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This time she saw his smile, a faintly luminous crescent. His mood had lightened, sincerity giving over to sarcasm.
“It’s too cold,” she said. “And I splash rather than swim. And I’ll have to wear my knickers.”
“Details.” De’Ath waved his hand.
“And then there’s Fritz. I need to get him down.” She peered up into the tree and saw a flicker of white. Fritz was scampering along a bough. And then he was in the air, flying toward the house. He landed on the balcony railing and leapt again, past De’Ath, through the French doors, and into the study.
“Any other objections?” De’Ath laughed as he turned. “Good. I’ll meet you at the coach.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hyde Park belonged to the human peacocks by day. They strutted the footpaths, preened on the lawns, perched on horses or in carriages. But before dawn, and after seven in the evening, it belonged to the swimmers, professionals and amateurs who gathered on the banks of the Serpentine, to plunge and race, for love of the sport. And earlier still, or later, at the hour when early and late crossed over, it belonged to Alan.
“The most popular bathing place is farther on.” He led Miss Finch through a dark gap in the trees. “Where Claud met me for swimming lessons, until the present impasse.” He glanced in the opposite direction, toward Park Lane and Umfreville House.
“But you’re not taking me there?” Her hip bumped his thigh. Every band of muscle in his body contracted.
He looked down at her. “I’m taking you elsewhere.”
They were almost to the water, a flat, gleaming expanse.
Kessler and McAdams reached it first and set down the steaming kettles and the linens.
Kessler flung out his arms. “And gentle winds and waters near,” he cried. “Make music to the lonely ear!”
“There’s an awful fine line,” approved McAdams, crouching to test to the water.
“Lord Byron.” Kessler dropped his arms.
“Cold as a dog’s nose.” McAdams said it cheerfully, scooping water with his hand and flinging it at Kessler, who smacked him on the back of the head.
They started up the bank toward the coach, McAdams whistling a jaunty tune.
“Lord Byron was a swimmer.” Alan moved closer to Miss Finch.
She turned halfway toward him. “I thought he was a poet.”
“He was. He also swam the Hellespont.”
They didn’t know yet how to be near each other, now that pretense had fallen away, replaced with mutually acknowledged desire.
What else does the future hold? Alan seemed to hear Neal’s question.
“It’s a swim I’ve always thought to make myself,” he said. “Have you ever considered a journey to Constantinople? Or Troy?”
“Never.” She laughed. “But I like Turkish delight. I’m sure I’d find other things to like in Constantinople, if I happened to end up there.”
Her voice told him she thought it less than likely.
She paced to the water’s edge and dipped a finger.
“It is cold,” she gasped, and hopped back, sitting on the grass. “We’ll catch our death!”
“Cold never hurt anyone in measured doses.” He approached and sat beside her.
“I prefer my doses of cold by the spoonful,” she said. “Pineapple ice cream.”
“You like everything sweet,” he observed, and she drew up her legs, wrapped them with her arms, and rested her chin on her knees. The moonlight illuminated her face but only dimly. He could tell, though, that her smile was more sure. Darkness pooled in her dimples, and her eyes were clear and bright.
