Page 43 of The Lyon Whisperer
“I see.” She picked up her goblet and sipped the semi-sweet ruby wine. “You expect to find clues in the forest tying him to the fires?”
“I’m hoping to.”
Excitement riffled through her. “I’m quite good at investigating, myself. I could help you.”
His lips twitched. “I think I can handle the exercise. You shall wait here.”
She sniffed. “I can at least ask questions of the villagers, as I’ll be left with nothing to do save another exploration of the town.”
He frowned.
She went on, hoping to stave off the argument she read all over his face. “In the bookstore across the street I also purchased a novel written by one of my favorite authors, which should keep me entertained for several hours.”
His dark eyes narrowed as if he noted her swift change of subject and contemplated the merits of letting the previous subject drop. After a moment he crossed his arms over his chest and his expression shifted to one of polite interest. “An afternoon spent indoors, reading, sounds like a fine idea, Amelia. What novel did you purchase? Perhaps I’ve read it.”
She hopped up and retrieved the small volume from the small table in the corner of the anteroom. “It’s a gothic novel by Mrs. Radly—her latest release. She’s quite talented. Perhaps you have read one of her previous novels?”
Eschewing the armchair she’d vacated, she dropped onto the sofa beside him and extended the book, platter style, toward him.
“I can’t say that I have.”
Rather than take the book, he cupped her hand with his. His palm was warm and dry, and she was aware of every place his skin touched hers.
He’d returned to the hotel sooner than she had anticipated this afternoon. While she yet engaged in shopping, he had obviously washed and shaved. An hour ago, the sight of his smooth skin and damp hair curling over his bright-white cravat when she entered the chamber had stolen her breath.
Now, seated too near him—her own fault—the hint of spicy aftershave and warm male skin had her toes curling in her slippers.
He studied the gold filigree title on the cover. “Her Mysterious Frenchman,” he read aloud. His dark gaze slid to meet hers. “What is the novel’s premise?”
“I believe the heroine owns a bookshop specializing in rare tomes. A Frenchman enters her shop in search of a particular work, and soon the two find themselves evading villains, members of a dangerous religious sect, also in search of the book. The dashing hero and brave heroine fall in love, but their romance is seemingly doomed due to their different stations in life, though, in the end, if Mrs. Radley is true to form, true love will conquer all.”
“I see.” He plucked the book from her hand and set it on the table beside him—beyond her reach. “You say you’ve read many books by this author, all written in the same vein?”
“The same vein?”
His black brows shot upward. “Gothic novels featuring socially frowned upon, forbidden romantic alliances?”
She sent him a patient smile, though she felt anything but. “I detect a note of censure, sir. We discussed this. I specifically requested you not attempt to curtail my reading habits, and you agreed.”
“I recall,” he said through set teeth, “you seeking my assurance I would not interfere with your book club’s reading choices—the Ladies’ Literary Society of London, isn’t it?”
She nodded, watching him carefully.
“Do you mean to say such novels are common reading material for your so-called literary society?”
She lifted her chin. “We read many different genres of fiction, as well as poetry and non-fiction works whose subjects range from the scientific, to geographical and political study to—”
“Political,” he cut in. “What on earth for?”
She cleared her throat. “Self-improvement and the betterment of mankind. Father was always very big onbetteringtracts for women.”
He heaved a sigh and muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Dear God.”
Without another word, he removed the silver covers from their meals and set them aside.
Amelia stared unhappily at the generous serving of roast beef, boiled potatoes, and bread before her.
Chase unfolded one serviette and placed it on her lap. The gesture seemed unconscionably intimate and gentle, especially considering she had clearly disappointed him.
