Page 138 of The Ladies Least Likely
Still hiding things from him, then. How could he ever win her trust?
The light falling through the broad window shifted, softening and warming her face. He longed to trace that bright path with his fingertip.
“I’ve been quite busy. I’m due to return this manuscript to its owner at the end of the week,” she said.
He moved to stand beside her and her easel. She made a small gesture, as if gathering herself to leap like a frightened hare. Why should she be afraid of him?
“I see that you’re adding the red.”
“Yes, I’m touching up the rubrication now that the gilding is done.”
She smelled wonderful, like an English garden in summer. He’d missed her. Mal had never longed for the mere presence of another person like this before.
“But this word stands alone here.” He pointed toward the single word hovering in the lower margin. Her script was balanced, even, precise. So characteristic of her. He’d caught himself many times a day, while attending to things at Hunsdon House, listening for her voice in the hall, wondering what she would have to say about an amusing thing the servants or the children did. It was no better when he was able to visit his own apartments. Though she’d never been there, he still found his thoughts occupied with her, wondering where she was, what she was doing.
And if she thought of him nearly as often as he did her, or felt a physical sense of deprivation.
“That single word at the bottom is the catchword. This is the last in a quire of eight pages, and I want to be sure the section is bound to the correct quire that follows. Mr. Karim may send the quires out to separate artists for illuminations, and he must have a way to ensure the pages are bound in proper order when they come back.”
Still sitting in that halo of light, she cleaned her knife on the edge of the easel, then tucked it into a small leather case of other tools. He loved this insight into a world he knew nothing of. Her world, filled with light and order and concentrated beauty, so unlike the prosaic, noisy world he knew.
“The writing is so neat and even. It’s an art all its own. You’re very good at what you do.”
“Thank you.” As if concluding a play she drew a cloth over the easel and secured it with the bar upon which she rested her wrist. “What did you need?”
To see her. To smell her. To find if the image that had begun to take up space in his head had any relation at all to a real woman.
“To see if you were well. Your brother insists you are merely working, but the children have been disappointed that you’ve not been able to join us for dinner. They insisted I call upon you.” Using the children was a craven excuse, but perhaps it might make her less skittish.
She rubbed her eyebrows as if she were tired. “I am sorry to disappoint them. But I need to get this done.”
“Is there no hope of convincing you to take a small break? I don’t wish to trouble you.” The goal was to see what he could do to help.
And see her.
“I could use a break.” She blinked her eyes. He watched the slow, heavy movement of her lashes. The line of violet around her iris was muted, almost brown. Shewastired. “If I don’t rest my eyes, I’ll start skipping lines or confusing words, and that won’t do.”
“Come outside with me for a walk. We can take a turn through Leicester Square.”
She rose and reached for her shawl. “I like that idea. Let me dress.”
Itwasthe Hunsdon manuscript she had covered with her shawl. The volume lay on the table beside her, close to hand. He wondered if she were reading through it as she suggested. He forced his eyes away. He wasn’t here to pry.
Yes, he was, but as he prowled around the parlor while she ran upstairs to change, he couldn’t see anything out of order. Nothing that roused his suspicions. Nothing that told him he could not trust her.
Nothing that told him how he might win a smile. Her affection.
Her hand.
He was studying one of the paintings on the wall, what appeared to be a reproduction of a picture in an illuminated manuscript, and wondering what about these archaic artifacts appealed to Miss Amaranthe when she descended the stairs. She wore a pair of sturdy half boots and a riding habit that had seen better days and held a small, jaunty hat in her hand.
He was struck anew by her graceful self-possession. She carried herself like a woman of breeding. It made her appealing even in plain garb, but he had to admit he liked to see her splendidly turned out. All those gowns lying untouched in Sybil’s dressing room—he should have sent them home with her.
So that she could wear them and interest other men, while he had to beat down her door to see her? That wouldn’t do.
“That didn’t take long,” he observed, setting his own hat on his head.
“Only rich women can afford to spend time dressing. I’ve one more quire to finish before Saturday, and I must give the ink time to dry before I go back through and look for errors.”
