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This was her problem now. For even though she attempted to read more about the schomburger from the West Indies and its reddish-brown color and long bill, all she could think about was Mr. Branok, if he had discovered the bird during his own time in the West Indies…and how he might have looked in the heat of the day while there.

Tanned features. Sweat beading across his brow. Dark blond hair dipping over his bright blue eyes that matched the skies above. Cravat and waistcoat gone—it was too hot to wear such things out there, after all.

He would be hunched over low, hidden in long grass. A thin shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. Perhaps he’d unbuttoned the top, allowing the contours of his chest and collar bone to be just visible. His lips would be slightly parted as he released soft breaths to avoid scaring off the bird. Lips that were formed, wet from just licking them to keep them moist, and then⁠—

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Lark started, hefting herself out of her very unladylike daydream. With a racing heart, she peered around the corner of her chair to see who had disturbed her from such enjoyable thoughts.

Her stomach dipped at the sight of Mr. Branok himself entering the room. He didn’t see her, moving instead to the bookshelf where he faced the six shelves stuffed with brown, red, and blue leather-bound books.

In silence, she shifted her own books on her lap so Beswick’s was on top. Once secure in her knowledge that Mr. Branok would not discover her reading his books out of her own personal collection, she took a moment to unabashedly observe him as he perused the shelves.

He wore no jacket—and his waistcoat was buttoned to his cravat—but it contoured his broad shoulders closely as he held his hands behind his back.

She should probably be more ashamed of spying on him, but the time between them had been so comfortable, so casual, that she could not help but treat this situation as he would. It was much more fun this way anyway.

After a moment, he turned away from the shelves and faced the windows instead, walking forward to better view the grounds. Was he watching for birds? As Uncle would say, “The weather is not even fit for ducks.”

He appeared pensive, a small smile on his lips, and Lark longed to know of what he thought until he turned to leave. Before he managed two steps, however, he caught her gaze and stopped, pulling back with a smile.

“Miss Fernside? My apologies. I did not see you there.”

“I know,” she answered with a smile of her own.

He narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Since you entered the room.”

“And you did not think to alert me of your presence?”

“I thought it would be more enjoyable this way.”

“You are beginning to sound like me, Miss Fernside.”

They shared a smile.

“Did you not wish to visit with the others this morning?” she asked.

“I did, but my time was spent this morning writing letters of business to my steward.” He paused. “Did you not wish to visit with them either?”

“I was for a moment, but I prefer reading.”

Mr. Branok glanced toward the doorway, as if wondering whether or not he should leave since the two of them were alone, but he seemed to think better of it, taking a few steps toward her instead.

His gaze dropped to the books in her lap, and she breathed silently in relief that she’d thought to hide his books. They’d grown closer as friends, but not nearly close enough for her to reveal just how obsessed she had been—and still was—with his writing.

“Reading, I take it?” he asked, motioning to the books.

“I was, yes.”

“Which books?” He tipped his head to the side to read the spines, but she discreetly shifted her hand to hide them.

“Thomas Beswick,” she said.

“Ah, of course. I trust you are not using the birds within those pages to add to your list.”

He gave her a look of warning, and she attempted to tamp down how greatly she enjoyed the attention.

“I would never dream of breaking the rules, Mr. Branok. You know that.”