He was just about to ask her about her disagreeable sister or her estranged mother—more inappropriate topics, but why stop now?—when she spun toward the garden below.
“What?” he asked.
Miss Trelayne held up a hand to silence him. Her gaze was fixed on the misty lavender vegetation.
Ian forced his brain to shift, going on high alert. Nighttime interlopers were not uncommon in London, even in a walled Mayfair garden. He narrowed his eyes and squinted into the garden. He cocked his head to listen. Nothing. No informants, no pirates, no sailors.
He looked again to Miss Trelayne. She ignored him, peering into the birch tree. He used the opportunity to study her profile. A trio of heavy blue stones adored her small ear. Her full lips were parted, just a little. Her nose was proud and it suited her. He had a flash vision of how it would feel to nuzzle that nose in a kiss.
She put him in the mind of a tall, thin book that poked above the others on a shelf. The book that said,Pick me. The one with colorful illustrations and maps.
She was like a very rare book that was best enjoyed when laid open on a desk and poured over. A book for which you wet the pad of your thumb to turn the page, where you glided your fingertips down the foolscap to fully appreciate the engravings.
“Do you hear that?” she whispered.
“What?” Ian had forgotten to listen.
“It’s a song thrush,” she whispered. “There she goes again. Do you hear? Her song is distinctive because she repeats different phrases in mixed sequence. It’s said to be like poetry. I’ve only heard it once before. Song thrushes are nocturnal, and I’m rarely out this late.”
Ian squinted into his garden. “Song thrush,” he repeated.
She was leaning on the banister, arms locked, bottom out. His coat smothered her, but the heavy wool didn’t disguise the contour of slight waist swooping to round bottom.
Suddenly, his fingers were restless, twitchy. He put a hand on the stone banister, idly tracing the shape of the curved lip.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, breathless, standing upright. She hopped back from the rail and softly collided with his chest, her back to his front.
Her body felt nothing like a book.
He opened his hands and hovered them on either side of her waist.
“She’s here,” Miss Trelayne whispered softly, so softly he barely heard. “Do. Not. Move.”
Moving had not occurred to Ian.
“She’s where?” he asked in a rasp.
“Shhh,” she warned gently.
The bird called again, a sound, Ian thought, not unlike most birds. But then he saw a flutter; he heard a swooshy sort of pumping of air—and there it was. A small bird, lighting on the balcony railing mere feet from where they stood. In the dimness, her feathers registered as only dark and light, her shape decidedly... birdlike.
She hopped twice and opened her beak and trilled.
Miss Trelayne sucked in a delighted breath. A gasp. It was the sound that accompanied newly opened jewelry boxes, or grand anniversary cakes wheeled out on a trolley. Ian had also heard that sound in bed.
He shifted, just a little. He could feel the outline of her body up and down, from her thin shoulders to her long legs. Lithe, thin, like a corded rope, but with the softness of a woman. She tensed when the bird sang, something like ecstasy seizing her muscles. He could feel her warmth through his coat.
“I can’t believe she’s so close,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Close.”
Her head bumped against his jaw, and he felt springy curls. The braid that ringed her head was softer than he expected; not a tight plat, but loose, pillowy. Curls tucked and woven, secured with the ribbon.
The bird called again; again Miss Trelayne clenched. After another trill, and another, it let out a final song, hopped twice, spread its wings, and flew away.
Miss Trelayne gasped again and tracked her progress into the sky. When she turned her face, her braid brushed his jaw, snagging on his emerging beard. His skin tingled. He breathed in, smelling her vanilla scent.
“What a sight,” Miss Trelayne whispered.
