Page 37 of A Bluestocking’s Secret Courtship

His eyes darkened, becoming bottomless pools reflecting her own desire.

“Such honesty,” he murmured, drifting toward her with his gaze fixed on her lips. “I’ve never known anyone like you."

The cicada melody intensified. Only the sound of their song and her heartbeat echoed in her ears. He exhaled, swaying onto his heels, retreating.

“You stay,” she whispered, teasing him with his own words.

He hesitated. A shadow crossed his face.

She held her breath, waiting for his decision. Absently, he slid his fingertips along the back of her bare arm. The delicious sensation filtered to her breasts, leaving them full and heavier.

He drifted toward her to slip his hand to her nape and cradle her neck.

“This feeling,” she murmured. “I’ve never—” She lifted her face with lips parted, both terrified and eager for her first kiss.

He exhaled, muttered a mild curse, and dropped his hand. The absence of his body heat jarred her from the warm haze that had enveloped her.

He fussed with the top button of his jacket.

“Forgive me, Miss Darlington.” He seemed incapable of looking her in the eyes now. “I fear I forgot myself in the excitement and misled you about my intentions.”

She blinked several times. Was he speaking gibberish? He must be, because she couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. “Misled me? How?”

“I consider our association to be professional in nature only.” He muttered under his breath, “Or it should be.”

Her own words were being tossed back in her face. She glanced at her bedchamber beyond the glass doors, debating whether to lock herself inside before she died of mortification. How could she have misread the situation? Hadn’t he wanted to kiss her?

Of course, he had. He was lying. No one would misread the way he had looked at her or touched her.

“Strictly professional,” she stated flatly. “Balderdash!”

“Uh, I— What I mean to say is it’s wrong of me to cross that line if we are to work together.” He aimed a polite detached smile in her direction. “Please, allow me to explain. Will you sit with me?”

When he offered his escort, she crossed her arms. “I’m capable of understanding while standing.”

“Of course.” He hooked a finger into his collar and tugged as if his cravat was too tight.

She raised her eyebrows. “You said if we work together?”

“Yes, I-I am in need of an illustrator. I believe your wild imagination, as you called it, could be useful for the project I have in mind.”

She tapped her slippered foot impatiently. “Go on.”

“I am authoring a new book about life in Athens during its heyday, but I’ve come to realize illustrations would enhance the work. Unfortunately, I have no talent for drafting, but your drawings are precise. A vivid imagination will be useful in that all we have to guide us are ruins and early descriptions of monuments and temples to the gods.”

“Vivid imagination,” she grumbled. He could deny it all he wanted, but she hadn’t imagined his romantic inclinations toward her.

“I need someone with your talents, Miss Darlington. Will you agree to collaborate with me?”

“Why should I?” She was following in her older sister’s footsteps and digging in her heels. It felt good making him grovel. She should be stubborn more often.

“Erm…” Sir Jonathan swallowed hard. “I-I would make certain the drawings are attributed to you when the book is published?”

“Is that a question?”

“No, no, of course not. You will receive credit."

“I see.” An attribution would lend her legitimacy in the field. It could garner more opportunities to work with other antiquarians. She would be a fool to decline his invitation.