“I’m Jonathan,” he reminded her. “Here’s my question. How much champagne do you think it would take for us to ‘accidentally’ kiss?”
Her breath caught.
“There’s not enough wine in England,” she replied tartly, begging forgiveness to the heavens for her fib.
She was tempted at this very moment.
His smile indicated she needn’t have bothered lying.
“Tell me about your day while you eat,” she commanded, rushing to stave off this line of thought. “While you’re talking, I’m going to eat as fast as I can so that I can return to the work I’m supposed to be completing.”
Far from being offended, Mr. MacLean launched into a dramatic, no doubt highly embellished retelling of every encounter he’d had from the moment he woke up until he walked through her door.
Angelica could barely consume any food, for fear of snorting it out of her nose with laughter at his impressions of her fellow villagers and his own exaggerated reactions. He made the simple act of walking down the street seem like an odyssey.
She was surprised how much a part of her wished she had nothing else to do this week other than go pleasure-seeking all through Cressmouth, on Mr. MacLean’s fashionable arm.
Meals were more diverting with him on the other side of the counter. Shelikedhis nonsense.
“That’s it for me.” She pushed her plate aside and walked back to the piece she’d been working on. “You may continue talking. The buzz of noiseisoddly comforting.”
“Why, that’s somethingelsewe have in common,” he said with delight. “We both adore the sound of my voice! I have endless stories to tell. I wouldn’t need to repeat any, whether you listen or not.”
Angelica fought to keep amusement from curving her lips as she unfolded the black velvet from her work.
“Aye, I needed a purpose,” he said in wonder, as though she’d handed him the answers to the universe, “and you’ve just given it to me. We can spend all your working hours together! Me, having a right blether, and you... well,working.”
She pointedly neither replied nor glanced at him. Mostly to hide her smile.
“Oh!” he said, followed by the sound of rustling. “I could read to you from one of your books.”
All right, that did it.
Angelica turned toward him. “What books?”
“I brought you these from the castle circulating library.” He placed three leather volumes on the counter next to her work.
She picked up the first one. “A Geologist’s Guide to Igneous, Sedimentary, and Metamorphic Rock.”
“Dull, isn’t it?” He made a face. “I could read it to you at night so that you fall asleep faster.”
The thought stole her breath and painted a picture far more appealing than she dared to let on.
“The guide is about jewels, you beast.” She pointed at her chest. “Jeweler?”
His nose wrinkled. “Perhaps if it were more of a masked-villains-steal-the-Crown-Jewels-and-escape-in-a-floating-barrel sort of plot...”
She picked up the next book and a smile broke out over her face. Before her uncle had become a sought-after traveling preacher, he had read tales to her from this volume.
“Oh, dear,” said Mr. MacLean. “How are you going to ignore me properly if the mere thought of that one makes you giddy?”
Splendid point.
She set it aside and picked up the third and final book. It was a collection of songs and dance music, written and compiled by Ignatius Sancho.
“I have a dreadful singing voice,” Mr. MacLean warned her. “But you did say you liked noise. Is Mr. Sancho a famous British musician?”
She pressed the book to her bosom. “You don’t know who Ignatius Sancho is?”
