The sound of Amy’s laughter brought her out of her pointless woolgathering. She had packing to oversee. And there was still the estate agent to deal with.
*
When Eli droppedthe coverlet and realized he was more than shirtless—he was as naked as his mother had birthed him—he sent a swift prayer that Rob had been the one to put him to bed.
He padded to the corner and picked up his valise. Bending over made him so dizzy he reached out to brace himself on the nearest piece of furniture until the room stopped spinning.
Thankfully it took but a moment. He lifted his hand and looked down at the small writing desk he had been holding on to. Fanny’s desk. What had she told him? She planned to publish books. A neat stack of paper sat to one side. A few other papers, whole or in scraps, lay in the center, covered with words, scratches, arrows, and more words.
As they were private, and vitally important to Fanny, Eli had no right to stare at them as he did. Less right to glance at the opening words of the manuscript. “Lady Cassiopeia needed a hero…”
Lady Cassiopeia isn’t the only one, he thought.
He shouldn’t but he did shift the loose papers in the center to peer at a page of work; an outline; lists of names, buildings, and locations; and a few scraps with descriptions on them. Curiosity was ever Eli’s besetting sin. He picked up a piece. Lady Cassiopeia apparently had long chestnut hair and eyes no man could ignore. It made him smile. He picked up another. “Albion” was written on the top. The hero? Eli’s conscience pricked him, reminding him it was wrong to look. But he kept reading, suddenly desperate to know what the nascent author envisioned in her hero.
His Fanny apparently liked to examine a man’s physique. Tall, sun-bronzed, broad-shouldered, well-muscled all over. But that wasn’t all; the man was blond with blue eyes “that sparkled with inner light.” At least it wasn’t all physical. She went on to describe his character. Commanding, decisive, courageous, and loyal. A rugged outdoorsman. Eli clearly was out of the running for hero, at least fictional hero. Except for loyal. He could manage that. The last line put a period to it.A man of action, not quiet introspection.
Eli sighed and tried to put the papers back as he found them, feeling like the sort of idiot who had eavesdropped and heard nothing good about himself.
He put his valise on the bed, picked out a clean shirt, and pulled it over his head.You are a steward and lucky to be one, not some benighted hero. You came to Manchester to provide Clarion with a clear picture about Miss Frances Hancock’s conditions and make a recommendation, not to fret over the blasted woman’s ideas about heroism.Man of action, indeed.Good luck finding this paragon, Miss Hancock.
He hoped a good breakfast might cure his foolishness as well as the light-headedness.
