This was the first night Roman had taken dinner in his study with Ellis. He’d wanted to suggest it a couple of days ago, but they’d shared that awkward moment when he tried to wipe the ink from her lip, and he didn’t extend the invitation.
He didn’t know what he’d been thinking trying to touch her like that. Noting the ink on her lower lip, he’d tried to ignore it. Except he was often drawn to her mouth anyway, and the presence of the ink only attracted his attention more fiercely. Could one be jealous of an ink smudge?
Ultimately, he’d leaned forward to wipe it away with his thumb. Thankfully, he’d stopped himself a moment before committing the indiscretion. Even so, there had been a long, rather charged moment between them as he realized what he’d done—and she had too. What he couldn’t decide was whether she was horrified at his behavior or, and this seemed unlikely, that she was disappointed that he’d stopped.
He was foolish even to think that, let alone hope for it. They had a professional relationship, and though he had a clear and persistent attraction to her, he had to assume it was one-sided. Even if it wasn’t, what were they to do about it? He was her employer. He was not the sort of man who took advantage of those who worked for him in any role.
“Blast,” Ellis muttered. She’d turned her chair toward his desk so that they were sitting across from each other, using his desktop as their dining table.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She set her fork down and lifted her gaze to his. Her features were lined with frustration. “I find the facial hair intrusive when I eat. I don’t know how men with beards and mustaches tolerate them. But then I also don’t know how men can put up with shaving all this every day.” She waved her hand in front of the lower half of her face.
He chuckled. “We either shave, or we deal with food in our beards.”
“Have you ever grown a beard?”
“Briefly. I lost a wager when I was at Oxford.”
“How long was the beard?” she asked, narrowing one eye at him, as if she were trying to imagine him with facial hair.
“Longer than yours as I had to grow it over the summer holiday and return to school so everyone could see how wild I’d become.” He rolled his eyes as he smiled. “The dean immediately instructed me to shave it off. He said I looked as though I ought to be living in some folly at a far-flung estate.”
“As a hermit?” she asked.
“Yes.” He’d assumed she would know what a hermit was when he mentioned the folly. With friends like the Duchess of Wellesbourne, it seemed more than likely that she was familiar with such things.
“I think I might enjoy being a hermit,” she mused.
“Why?” He set his utensils down and leaned back in his chair.
Ellis had just forked a few peas into her mouth. After she swallowed, she put her utensils on the desk. “Being a hermit in a folly on a far-flung estate is the ultimate hiding place, isn’t it?” She gave him a sly smile.
He laughed. “Whatever or whomever you are trying to avoid must be truly horrible if you would consider such a thing.”
“On second thought, I don’t think I’d like it,” she said. “Whilst being alone is appealing sometimes, I’m not sure I would care for it all the time, unless there was a never-ending supply of books.”
“If you could be a hermit in a library, you’d be quite satisfied?”
She nodded. “I think so. Anyway, I’m not sure I’ll agree to further meals here with you. It’s too irritating. Not you, the beard,” she quickly added.
“Is that why you haven’t had any meals outside your room in the past week and a half?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “I prefer to eat with a bare face.”
“Understandable.” Though, Roman was disappointed she wouldn’t be dining with him again. “What about the attire? Do you prefer men’s clothing? I imagine it’s less constricting than what you wear as a woman.”
“I suppose it can be, though it’s not as though my costume is entirely made for your gender. I’m still a woman underneath. In fact, I had to mask that by—” She abruptly stopped as a blush crept up her face. “Forgive me. I should not discuss such matters.”
He laughed and took a sip of wine. “It’s quite all right. I’m enjoying our conversation. It’s a pity you weren’t able to get rid of your corset, if that is what you’re referring to.”
“Some men wear corsets,” she noted. “Though I’m sure you don’t.”
Their eyes met and held. This dialogue was treading perilously close to flirting. Roman didn’t think he cared, but he absolutely should. Except he was enjoying her company far too much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken this way with a woman—certainly never with Clarissa. And he’d shared very little female company in the pair of years since her death.
“I do not wear a corset,” Roman confirmed. “I’m curious why you would wear one. I assume that was what you meant. Why would you need a corset beneath your clothing?”
The blue of her eyes darkened, and he sensed a sudden heat between them. “It’s not just a corset. I had to augment it in order to disguise myself.”
