“And you have no need for this pretense. Why play at being interested in moths, of all things?” I asked.
“I am not interested in moths,” he admitted. “But I am interested in you.”
“That,” I told him without a blush, “is entirely apparent.”
“Good.”
He sat forward, hands resting upon his knees. They were good hands, like Stoker’s, beautifully shaped, although Tiberius’ were unstained by chemicals and glues and the various other nasty things that habitually fouled Stoker’s. These hands were strong and clean, the nails trimmed and the moons stark white.
“You have never done a day’s work with those hands,” I told him.
“No, but I’ve done many a night’s,” he said, reaching one out to cup my cheek.
“My lord,” I began.
“Tiberius,” he reminded me, leaning forward still further until his name was a breath across my lips. I was just trying to make up my mind whether to let him kiss me—the viscount was after all a very handsome man—or to give him a polite shove, when the train jerked to a stop, flinging him backwards onto his seat.
“Oh, look. We’ve arrived in Exeter,” I said brightly.
CHAPTER
3
After changing trains at Exeter, we carried on to Padstow, where we changed yet again, the trip requiring a further leg on a smaller railway to Pencarron and then a transfer to a quaint little quay full of fishing boats bobbing at anchor. They were brightly painted, as were the houses clustered on the hillside that rose sharply above the curved arm of the shore.
The sea air was bracing and fresh, and Tiberius, with no sign of resentment at his thwarted attempts at lovemaking, drew in a breath and let it out in an exultant sigh. “There is nothing like sea air to mend what ails you,” he pronounced.
“I did not know you were fond of the sea,” I told him as we made our way from the tiny station down to the waiting boats.
“Indeed I am. A naval career is one of the things I envied Stoker bitterly.”
“The fact that you envied him anything at all would come as the most appalling shock to him,” I returned.
His mouth twisted into a wry expression. “I envy him more than any other man I have ever known,” he said.
“Tiberius,” drawled a familiar voice, “how very touching. I did not realize how much you cared.”
I whirled to find Stoker lounging idly, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, his arms folded.
“How on earth—”
“There was an express from Exeter,” he told me. “Tiberius ought to have taken it, but I suppose he was too enchanted with your company to want to shorten the experience.”
“How is it,” I demanded, “that we did not see you on the train from London?”
“I traveled third class,” he told us with a grin as a porter came trundling up with an assortment of smart shagreen cases stamped with the viscount’s initials.
Tiberius’ mouth thinned. “How very predictable of you, Revelstoke.”
He seldom used Stoker’s proper name, and it was a measure of his displeasure that he did so.
Stoker shrugged and picked up his single piece of baggage, a small battered naval chest. I turned to Tiberius. “Will Stoker’s arrival present difficulties with your host?”
“I doubt it, since I expected this very course of action on his part,” was the smooth reply.
Stoker fixed him with a penetrating look. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, dear brother, that you are as easy to anticipate now as you were in childhood. I wired Malcolm this morning that my brother would be joining the party and I hoped he could be accommodated. Just before we departed, I received an affirmative reply.” He bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I know how much you like to play the prodigal brother, so I have arranged for the fatted calf.”
