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and hope that touched her heart.
    “Yes, if you’d like.” Lilly feared she might choke on the intimacies of sentimental poetry, but if he insisted, she ’d try her best. She ’d never admit his kind gesture had failed to quicken her romantic feelings. That was her failure, not his.
    Irene murmured, “She’d also enjoy any one of Fannie Cole ’s stories. Perhaps next time . . .”
    Harlan glowered. “You don’t mean those trashy dime novels, do you?”
    “I do, indeed. What’s trash to some is treasure to others.” Irene turned on her heel and sauntered out the door with a smug smile Lilly found tiresome.
    “That woman is insufferable. I can’t imagine why your brother ever married her.” Harlan sniffed, shaking his head.
    Lilly silently agreed.

FOUR
    J ack climbed the staircase two steps at a time to catch up with Lilly. “What book are you holding? One of Jones and Jarman’s dime novels?” He hoped his light tone of voice would bring on a genuine smile. Or at least relax her squared shoulders or the clench of her jaw.
    When she halted and flashed a grimace, he knew he ’d made a mistake by mentioning the stories she disdained. Like so many in her set, she probably disapproved of popular fiction with minimal literary value—although Fannie Cole’s books did have a moral and spiritual dimension most in society refused to acknowledge publicly.
    Her hand trembled as she held up Sonnets from the Portuguese .
    Jack’s heart flipped over. “I gave you that book on your eighteenth birthday, didn’t I?” They’d spent a glorious spring afternoon reading it together beneath the shade of a chestnut tree. He’d read one verse, she the next until the sun began to slide into evening.
    Her cheeks reddened. “This copy is a gift from Harlan.” She continued up the stairs and glanced over her shoulder.
    The thought of Lilly with Harlan made Jack’s throat tighten. He hadn’t expected to encounter a rival, but of course he should have known many gentlemen would wish to court her.
    “Don’t look so crestfallen. I still have yours. I can’t bear to part with a book.” She gave him a sad smile, turned abruptly, and disappeared into her bedroom.
    Jack wondered if she ever read it and thought of him with fondness. Or did she picture him and hurl the book across the room? He winced at the thought. How could he capture her love once again? How could he earn her forgiveness?
    He pondered their past relationship, growing less and less hopeful for reconciliation. Yet a few discouraging words wouldn’t halt his pursuit. All he needed was a large dose of tact and patience, both difficult for him to come by. But he didn’t wish to scare her away and right into the open arms of Harlan Santerre.
    Left alone, Jack wandered into the library. He skimmed through several articles he ’d brought from New York as the rest of the household scattered for their afternoon activities. The ladies followed their normal routine of paying calls upon neighbors along Ocean Drive and Bellevue Avenue while Mr. Westbrook dozed nearby in a corner of the library, a mystery novel resting on his lap. His asthmatic wheeze ended the quiet but didn’t disrupt Jack’s concentration. They’d both declined George ’s invitation to gather at the Reading Room, Newport’s male bastion where women weren’t allowed but cigars and whiskey were.
    After several hours of studying financial reports Mr. Lewis Jarman had given him, Jack borrowed a golf club and several balls from the game room storage closet and stepped outside into the bright afternoon. On the side lawn, he located the putting green beside the vacant tennis court. He took a few practice swings and relaxed.
    “Grail, may I join you?” Harlan appeared at Jack’s side a few minutes later, a club in one bony hand and bucket of balls in the other. “I thought I’d practice awhile before my round this afternoon at the golf club.”
    Jack tapped the ball too hard and it rolled down the