The man nodded. “I have to do that too.” He leaned a little closer to confide, “I don’t know why I was summoned to this; usually I’m not required to come down. Honestly, I’d rather be left alone to my work.”
She smiled. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. It’s very nice to meet you.”
He appeared surprised by this basic courtesy. “How kind! I hear they’ve brought antiquarians up from Oxford. Are you one of them?”
“Yes.” She held out a hand. “Amelia Tarr—”
Suddenly a sharp voice flew out of the dining room, slicing through their conversation.“Nigel!”
The gentleman flinched. “See you in there,” he said rather grimly, taking Amelia’s hand and patting it with flimsy encouragement before hurrying away into the room. Amelia blinked at his departing figure, bemused.
That was Sir Nigel? She’d been expecting someone more…more.
“Hello there.”
Encompassed by cologne and a sense of comfort, Amelia did not need to look around to know Caleb had arrived. As he came to stand alongside her, he tapped her arm with the back of his hand. “I see you’re late again.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You really ought not say that when you arrive after me.”
“Oh, but I’mfashionablylate,” he answered with a grin, tugging on the satin lapels of his dinner jacket. Indeed, he looked insanely handsome, his blond hair swept back in a style that made its dampness seem a deliberate choice all the boys would soon be copying, whereas Amelia’s own hair, pulled into a bun, was merely, hopelessly wet. There existed no sign that he’d endured a long day of travel, rambunctious magic, and miserable childhood memories involving horse dung, to say nothing of the kissing (which Amelia could only hope he didn’t rank as equal with the dung). Of course, his smart clothes and soft pink eye shadow helped, but mostly it was just Caleb and his exquisite genes. Amelia didn’t know whether to be jealous or in love.
Well, notin love, but…but…
Thankfully, at that moment she noticed his bow tie was slightly askew. Unable to resist the lure to tidy it, she set her hands on his arms and turned him toward her. “Really, at your age you should be able to arrange your neckwear properly,” she grumbled as she straightened the offending bow. Caleb glanced at the dining room door, but Amelia had already ensured no one could see them. (Two footmen stood nearby, watching the whole scene avidly, but they did not count.)
“Perhaps I leave it crooked just to give you the pleasure of fixing it,” he said smilingly.
Tingles danced in Amelia’s stomach. She wished she wasn’t intelligent and sensible, so that she might pretend they were caused by some digestive ailment, rather than by hearing Caleb’s husky voice speak the wordsto give you pleasure. She could feel him looking down at her and she stared determinedly at the tie, which she’d somehow rearranged to a state even more askew than before. Biting her lip, focusing on the little pain, she got the bow straight and stepped back.
Caleb stepped with her. He caught her hand, which was a good thing since Amelia felt alarmingly off-balance. His smile was wicked, but in his eyes she could see sympathy. He, of course, understood her hesitation at the threshold. He’d had to prod or cajole or sometimes half drag her into faculty parties and award ceremony dinners more often than she cared to remember. “Come on, bella luna,” he said. “Let’s go meet the enemy together.”
The words snapped her back into good sense. Tugging her hand free, she frowned at him. “I do not require assistance from an adversary such as you, Professor Sterling,” she said pointedly.
“Oops,” he answered, and leaning close, he whispered, “Sorry. Looking at you in your evening attire, I completely forgot I’m supposed to hate you.” And he slid a wry gaze down her white-collared but otherwise simple black dress and gray cardigan.
Well, really! How rude! And outrageous! And oddly thrilling! Feeling herself on a shoreline with a great red tidal wave of blushing heading rapidly her way, Amelia lifted her chin, threw Caleb a vicious glare, then marched into the dining room. As she did so, she caught the flash of a smile on his face and realized that he’d played her so she would forget her nerves. Charmed, she felt herself begin to smile also.
And then she looked around the room, and the smile collapsed as her mouth fell ajar in astonishment.
Chapter Eight
Small talk never makes great narratives.
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
It was asif she’d stepped into a dream. A sensible, sober dream of dark oak paneling, a dark oak floor, and books lining every wall. By the light of numerous candles, their gilt-worked spines glinted. The smell of their old pages filled the air with an intoxicating mustiness. Some people sat around a large dining table, but Amelia dismissed them from her attention. Was that a complete set of Gibbon’sThe History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empireshe spied? And that oil painting of Lord Nelson above the hearth looked at first glance to be authentic! She swayed a little with dizziness, for her mouth remained ajar, having abandoned any interest in breathing. After all, what was oxygen compared to a really good private library?
“Professor!”
Vanity’s high-pitched voice yanked her back into her proper senses. The girl was waving from the far side of the table, and Amelia shut her mouth in order to smile politely in return. Only now did she notice the particulars of the dining setup. Atable of the same heavy, dark oak as the walls was laden with so much crystalware, gold-rimmed dinnerware, and silver cutlery that it looked like a display at a home decor exhibition. A centerpiece of two swans facing each other with their wings extended charmed her until she realized with a lurch in her stomach that they were actual swans, and indeed part of the dinner. Spontaneously converting to vegetarianism, she looked away, driven at last to regard the people present.
Other than Vanity, only four others occupied the room. (And an uncounted number of servants.) Sheffield sat rigid at the table’s end with an attitude suggesting it would be a dereliction of his duty to consume anything. Throckmorton was opposite Vanity, drinking deeply from a wineglass—an action that looked rather like how Amelia felt. Sir Nigel sat hunched beside him. And presiding at the head of the table was a woman so ferociously dignified that Amelia initially wondered if a duchess had come to call. Her voluptuous silver-haired coiffure gave the impression of being crowned with a tiara, although it was not. Her black taffeta dress was so old-fashioned it rebounded into vintage magnificence. She peered at Amelia through a lorgnette while simultaneously snapping her fingers at Sir Nigel.
“Sit up straight,” she muttered to him through the teeth revealed by her elegant smile. “Welcome,” she told Amelia, lowering the lorgnette with a brisk little sniff that told Amelia she’d been classified as Uninteresting and Badly Dressed. “I am Lady Ruperta Harroway, and you must be the antiquarian girl who’s come to look at Nigel’s knickknacks. We’ve just been hearingallabout you from Mr. Throckmorton.”
Recollecting how laughter had emerged from the room, Amelia dreaded to think what the medieval studies professor had been telling these people. And although she was no coward(after all, she’d chosen to become an antiquarian despite the very real risk of being killed by a fifteenth-century ashtray—and worse, her parents’ disapproval), she did wish rather fervently that she could retreat to her bedroom, where a comprehensive biography of Mary Wollstonecraft awaited her. But the only way she could imagine that happening was if something exploded, and not even she wanted to see that befall such an excellent library.
“I am sorry if we’re late,” she said, resisting an urge to curtsy to the formidable Lady Ruperta.
