He thought perhaps sitting was the safest option, just now, and did so. Rapidly.
He watched her, splashing the glasses and drying them against her silken sleeve, then uncorking the port and humming a tuneless meandering series of notes as she poured.
She really couldn’t sing. And for some reason that was melting every muscle in his body.
Shit.
“Did you write to your parents?” she asked, turning back to him with all the effect of a bucket of ice water.
“What? No! Why would I do that?” he demanded, his spine coming up.
“About the Starlings,” she reminded him, looking very curious about his sudden change in demeanor. “Here you are. I hope you like port. It is accidentally quite aged.”
“Oh, right,” he said, easing again with a little frown. “No, I didn’t. Maybe Harcourt knows. They were friends.”
“Maybe so,” she agreed, holding her glass while staring at his with what appeared to be extremely intense expectation. “Go on, then.”
“I… All right?” he said, lifting it to his lips and giving it a little sip.
She frowned. “No, I mean your ritual with the glass. Proceed.”
“My what?” he said, helplessly as she made a little clicking sound with her tongue.
She set her own glass aside and reached out to push his fingers against the base of the little glass. “Like this,” she said impatiently, her fingers soft and insistent over his. “Then the stem, like you do at dinner.”
“I do what?” he managed, staring down at the glass like he’d never seen one before.
She huffed, leaning back, and watched him for a moment, her eyes flashing with indignation. “You’re not doing it purposefully?”
“Doingwhat?!” he demanded, throwing the rest of the port into his mouth as a matter of necessity and swallowing it down.
“Testing me!” she burst out, throwing her hands up. “Teaching me the silent language!”
“The… oh!” he said, realization bursting over his skin and muddying the confusion that still lingeried just beneath. “At dinners?”
“At dinners!” she repeated, shrill again.
He couldn’t help but gawk at her for a moment, gloriously furious, glowing with her own frustration. And then he began to laugh again.
Not intentionally.
But he couldn’t help it.
“Elias Selwyn!” she shrieked, outrage glowing on her like a mantle.
It only made him laugh harder, dropping his face into his hands and shaking his head in apology as he tried to get his mirth under control.
“Fine!” she snapped, and he heard her take up her own port and swallow it in a single gulp as he had. “I shan’t learn it, then. That is fine. I never expected to, anyhow.”
“Harriet,” he managed, peeking up at her through his fingers, his ribs aching with how good it felt to release some of the tension that had been bottled up beneath them. “Please.”
She glared at him. “You promised you would help me.”
He drew in a deep breath and pushed it out as a sigh, dropping his hands and rubbing his lips together in an effort to quell the curve of amusement that still lingered there. “I did,” he managed, as apologetically as possible. “And I meant it.”
She huffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t understand,” she said, a marked pout in her tone. “I don’t like not being good at things right away.”
It took every ounce of fortitude in his body not to laugh again. Instead, he only pressed his lips together and gave a somber nod. “Right,” he said. “Can’t imagine what that must be like.”
