Page 34 of The Sea Siren of Broadwater Bottom
“Er—no, he is not.”
Elissa shrugged. “Well, whoever he is, if he is the heir to a dukedom, then he is a far more suitable occupant for this room than I.”
And suddenly Edward understood what made Elissa St. Cyr special: she had no idea who the most eligible bachelor in all of England was. She could not be bothered to care, because, unlike the rest of the world, she did not spend her time obsessing over the latest fashion, the largest fortune, or the loftiest title. No, she spent her free moments reading Plutarch in a rowboat, because that was what actually made her happy.
Edward had spent all afternoon greeting guests who took great pains to appear unimpressed by his family’s stately home, who were careful to display a fashionable ennui even as they calculated the value of every candlestick down to the last farthing.
And then in walked Elissa, unable to conceal her delight.
Edward never showed his true feelings to anyone. He knew what reactions society expected, and he responded accordingly. The mere thought of showing his true emotions seemed bizarre. Foreign.Terrifying.
And yet… when was the last time he had felt the unbridled joy Elissa had radiated when she stepped into the rotunda?
Elissa continued, “And what will this Lord Gravy think—”
Edward tried and failed to stifle a laugh. “It is LordGraverley. Although I will give you any forfeit you like if you will call him ‘Lord Gravy’ to his face.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, but she was smiling. “Lord Graverley,” she amended. “What will he think when he arrives to find the best bedroom already occupied?”
“He arrived hours ago and promptly asked for a different room.”
Her jaw dropped. “He foundthisroom unsatisfactory?”
“On account of the bassoon,” Edward added.
She frowned, then slowly turned, searching the room in confusion. “The—the bassoon?”
“Yes. We’re directly above the music room, you see.”
Just then, a delicate melody drifted up through the floor. “Oh, that is beautiful!” Elissa exclaimed. “When I thought this room could not get any lovelier, it even has music.”
“That is Miss Chenoweth,” Edward hastened to explain. “She is a rare talent on the pianoforte.”
Elissa’s eyes were closed in apparent rapture. “I have never heard her equal.”
“But, you see, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy plays the—”
He was interrupted by a squawking sound reminiscent of a donkey’s bray, and loud even through the floor that separated them, as Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy made his entrance. Elissa jumped, and when she opened her eyes, she wore one of her familiar open-book expressions, an adorable combination of befuddlement and alarm.
“—the bassoon,” Edward finished awkwardly.
Elissa’s face held the horrified expression for five excruciating seconds, before the corners of her eyes crinkled and her lips curled up.
The next thing Edward knew, they were both laughing uncontrollably.
He felt rather than saw her grab his arm for balance. Just when he thought they were getting themselves under control, he made the mistake of looking at her, which caused them both to dissolve into a fresh fit of laughter.
After another minute, he offered Elissa his handkerchief, which she accepted to dab at her eyes. “And so you see,” he said, “the room is not nearly as fine as you had imagined.”
She swatted at his arm. “The room remains exquisite, and the bassoon does not detract from it in the least. Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy is not bad at all once you, er, know what to expect.” Her face fell a fraction. “Although I will not be around to hear him. I really should go.”
Deep down, Edward knew this was for the best. As much as he didn’t want her to leave, in the end, he could not have Elissa St. Cyr in his life. What good would it do him to have her here for a week? He was already far too attached to her. And with the contest looming next week… he didn’t know precisely what was going to happen, or how he was going to react. But he had a nagging feeling that he was going to ruin her good opinion of him.
But instead of offering to summon the carriage, he found himself taking both of her hands in his. And then he did something even more startling.
He said what he really felt.
“I like the thought of you in this room. Of it being used by someone who will properly appreciate it. I like the thought of you sitting here”—he nodded toward the chaise longue—“whiling away the afternoon with a stack of books. I want to take you to see the Greek folly. To show you the library—”
