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inches from his open mouth. He looked to Vincent, who sat at his left at the head of the table. “I need to arrange for someone to crate them and deliver them to the shop.”
    Likely that detail had just occurred to him. Oliver was not the most organized of individuals. Vincent reached for his glass of wine and took a sip. “Inquire with the blacksmith, Mr. Young. You can find him at the inn’s livery, and his son should be able to transport the crates to London.”
    The line of Oliver’s shoulders went lax with relief. He popped the piece of pork into his mouth. His jaw worked as he chewed, and then he swallowed the food down with a sip of wine. A sheen of Bordeaux clung to his full lips, reminding Vincent of how those lips looked slicked with spit after sucking him off. A memory he could verify just as soon as they finished supper and Mrs. Hollister left the house. And after Oliver put his beautiful mouth to good use, then Vincent would strip him of his clothes, restrain him, and redden his arse with the flogger. Or perhaps the bullwhip? It had been some time since he’d heard the erotic snap of leather cracking through the air, followed by Oliver’s shuddered moan of pleasure. An entirely different moan than when he applied the flogger. One breathy and broken, thin and delicate, like the sleek, long length of a bullwhip. The other low and guttural, thicker and more substantial, like the smack of a flogger.
    His hand curled around his fork. He could almost feel the leather handle warming in his palm, could almost hear those thin, breathy moans slipping past Oliver’s lips.
    “I’ll call on him tomorrow,” Oliver said, jolting Vincent’s thoughts away from the bedchamber and back to the dining room. “It will cost considerably less to hire someone in Rotherham than to have someone travel from London to see to the task. As it is, I wish the shop’s bank account could afford more. Had to limit it to four crates, and it definitely took some doing to narrow the selection. That library was a true find, though I had the distinct impression Mr. Middleton did not leave his wife well provided for.”
    “What led you to believe that?”
    “She mentioned how she had to let her maid go. I don’t believe she has any servants helping her at the house. Didn’t spot a one while I was there. And she offered up the entire contents of the library. I’d hazard a guess Middleton spent the majority of his income building that library. The books did not appear old or well used, as if they had been inherited from another. Most were newer editions.”
    Vincent frowned. Completely irresponsible of Middleton to leave his wife beggared. The first concern upon his marriage should have been to ensure her security. A young woman from a good family would have no means of providing for herself in the event of her husband’s death. “Surely she has family who can assist her.”
    Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. I would like to hope so, but Middleton passed away almost a month ago. If she had family, one would think they would have offered their assistance by now.”
    Vincent took the last bite of his supper and set his fork down. “How substantial is the library?”
    Brow furrowed, Oliver pursed his lips. “I’d say at least another dozen crates worth, likely more.”
    He made a mental note to send a letter to the widow on the morrow and a note to Mr. Young. His son was a strapping young man, well able to pack and transport more than four crates to London.
    “Prime stock,” Oliver added. “Really wish I could have purchased the lot of them, but at the very least, she should have no trouble finding a buyer for the remainder.”
    No, she would have no trouble at all.
    With a soft tap of footsteps, Mrs. Hollister entered the dining room. “There’s more pork in the kitchen if you’d like, Lord Vincent.”
    “No, thank you.” He pushed from the table and stood, giving his bottle green coat a tug to straighten it.
    She looked to