Dalton stepped into the room. Browsed the shelves, fingertips skimming across the books, and selected one. A gothic thriller. A passionate romance. A warning of playing God. One of his favorites.
There was a desk with an oil lamp and a candelabra that would hold three candles. Two were in it right now, the one in the middle half melted already. Tallow candles, though, the ones in the ballroom were all wax. Book in hand, Dalton considered sitting there, but went to the sofa by the fire instead.
About to curl his legs under his body and settle on the seat to lose himself in a sea of words, Dalton noticed another book tucked in the corner of the sofa. He picked it up to see what it was and gasped a little, looking around as though he was about to be caught doing something he ought not to be doing.