Charly waggled his eyebrows. “One point two miles, Your Grace. Is there a particular novel you’re looking for?”
“He can find it in a heartbeat,” Eleanor whispered. “You should time him.”
“I will. Later.” Peter looked at the trunks on the floor and the books piled on the counter. He wrinkled his nose. “I take ityou’ve made all of the decisions, then. How many more bottles of gin did it take?”
A sudden and surprising laugh escaped her. “None. I realized I couldn’t pack properly when my nights were spent tipsy and my days were spent nauseous.”
She could tell he had a comment to make, but his eyes flicked to Charly. Then his throat bobbed and his fingers flexed toward her, and she wondered at the direction of his thoughts. With a blush creeping above his collar, he picked up a book from the counter.North and South. It was one of her favorites. “I’ve read this a dozen times,” he said. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful edition of it.”
She traced the gold embossing on the deep green leather. The contrast was perfect. The richness of the polished leather and gold leaf matched the story itself. She loved it when a cover complemented the contents so well. Capturing the essence of an entire novel on a single case with nothing but color and shape was an art form.
With a wistful smile, she took it from Peter and pushed it across the counter. “It was a short print run. There aren’t many out there.” That particular cull had been a difficult one—so much so that she’d asked Mabel to measure the length of the walls in her new room to determine exactly how much space she had. But hard decisions had had to be made.
“Let me buy it for you,” Peter said. “It is my fault that you have to sell it.”
She sighed. “Itisyour fault, but it is not the money.” She paused. “Well, notjustthe money. There is only so much I can take with me.”
He reached into his change pocket and drew out threesovereigns. “Then I shall buy it for myself and keep it safe until you have room again.”
She had no idea when that would be the case. It might be a year; it might be ten years. She might never see Peter again once the season was over, so it would be foolish to agree to his proposal.
Yet still… “Thank you. Although, I will understand if you become too attached to return it.”
“If I get attached, it will be because it reminds me of you.” There was something in his gaze that she didn’t know how to interpret. The way he looked at her had changed over the past week. The cessation of their feud had tossed everything up in the air and their kiss had been a wind that scattered it. She was no closer to divining his feelings for her than she was to understanding her feelings for him.
“What are your plans for the rest of the morning?” he continued.
“I am not sure. I thought I’d take a walk.” The stagnant clutter of her half-packed flat meant that any attempt at proper thought was stymied. Ideas ricocheted incoherently around her mind as if every box on the floor was an obstacle in her brain for thoughts to bounce off. None could settle well enough to work with. Crisp air, blue skies, and the straight-lined forward movement of her feet were required.
“Would you like company?” He had taken a step back, giving her space as though he knew his nearness might influence the answer.
The garden party had been a watershed moment. She’d been so stuck, mired by loss and denial, that she hadn’t even cast her gaze around to see what she could use to pull herself free. Something had been loosened by Peter’s humor as she’d triedand tried to hit the bull’s-eye with little measurable result. Her breathing, which had been short and shallow to start with, softened every time she’d failed and he’d shrugged as though it was of little consequence. Eventually she’d realized that might be the truth. She was not excellent and nothing had changed.
However, failing at whatever endeavor she turned to next wasnotof little consequence. She had rent to pay and a cat to feed. But if being passable at something was not even failure, then she had more options. She could consider her future without her heart thundering.
How odd that Peter had been the one to give her that revelation, and how lucky she was that he had. Who knew when she might have reached that conclusion on her own?
When she looked at him now, she didn’t see an enemy. He wasn’t an automaton or an arrogant duke. Nor was he just the attractive and intriguing Zoo Man, though those qualities had not dimmed. He was a gentle, kind, and wise…something. Not an acquaintance. That felt too removed. But she didn’t know what term was more accurate. Regardless, his wisdom was welcome.
“Company sounds perfect.”
As they walked through the streets of London, they did so at a quick clip. Peter’s stride was jaunty as he kept up with the pace she set. “Where are we going?” he asked.
Eleanor shrugged as she marched forward. “I’m not sure. I’ll know it when I get there.”
He shook his head. “Yet you walk with such determination, as though the path is so certain. What drives you?”
She tilted her head. What an odd question. “Pardon?”
A bus drove close to the curb, and Peter pulled her aside, farther than was truly necessary. Then he positioned himselfbetween her and the road. It was a simple gesture that made her giddy.
“You are the best in your field,” he said, not realizing that he’d unsteadied her. He nonchalantly tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, narrowing the distance between them. “If there were typesetting Olympics, you would be an undefeated gold medalist. That skill comes from an unholy amount of determination, and I’m curious to know where it comes from.”
“My grandfather was a compositor. I learned the skill young.”
Peter furrowed his brow. “My father taught me to fish when I was just seven. I learned the skill young. Yet I am a mediocre fisherman.”
His example was far from fitting. “I put many hours into my craft. More than you have ever spent fishing. Hence, I am the gold medalist of compositors.”
