“Anatomical studies,” he said. “I have recently come into possession of a number of texts that suit my interests. Most anatomical study is provided to students of medicine by way of cadavers. I have attended a fair few lectures, but my interests do not lie in dissection—which is the direction such demonstrations generally take.”
Jenny gave a delicate shudder of revulsion.
“Just so. And it is not so much the inner workings of the body which intrigue me at the moment—at least, not those that can be found beneath the skin and muscle in a manner that only a surgeon’s knife could reveal.”
She glanced up at him. “Oh?”
“I am focused on female anatomy,” he said. “I thought it best to learn what I could in advance of the act.”
“Ah,” she said, with a little roll of her shoulders—and her eyes. “I suppose hope springs eternal.”
“I thought, also, that you might not be well pleased were you to learn that my only familiarity with the female anatomy came from cadavers at medical lectures,” he said. “Even I can acknowledge that there is something distasteful about it.”
“Generous of you, Mr. Knight,” she said, but there was a flippant twist to the words which he took for amusement. “My mind is much relieved that your knowledge—which I am certain is formidable indeed—comes from both cadaversandbooks.”
“Of course,” he said, “I lack, presently, a practical application for my studies. But I remain hopeful that one may present itself in due course.” She had, after all,waited. A whole seven minutes, which was admittedly notmuch, but was certainly more than she owed him, which was, in fact, nothing at all. “How is it,” he asked, as she finished off the last of her first profiterole, “that you can eat the same profiteroles every day and still enjoy them?”
“Do you not enjoy your breakfast?” she asked.
“Ieatit,” he said. “I’ve never put much thought into whether I enjoyed it or not.” It was familiar, and had become a part of his daily routine. But he did notrelishit in the same manner that she did. “It’s simply that a body requires sustenance—”
“A body requirespleasure, also,” she said, considering the remaining profiterole in her hand. “There was a time when even so much as a profiterole was well beyond my ability to afford,” she said. “And now I have them every morning—and I have yet to tire of them. Some things exist to be enjoyed, Mr. Knight. Profiteroles are one of them. Have you ever had one?”
His brows jammed together. “I’m certain I must have, at one point or another.”
“But did youtasteit?” she asked. “Or was it merely sustenance?” She extended to him the remaining profiterole. “Here; eat it. You need this far more than I do. And I beg you, pray do not simply cram it in your mouth and swallow it. Good food is meant to be enjoyed.”
Well. Hehadmissed the opportunity for breakfast. He took the profiterole from her hand, its flaky crust firm in the pressure of his fingers. In deference to her wishes, he attempted to emulate her—small, savoring bites. She lingered over the pastries each morning, and as the light, spongy innards of the pastry melted on his tongue alongside the sweet cream filling, he realized she was right to do so.
“It’s good,” he said, squinting against the sun that skittered along the rooftops. “Better than I had expected.” She was watching him, watching his face—enjoying him enjoying the profiterole every bit as much as she would have enjoyed it herself. “Perhaps you will teach me to enjoy other things as well.”
She laughed, full-throated and merry. The sort of laugh that warmed a body from the inside out; even the crisp morning air offered no competition against the warmth of the sound. The sun gilded her hair a soft, glowing gold. She really was beautiful—he had known it intellectually even before now. But just now, with those fuzzy little locks of hair that had escaped her pins, and the sunlight radiant upon her face...just now he couldfeelit. He couldappreciateit in a way that had before escaped him, this beauty she possessed—something more abstract than just the systematic resolution of mathematics, something Euclid had never accounted for. Something that belonged intrinsically to her—and now, in some small way, to him.
“You’re staring,” she said at last, her shoulders rolling—as if the weight of his gaze had settled heavily upon them.
“You’re beautiful.”
A surprised titter escaped her. “I thought you did not set store by such things?”
“I don’t,” he said. “I don’t—but it is true nonetheless.” Sebastian did not have the words to express what, precisely, had changed, which he found strange indeed, because he had a great many other words to express a great many other concepts. But this one, in particular, eluded him.
Jenny stopped on the pavement, and he glanced up with the realization that they had, once more, stopped before the doors of Ambrosia. “How long today?” she asked.
He slipped his watch from his pocket. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That brings us to a total of twenty-nine altogether. I wonder if I might trouble you for a few more.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, and he wondered if the slight crooked tilt to her smile might constitute regret. If she mightgenuinelyappreciate his company. “I must be to bed.”
“In fact, I meant this evening,” he said. “It is Saturday, after all—Ambrosia closes at midnight. I have noticed that occasionally you go walking. Perhaps you might permit me to accompany you. London can be dangerous for a woman alone after dark.”
She tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear, and those gold-tipped lashes lowered. “And do you mean to protect me, then?”
“Somehow, I have the feeling that you’re more than capable of protecting yourself,” he said. “But I do admit to a curiosity over where you go. I have often wondered.”
“Hmm.” A sound of consideration—achance. “It won’t be a tryst,” she said at last. “Or an assignation. Or even an affair. Only a walk.”
Fair. Sebastian offered a nod of acknowledgment. “A walk is enough.” More than enough—for now. Even an additional minute would have been generous, given that she had already offered ten.
“Then you may wait at the servants’ entrance at midnight,” she said, and he saw that dimple press itself once more into her cheek as she turned for the door. “And don’t be late this time.”
