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“Dammit!” She curled her fingers around a thick ridge of bark, fit her foot into a furrow. “I’m coming up,” she warned him.
“This tree is like Piccadilly Circus.” The drawl drifted down from above. “Don’t tell me you’re going to sing.”
Nina pedaled backward. The light spilling out from the study window reduced De’Ath to a silhouette. But even if he’d kept silent, she could never mistake him. She’d memorized his proportions, the shape of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
“It’s Fritz,” she said with an embarrassing rasp. “I followed him back here.” She cleared her throat. “I fully intended to knock on the front door.”
“I was beginning to think you never would.” His deep voice vibrated with subtle shades of meaning.
Nina vibrated too. Their kiss seemed to flutter in the darkness between them. The speech she’d prepared unwrote itself word by word.
“I told you my house rules,” he continued. “And then I broke one.”
“Rule three.” Nina felt short of breath. That was what this was to him, then. A dalliance. One of many, if Miss Holroyd was to be believed.
“I apologize for my conduct,” he said, and strangely, it stung. He didn’t dally with employees, as a point of pride. She had her pride too.
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “It’s not the reason I stayed away.”
“No?” He spoke in a voice deeper still, and he shifted forward, leaning against the balcony railing.
“No.” She shook her head. “My brother caught a fever. I should have written.”
A mercy, that this exchange was taking place outdoors, in the night. She hated to think of all her expression must reveal.
“How is he now?”
“Improving. Nothing keeps him down long.” She realized she was holding her throat, fingers pressing her jugular.
“I’m glad,” he said. “And I’m glad you’re here.”
Was he smiling? Nina edged away from the house, to ease the angle of her neck.
“You’ll find the kitchen awash in orange flower water.” He was definitely smiling. She could hear it. “The other day, there was an avalanche of golden sultanas.”
“I forgot the cake tins.” Nina’s stomach kicked. Supposedly, she’d gone home for cake tins.
He was quiet, perplexed, perhaps, or putting together incriminating pieces.
“Miss Finch,” he said at last, and paused again. “I should warn you. I’ve devoted a sizable portion of the previous three days to speculations about your hair.”
“My hair?” Nina’s heart pounded faster. Dear God. The odor of deceit . . .
“Is it brown?” he mused. “Or is it blond? I haven’t been able to settle my mind on the subject. And then it occurred to me that your hair is the color of moth wings, the exact color of their softness, and that to see it properly, I need to touch it.”
Her breath puffed out. “My hair is dull. It’s no particular color at all.”
“Nothing about you is dull.” His voice tugged at her, beckoned her like a finger. She was rocking onto the balls of her feet, as though she could lift her lips to his. Float up to the balcony.
Madness.
She ground her heels into the grass.
“I’ve looked for Ariadne’s crown in the sky every night,” he said. “I’ve imagined setting those eight stars on your brow. I won’t say what else I’ve imagined. It’s bacchanalian in nature.”
Her head was spinning, like she’d had too much wine. Bacchanalia. Bacchus’s festival.
His posture was loose, one elbow propped on the balcony railing, one arm dangling.
