Page 103 of The Lyon Whisperer
“Yes. Your club again. Do you often meet weekly?”
“It depends,” she hedged. “Is it a problem?”
He grasped her elbow, steering her in an about-face. “I must return to my work,” he said by way of explanation. “In answer to your question, no, I do not foresee a problem unless you mind me riding along with you. I have some things to see to in town.”
Amelia spent agood part of the week considering how to get herself to Bond Street and then to Lady Harriet’s without alerting her husband to her activities come Saturday.
In the end, the solution was simple. She told him she needed to stop by Madame Eloise’s shop. Not wishing to lie, she did not tell him precisely why. She did ask if he wished to join her. She thought that aspect of her plan particularly clever.
He arched his jet-black brows and stared at her as if she had lost her mind. He chose his words with more diplomacy. “Unfortunately, I must meet with my uncle and his man-of-affairs to go over this quarter’s books. I haven’t got time to spare for a Bond Street expedition.”
“Of course.”
She gazed at him, seated on the bench across from her.
He was so dark and mysterious to her, even now. She wanted to know everything about him, to glean all his secrets. She wanted…his love.
She swallowed. There was that word again.Love.She feared her friends had the right of it. She had fallen head over heels in love with the man.
She esteemed him, found him maddeningly captivating, devastatingly handsome and altogether unlike any other. The rumble of his voice thrilled her. His scent intoxicated her. His actions filled her with a quiet sense of safety and pride.
But what did he feel for her? Passion, yes, there could be no denying that, but did she interest him as a person? Did he find her intellectually stimulating?
“You look very intent, Amelia. Is everything all right?”
He was a keen observer, as well, she thought, wryly. “I was just wondering about you, my lord.”
He stretched out his long legs and lounged back, arms spread over the tops of the cushions. “About me?”
She nodded. “What captures your interest, other than your work, of course?”
He glanced out the small window at the passing countryside. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Do you like the opera? The theater? Do you enjoy reading, or traveling? Do men’s fashions hold any appeal—”
He snorted at that, interrupting her train of thought. “As to the last, fashions? No. Opera?” He shrugged. “Also, no. Nor do I make a practice of frequenting the theatre, though Uncle Harry keeps a box. I suppose I did find the last performance I attended vaguely entertaining. If it’s an interest of yours, we can certainly arrange to go.”
She smiled. “I would like that very much. My father does not keep a box. He and my mother did, but after her death…” She left off with a small shrug. “It is of no consequence.”
His eyes narrowed on her briefly, as if digesting her words. A moment later he went on. “Let’s see. What else did you ask about?”
“Reading,” she replied, heart aflutter. Helistenedto her. Truly listened, and now bothered to give her a thoughtful answer.
Her heart sank even deeper into the mire of sticky, bottomless love.
“Reading. Yes, I do enjoy reading.”
“The last book you read?”
He slanted her an amused glance. “One of your favorites, I believe.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and one side of his mouth quirked upward.
“Mine? But how could you—”
“Amelia, or should I call you,Lady MacIvor?”
She blinked at him, completely lost for a full two seconds until she remembered her midnight visit upon learning she and he had been betrothed. Abruptly laughter burst from her lips. “You refer to the name I gave your London butler,” she half accused.
“Quite right. Then there are the names you assigned each of your rescued hounds—Roderick, Rose, and Fergus who remain with us, which means, the two you’ve rid us of—”
