Page 37

Alan was lounging in his study, in a wingback chair, legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle, resting on a footstool. It was a louche pose, and a necessary one. The position eased the pressure in his hip.

Miss Finch’s eyes had widened when she’d entered the room, shortly after breakfast, and widened further when he’d directed her to take a seat behind his massive desk, all gleaming dark oak, with papers, fountain pens, inkwell, silver stamp, sealing wax, and other accoutrements meticulously arrayed. But she’d gone and sat. And she’d set to work, first making a clean copy of the notes she’d taken down yesterday at Broughton’s, then writing out the new version as he read from the copy, amending and elaborating on his points.

He imagined they’d have finished it last evening, but Miss Finch had left directly from the auction house to gather her things, and she hadn’t arrived back at Casa De’Ath until he was headed out, on his way to a show at the Royal Pavilion. For a split second, he’d considered asking her if she’d care to come along. Then he’d given himself a stern shake.

She’d have nothing to do at the Pavilion as his secretary. No, her presence would have served a purely social function, spicing the attractions of the night. He couldn’t justify the indulgence. He’d seen her to the butler’s pantry—where Kuznetsov was playing violin for the ratty little monkey—and then he’d bid all four a rather crisp adieu.

Today, she seemed determined to make up for lost time. She wrote swiftly—far more swiftly than she’d led him to believe she could—and when he inspected the pages she’d produced, he found her letters well formed, slim, and even. A very fair hand. Her spelling, however, was atrocious. Multiple rounds of correction would be required before he allowed any document she prepared to reach a typist, editor, or correspondent.

As he began to dictate his letter to Geoffrey, an indescribable sound punctured the calm.

Miss Finch lifted her head. She’d tortured her hair into another painful-looking bun, an extravagantly unflattering style. Any female veteran of the marriage mart would advise a softer arrangement of those heavy locks to de-emphasize the fullness of her cheeks and to hide the angle of her ears, which stuck out a touch too far.

The sound gathered itself and veered, flew up, up, up to the heavens on crystal wings. Overshot the heavens. Set a course for Mars.

There was no ignoring it, but Alan increased his own volume and plowed on toward the period.

“. . . and I will next dissolve the family silver collection comma followed by the bronzes full stop,” he said, and paused for Miss Finch to catch up.

She was staring into the distance.

“Double s in dissolve.” He nodded encouragement. “D-i-s-s-o-l-v-e.”

The sound cut off. Silence descended on the study.

“I can spell dissolve.” Miss Finch’s gaze focused. “As in dissolve one ounce of isinglass in water. Dissolve the dark moist sugar in the stew pan with the rhubarb, lemon peel, and cloves.” She frowned at him. “I read copiously in recipe books.”

He cleared his throat. “A useful lexicon.” Or it would be, if he wrote restaurant reviews. “Scratch that sentence. We’ll start over from the beginning.” He let his head fall back against the chair and looked up at the Venetian chandelier.

“Brother mine comma,” he dictated, using his right hand to emphasize the punctuation. “Your brain has macerated to an unwholesome mush period. Instead of beating you like an egg comma I am disposed to . . .”

A new vocal line began, with impressive purity of tone.

Miss Finch shot up. Her gray dress had a square neckline that bit into the distinctively circular swell of her breasts. When it came to her attire, he could not approve. It generated in him too strong an urge to liberate her figure from the insane impositions of all that rigid cloth.

“What is that?” She tipped one of those winsome ears, listening.

“That? That is a high and rather alarming C-sharp.” He sighed and reached for the snifter of cognac beside the lamp at his elbow. Signorina Bonaccorso had an undeniably agile voice. If she were singing outside his study, well, she was agile in body too. He prayed to God she didn’t break her fool neck.

Miss Finch took a few steps toward the French windows. “But . . . where is it coming from? Not out there?” She motioned toward the windows. “We’re on the second floor!”

“Horse chestnut. Huge. Spreading. One might even say tentacular.” Alan swirled his cognac and sipped. The hour called for tea, but, on days like today, when the pain sprouted teeth and claws, he required something stronger.

Miss Finch was staring at him.

“It’s not a tree but a behemoth,” he said, lowering the glass, putting it from him. “Takes up most of the back garden. I should have it chopped down.”

“You can’t mean—” Miss Finch threw open the windows. The curtains billowed around her, filling with the spring breeze and that soaring melody. Alan detected the freshness of the air. Soon, the clouds would thicken. Rain would patter down.

His blasted hip made a damn fine barometer.

When the curtains settled, Miss Finch was gone, except for the curve of her posterior. No padding in that dress. It was the non-bustled variety, flat backed. Or it would be flat, if Miss Finch didn’t round it out so splendidly. A moment later, she burst back into the room.

“A woman!” She radiated wonderment. “A beautiful woman.”

“Mmm.” He couldn’t resist. He let his gaze wander deliberately from her glowing eyes down to her parted lips. Homely, hoydenish Miss Finch. How wonderment became her. Stroked by morning sun, lit up from within, she appeared, suddenly, in the fullness of her beauty. One second, he was detached, appraising. The next, sensation hit him like a wave. He felt ambushed. It wasn’t beauty alone that worked on him. Miss Finch was all contradictions, engaging too much of his mind as he attempted to parse her sweetness from her sharpness. His overstimulated thoughts made sweat break out on his skin, changed the tempo of his pulse. He couldn’t remember the last time desire had dissolved so many of his carefully maintained boundaries at once.

Dissolved them like dark, moist sugar.