But far from being shocked, Caleb was chuckling. “Fair enough. I believe that it takes time, observation, and exposure to determine one’s character. Would you agree?” He reached for a teacake, hesitated, and then took a second as well.
“Just in case you eat the rest,” he added.
“I don’t think I will, but there’s probably someone else here who would be happy to finish them off.” She shot a grin at the fireplace, where soft snores were emanating with regularity.
“He’s a handful,” agreed Caleb ruefully. “But very intelligent, I think. Sometimes I look into those eyes, and I could swear he knows my very thoughts…”
Elinor watched him curiously. “You have an affinity for animals, sir? And yet, other than Carrádog, you have none?”
“I used to,” he answered. “But of late? Well, I do travel now and again, so it seemed unfair to leave a pet alone for an extended period.” He sighed. “There’s also the fact that Mrs Deryn would spoil one quite dreadfully.”
“I see.” She nodded. “When you say travel, I assume you mean London…do you go regularly?”
“Not if I can help it,” he shot back. “Smelly, crowded, and filled with too many people convinced of their own importance.”
Elinor, who was about to take another sip of tea, nearly snorted into her cup. “That’s quite a harsh assessment.”
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been there, I’m sure. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She considered the question. “Yes, I suppose so. Although there are nice people there as well.”
“I’m sure there are. Sadly, I haven’t run into too many of ‘em.”
“Well, come to think of it, neither have I, if truth be told. My brother and his wife reside in town. I love them dearly, but they have become quite a bit more…um…”
“Tonnish?”
“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “That’s just the word I was looking for.”
Caleb leant back in his chair. “You don’t care for London, do you? Which, given your present status as a titled young lady of good breeding, and possessing an attractive manner, what seems to be an educated mind, and the obvious—appealing beauty—would lead one to assume you should be in town, making gentlemen swoon, and becoming an Incomparable with a reputation as a heart breaker.”
Elinor blinked. “Well. I hardly know what to say to that. I’m not sure whether to thank you or smack you.”
He laughed, a rich sound that echoed around the room.“Well, let me know when you decide. Until then, have another teacake.”
“All right. I will.”
She was enjoying herself, she realised, as his clever teasing had aroused her wit, something that had remained dormant of late. But with Caleb, she felt as if she could say anything she wanted, and he’d respond in kind.
Since their conversation ranged over a variety of topics, from the rains and the possibility of flooding to Shakespeare and on to current literature and poetry, the time flew by.
Before she knew it, they were on a first-name basis and involved in an argument over the second canto of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage by the notorious Lord Byron.
“You are so wrong, Elinor. I’m sorry, but there is no doubt about it.” Caleb leant forward and pushed his empty teacup aside, leaning his forearms on the table and glaring at her.
She lifted her chin and gave him back look for look “I don’t wish to be so impolite as to disagree with my host, but you, Caleb, are fair and far out. I’m right.”
“Hah.” He rose. “Let us go to the library and put this matter to rest. That way, you will clearly see how vast and impeccable my knowledge is, and that you, Elinor, are wrong.”
Still sparring, they rose from the table, disturbing Carrádog, who stretched, yawned, shook himself, and then waited patiently to see where his humans were going, following along as Caleb led Elinor across the hall to another door which opened onto a large room he clearly used a lot.
“Er, it’s not very tidy,” he whisked an empty brandy bottle onto a nearby shelf, and made an effort to tidy the large pile of papers on top of the desk.
“Libraries are to be lived in, I believe. To be used, to offer an escape into other worlds, for anyone fortunate enough to have one as lovely as this.”
She strolled along the bookshelves, reverently touching one here and there, pausing and smiling as she discovered one she’d read and enjoyed, and also wrinkling her nose at one or two that hadn’t pleased her.
“Here’s my Byron,” he said, putting a large tome down on his desk. “Let me find that dratted canto…”
