in a book with her, about them, without Sebastian and Lord Welby. The notion seemed childish, but he was young and so was she. Neither of them should have to think about the rest of their lives.
Josephine followed him to the bookcase. She touched the embossed spines as he’d done countless times, and for a moment the library appeared to celebrate her. Golden beams poured between the curtains and framed her silhouette. Dust whirled around her in ashy tendrils.
The sight caused heat to ripple through Elias’s body, the sensations expounding until he felt magnified and raw, until he burned from the inside out. He couldn’t alter his and Josephine’s circumstances, for society plotted their futures. All he could do was provide what she asked for—a friendship, a book, some afternoons of laughter before adulthood caught up with them. He wanted the whole story, but he’d settle for a chapter.
A little of her was worth the pain of losing her.
“Miss De Clare, I present you with a gift,” Elias said. He removed a novel from the shelf and handed it to her. “A chilling ghost story.”
“How chilling?”
“You won’t sleep a wink tonight.” Elias glanced down and shuffled his feet. “Also, I accept your proposition. Let’s be friends.”
“Shake on it.” Josephine extended her hand. “My friend, Mr. Welby.”
Elias wrapped his fingers around her palm. Their interaction defied etiquette, but he didn’t care. He tried to care. He wanted to care. He listed all the reasons why he should keep her at a distance. But she stood close. She’d entered his safe place. Now no room was without her.
She was everywhere.
“Please call me Elias,” he said. “Mr. Welby . . . It sounds too formal.”
“Elias.” Josephine spoke his name like a secret, each syllable careful and savoured. “You must call me Josephine, then. I insist.”
“Hello, Josephine.” Elias shook her hand once more. He laughed when she perched on her tiptoes and ruffled his curls as if he were still an Eton boy. For weeks he’d questioned whether the bonfire kiss fuelled his infatuation. He’d wondered if his feelings might’ve been different if he had met Josephine at the engagement dinner. However, each question led him to the same conclusion: Yes. Of course. No doubt about it. He would’ve loved her at any beginning.
He loved Josephine De Clare.
“Sorry. I don’t know why I touched your hair.” She covered her eyes with her fingers. “I embarrass myself all the time.”
“I do too. A week ago I tripped and fell down the staircase, rolled all the way to the bottom,” he said. “You . . . You’re the least dislikeable person in my acquaintance.”
“What a friendly thing to say.” Josephine clutched the novel to her chest, its cover the same hue as her ribbon sash. “Thanks for the book. I shan’t bend the pages or drop my tea—”
“Do what you like with it. The