He looked like a painting come to life. Not some Roman statue or an insipid fashion plate, but a warrior disguised behind a neckcloth and tailcoat. The heat from his eyes made her tremble with desire.
She did not feel safely sequestered in the shadows of a slightly chilly private library, but rather like a young gazelle exposed on the wide plains of the Sahara desert, skin drenched in sun and sweat, her scent on the wind, her trail too obvious to hide. And yet she did not run away.
“You were dancing,” she said inanely.
He stepped closer. “So were you.”
There was nowhere to go. Her shoulder-blades all but touched the wide mahogany shelves behind her back, and his broad chest was little more than an arm’s breadth away.
Not that she felt like running. She was more likely to use the shelves as a crutch to keep her upright.
“I didn’t know you were here.” Her cheeks tinged with heat. “Before I saw you dancing, I mean.”
“I wasn’t in the ballroom,” he agreed. “Diana wanted Lady Everett to have a current list of—” He shook his head, his expression one of fond indulgence. “Never mind the proper weight of a grain bushel. How can a man possibly keep weights and measures reform in his head when his eyes are looking at you?”
“Er,” Priscilla said brilliantly. “Je ne sais pas?”
What she did know was that she was ridiculously, irrationally relieved to discover Thaddeus had not been wooing some other woman, but rather had been on a mundane mission for his cousin.
Relieved and melancholy.
His obvious affection for his cousin was heartwarming… and also tied him down. Although he possessed no political obligation to the House of Lords, it seemed Thaddeus would never venture far from London or family.
She’d learned everything about everyone, to better arm herself to play the game. She used her knowledge to stand just outside the circle. Thaddeus used his to stand right in the middle.
He was a settling-down sort of man, a home-is-where-the-heart-is sort of man, a here-have-a-leg-shackle sort of man. A marriage proposal from him would be nothing more than a pretty prison. An invitation to never leave the one place she longed to escape.
He was not for her. And yet…
Thaddeus leaned a shoulder against the closest shelf, his warm brown gaze meeting hers. “I missed you.”
“I wrote you five letters today.” Poring over each word of his reply. Deducting a thousand points each time.
“It wasn’t enough,” he said softly. “I longed to see you. The sweetest words are the ones I witness falling from your lips.”
Don’t get swept away, she warned herself. Charming gentlemen reused the same thoughtless compliments with every lady they met. It meant nothing. She wasn’t special.
“Today,” he continued, “I learned the word taloua.” His eyes were hot on hers. “It means ‘beautiful.’ Or possibly ‘maiden.’ To be honest, every Baoulé word reminds me of you.”
To this, Priscilla had no response. Formulating coherent answers was difficult when one’s heart had just swooned in one’s chest.
“You’re learning Baoulé?” she stammered.
He flashed a shy, boyish smile. “I’m not fluent, but I could try. If you wanted.”
She could have laughed. Or cried.
He was everything she wanted. Sweet and caring, considerate and insightful, unashamed to admit he’d been thinking about her and perfectly willing to do something about it. He missed her. And told her so. Was there anything she’d yearned for more?
“You’d really learn Baoulé,” she ventured, “just to write me letters?”
“That’s the only practical use I see,” he said with a little laugh. “It’s not like I’d go there. Can you imagine how long the trip would take?”
“Five to six months,” she said immediately. “From port to port. The rest would be by land. If you took a camel—”
“I would not take a camel,” he assured her. “Keeping cat hair from black trousers is difficult enough.”
“I recommend forgoing evening suits whilst astride a camel,” she advised him. “I’m no valet, but I do feel camel-riding is more of a buckskin breeches activity?”
