Amelia laid a hand over the page. It contained a rough draft, and not even Caleb was allowed to see her grammatical errors. “You’ll learn about it tomorrow.”
Caleb’s eyes widened with genuine astonishment. “You don’t think I’m actually going to attend the symposium? Good God, there’s nothing more tedious than listening to a gaggle of historians droning on.”
“You’rea historian.”
“I’m an antiquarian. Haven’t you heard, that’s—”
“Entirely different,” they chorused, and shared a brief, sardonic smile—then hastily erased it in case anyone was watching. “So…” Caleb said, rocking his feet side to side. “Does your treasure do anything interesting? Would it turn Ottersock into a frog? Please say yes.”
“Caleb,”she murmured chidingly.
“Sorry,” he lied. “Come on, bella luna, show me.”
Amelia drew breath to chide him for using the nickname, which he’d come up with years ago in a moment of random poeticism and which she’d never been able to talk him out of. It was a very pretty endearment—just not when used in a room full of their colleagues. Then she froze, noticing a nearby historian straining to overhear them. It was Dummersby from the British Museum, second only to Professor Throckmorton as academia’s worst tattler. Immediately she glared at Caleb.
“Do not even think about touching that teaspoon!”
She flicked her gaze meaningfully toward Dummersby, and in a flash Caleb’s feet were down and he was leaning forward, snatching her teaspoon from where it had been lying on a napkin beside her cup.
“Stop!” Amelia commanded, but he was already leaning back in the chair again.
“This?” he said, staring incredulously at the teaspoon. “This is your amazing treasure? Really? What does it do, turn tea into wine?”
Well, really! Even though they were pretending, Amelia felt a stab of offense. Getting to her feet, she rounded the table with a determination she’d learned from studying Queen Isabella, the She-Wolf of France. Caleb stood, his chair scraping against the floor, his grin twisting into a wary grimace.
“You are an unprincipled miscreant,” Amelia told him.
“Mm-hm,” he agreed, nodding.
“Give. It. Back.”
He held out the teaspoon. “Show me what it does. I dare you.”
“Oh well, if youdareme,” Amelia retorted sarcastically. She did not reach for the teaspoon—she’d known him far too long to fall for a trap like that—and he stepped forward, coming so close she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. The other historians had begun setting down their drinks, stuffing canapes into their pockets, and edging for the door, but Amelia didn’t notice. Caleb’s gaze was intense in its focus. He’d changed his brand of cologne while she’d been away, and the woodsy freshness infused her breath like a summer’s morning. The warmth of his smile pressed against her lips, although they weren’t touching.
“Idoubledare you,” he said, his voice deep and shadowy.
Little flutters of sensation went through Amelia’s stomach.I must have bound my corset too tight,she thought. After all, she wouldn’t flutter for Caleb. Their relationship was entirely platonic, their touches innocent—for example, when she brushed a crumb from his sleeve, beneath which his arms had grown so muscular over the years; or when he reached for one of the ginger candies she kept in her skirt pocket and accidentally stroked her thigh through layers of cotton and lace…
“Is it getting hot in here or is it just me?” Beaulieu asked, fanning himself.
We’re only friends,Amelia reiterated to herself. Friends who were fake hating to protect her reputation.
Flutter flutter,her stomach replied.
She glowered even more fiercely at Caleb, and he glowered right back. “Someone go fetch the building’s fire warden, hurry!” a professor exhorted in a loud whisper.
Without taking his eyes off her, Caleb lifted the teaspoon and drew the tip of his tongue slowly up it.
Alarmed that her evidently shrinking corset might crush her, Amelia snatched the spoon from him. “For heaven’s sake,” she grumbled. “This is a very sensitive and dangerous item.”
“It tastes like sugar,” he said. “You stirred your tea with it.” He cocked his head, smiling with fascination at her, and Amelia flushed, imagining him smiling like that before he kissed a woman.
“It’s thaumaturgic silver,” she said. “In the Siege of Hereford during the civil war, a vicar hid it inside the cathedral’s crypt, to be used as a final defense should the building be stormed. He left a vague mention of this in his journal, which I deciphered.”
“Okay,” Caleb said, still smiling.
The teaspoon began to feel warm in Amelia’s hand as she clutched it even tighter. “It’smagical.”
