He reached for her hand. Slowly, his fingers traced a path upward, setting her skin to tingling. She shivered as he traced the edge of her bodice, then raised a hand to run a finger along her jaw. He gazed at her with longing—
And went no further. His hand dropped. “Perhaps we’d better look at what you found to show me, before we are called back.”
She pushed away disappointment. He was right. “Oh, yes. Of course.” He stepped away and she stepped carefully past him. “I remembered something in one of mother’s letters. She has a vast correspondence with botanists and gardeners all over the world. This gentleman wrote from the Catalonian region of Spain, and he mentioned something. When I recalled it, I thought of you.”
She went to the table in the center of the room. “I left it here.” Finding the book, she handed it over. “It’s a guide to travel in Spain and it mentions the ritual I recalled. It’s theball de bastons. A ritual dance, done with sticks and meant to represent battles between knights of old, I gather. It has spread to other places in Europe and I thought it might be related to our Morris dances.”
He'd followed, but stopped as she spoke, glancing between her and the book in his hand. She glanced over him. “What is it? It just seemed like something you might be interested in. Was I wrong?”
He stared, almost in amazement, it seemed.
“Sterne?”
His smile was slow growing, but it encompassed his whole face—and beyond. There were those appealing, small lines at his eyes, too. The sight of them eased the tightness that had begun to spread in her chest.
“You amaze me,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “Do I? Why?”
“That is nearly exactly what my latest paper addresses.”
The approval and wonder in his tone made her flush with gratification.
“More specifically, I’ve compared that Catalonian weapon dance to the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, which is an ancient ritual featuring reindeer horns, a hobby horse and a boy with a bow and arrow, among other things. The origin is lost to us, but some theorize the ceremony harkens back to when the hunt meant survival.”
She frowned. “Horns? Didn’t you have an image of men brandishing horns on your desk?”
“You noticed.” His eyes were still smiling. “There has been some speculation as to the origin of the horns. They are hundreds of years old and have been carefully preserved by the local church. Some say the animals were brought by the Danes, who invaded the old kingdom of Mercia.”
She nodded eagerly. “That’s an area that I have found interesting. The Scots, the Danes, the French . . . enemies, all, at one time or another, but you cannot deny their influence on the development of our English ways. That is an area I would like to study, one day.”
“That makes sense.” He nodded at the books around them. “The study of our people and how they came to be as they are? It sounds just like something you would enjoy—and would be good at.”
“My mother doesn’t agree. She wants me to concentrate on something more concrete.”
He stepped closer and set the book on the table. “No. I think it is a grand idea. It would be the work of a lifetime.”
Had the air gone still and warm again? That bubble of isolation stretched around them once more, rendering the rest of the world irrelevant. There was only him—and his unadulterated appreciation of her and her ideas.
He couldn’t know what it meant, to be accepted so thoroughly. To be encouraged. To be looked at as if she was complete and whole and perhaps even perfect, just as she was.
He looked down at her with those dark eyes. His tawny hair was just the slightest bit disheveled. He was so warm and appealing, and it hit her hard. The picture of what could be. Between them. Before them. A future of light and laughter and learning and passion.
But he’d gone very still. Watchfulness began to replace the warmth in his gaze.
She despaired a little. Confusion swamped her. What was it? What made him withdraw?
“Here we are!” Whiddon poked his head in. Beyond him she could see a maid with a tea cart. The scent of ginger wafted into the room. “Come along, you two. Tea is ready.”
Sterne took up the book. “Thank you,” he said softly. He waited for her to proceed him and they went back to the parlor.
“Come and sit, everyone, and I’ll pour,” called Hope.
They were all gathered together again. Penelope sat, but worry and disappointment stole her appetite. She didn’t know what to do, how to lure Sterne permanently out into the light.
Talk turned again to what Sheffield had said.
“Well, in any case, it does seem as we must attend this masquerade,” Hope declared as they were winding down. “It is a good thing that we ladies have an appointment with the modiste tomorrow morning. We will plan our costumes and likely have to offer an incentive to have them done in time.”
