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win. “Oh, but you should!”
    “I’ve spent half a lifetime building this collection. You can hardly expect a man to let his books be scattered like seeds to the wind.”
    “But that’s exactly the right analogy,” she cried. “Think about how much knowledge you could sow by sharing your books with the people who live around here.”
    “Do you have a library like this in Penn’s Woods?”
    “I do.”
    Something flickered in those gray-blue eyes. “Your husband’s?”
    “Oh, no,” she said, the quickness of her reply surprising her. “I’m a widow. The library is just one I can use. In fact, I help take care of the books there.”
    “A library keeper?”
    “Yes.”
    He studied her appraisingly. “How very interesting. I have heard of such a thing, though I admit I have never heard of a woman doing it. And this gentleman, the one who owns the library, he is wealthy?”
    She could hardly blame him for assuming the library’s owner was male. She imagined there weren’t many women owners of anything in the eighteenth century. And in this case, the “owner,” as it were, certainly was. Andrew Carnegie had been as rich as they come.
    “He is.”
    “And how does my library compare?”
    How like a man to ask such a thing. She looked around the vast room, her eyes trailing up the towers of wood and glass to take in the gleaming volumes. Her fingers tingled for the chance to hold them. Yet, what a thing to lavish on a single person. “For an individual, your collection is immense, and from the pieces I’ve seen, I think you have a very, very fine eye.”
    “Do I hear a ‘but’ in there?”
    The rare man who listened to more than the words spoken. “Well, where I come from, a library is judged not just on its collection but upon the number of books it lends out. We call that its circulation. Your circulation, I am afraid to say, is one.”
    It dawned on her that she had no idea if his circulation was one. For all she knew, he had a wife and family who used it. She flushed, realizing how he might interpret the question.
    His eyes twinkled clear blue. “And the man who owns your library? How large is his circulation?”
    She searched his face for deeper meaning, but his features seemed pointedly unreadable. “Well, size is not the only thing that matters, of course.”
    “Is it not? I believe you just said it was.”
    “All right, yes, size is important. Very important, in fact,” she added, walking the perimeter of the room to avoid looking into those eyes. “But there is range to be considered as well.”
    “The wider, the better, I suppose.”
    She gave him a look. He was alluding to more than range. She could see the laughter in those warm eyes.
    “Yes,” she said carefully, “width is certainly a benefit.”
    “Though you would argue for distinguishing oneself with commanding depth in a few important areas, too, I’m sure.”
    “Yes, as well as the sensitivity with which the collector—”
    “Aye, the sensitivity. Always a concern. Then you would say his library exceeds mine in all important aspects.”
    The twinkle had turned to a kaleidoscopic glitter, and she flushed from her neck to the tips of her ears. “His collection is larger—”
    Bridgewater put a hand over his heart. “Ooh. A crushing blow.”
    “—but as for the rest . . . I don’t know. I would have to, well . . .”
    “Sample it?”
    His eyes met hers, only for an instant, but a seismic shock rattled her knees. Charming bastard. She downed a swig of brandy to moisten her throat. “Hmmm.”
    “That can be arranged, you know.”
    “Oh, I’m sure it can. Take heart, though. A man with a humble collection can still make an impact.”
    “Humble!”
    “It’s a matter of attitude, attentive execution, and something with which you may not be closely familiar: humility.”
    “Ouch. I withdraw to lick my wounds.” Bridgewater stretched his long legs and leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Well, I am sorry to hear