“It’s beautiful,” Catherine murmured, pencil racing across the page. “How mathematics becomes art.”
“Or how art is simply mathematics made visible.” He moved closer, ostensibly to see her sketch better. “Your understanding of perspective is remarkable.”
“Years of practice. When one sketches ruins, one must understand how things fit together—even when they’ve fallen apart.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
She looked up, startled by his perception. “Perhaps.”
“You’re not ruins, Lady Catherine. You’re reconstruction—taking the broken pieces and shaping something new, perhaps stronger than before.”
Thomas looked studiously away as Catherine blushed.
“That’s a lovely way to put it,” she said softly.
“An accurate one.” His voice was gentle, sincere. “I’ve studied enough architecture to know: the repaired sections often become the strongest. The fractures, once mended, are points of greatest resilience.”
“You’re comparing me to a building?”
“I’m comparing you to art. Layered, complex, and more beautiful for having history.”
“Lord Timothy—”
“Timothy,” he corrected softly. “Surely, when discussing art and mathematics, we might forgo formality?”
“That would be improper.”
“So is the way I think of you.”
Catherine’s breath caught. “Lor—”
“I apologise. That was too forward.” But his contrition did not quite reach his eyes. “Shall we move on to the Egyptian collection?”
They continued through the museum, their conversation flowing easily between academic discourse and something far more personal. Thomas followed at a discreet distance, politely pretending not to notice when Lord Timothy’s hand brushed Catherine’s as they reached for the same guidebook, or how the space between them seemed to narrow with each successive exhibit.
***
Meanwhile, back at Harrowmere House, Adrian was in full protective mode.
“You need to rest,” he declared, as Marianne attempted to review household accounts.
“I am with child, not made of glass.”
“The physician said—”
“Light activity. Reviewing accounts is hardly strenuous.”
“The strain of numbers could be harmful.”
“Adrian, I reorganised warehouses at twelve. I think I can manage a few columns of figures.”
“That was before you were carrying precious cargo.”
“Precious cargo?” She laughed. “You make me sound like one of my father’s merchant ships.”
“You are infinitely more valuable.” He took the ledger from her and closed it with finality. “Rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
