“She was,” he said shortly. He’d taken to writing again.
“She must have been a saint.”
“She’d have to be to endure me. Is that the veryoriginal point you’re making?” he said dryly. He paused, and then his expression reflected that he’d had another inspiration.
“It’s just that you seem rather intolerant of flaws, and surely only a saint possesses none.”
“Intolerant ofsomeflaws,” he said abstractedly after a moment, with a little smile. He dipped the quill again.
“And I possess the full complement of the objectionable flaws.”
He paused to look at her. “We can use our hour to discuss useful Italian vocabulary, or itemize flaws.”
“Oh, let’s do both.”
His mouth curved slightly. The column of words he was writing was growing lengthy.
“It mightnotbreak, you know,” she mused softly, speculatively.
“I beg your pardon?” he muttered.
“Your face. If youreallysmile. You’ve done it before.”
He paused to, ironically, reward her with a scowl.
She smiled beatifically at him. “Icanbe amusing, you know.”
“Are you in the habit of writing your own notices for the newspaper, Miss Wylde?” He did, at least, sound mildly amused.
“If only that were an option. You’ve clearly read the last thing written about me, and you and all of London have decided it might as well be my epitaph.”
He ignored this, unless one counted the single twitch of a brow. He dipped the quill again.
“Epitaph hasthreesyllables,” she pointed out. “Good word, that.”
His quill continued moving.
“Your Grace, if I may be so bold... whatareyou writing?”
“I will share it with you in one moment, if you would be so kind as to be patient and perhaps not prate, which I suspect you do when you’re nervous.”
So she was quiet. She tried not to jiggle her foot.
He paused and looked across at her. He seemed lost in thought.
“She wasn’t quite a saint. She had a bit of temper,” he said suddenly. Surprising her. “My wife.” He said this with a sort of rueful affection. One corner of his mouth dented.
She wondered what it would be like to ever be mentioned with rueful affection by a man, who would dent one corner of his mouth.
“Surely this temper was never directed at you, as you’ve no flaws.”
“It bodes well for your success as a pupil, Miss Wylde, that you’re so observant.” His mouth curved at his own joke as he returned to writing.
“You’ve nonotionhow much I notice.”
“Oh, I’ve some notion,” he said grimly.
He finally stopped writing. He regarded her from across the table, absently tapping his quill.
