A squeal slipped out, more of surprise than protest, though it soon turned to laughter when his grin went mischievous.
“And this, lady fair, most definitely counts too. Even if the library isn’t lamplit.”
His right arm supported her back, his left came around her waist, anchoring her, and he could probably hear the way her heart crashed against her chest, but that was all right. She could hear his too. She did her best to keep her smile serene. “Studying historical records together is the most romantic date of all.”
“Obviously. And even if some troglodytes disagree, no one can argue that a meeting involving a kiss is anything but a true milestone of courtship.”
She felt as though she might just fly to pieces. “Kissing? I seem to have missed that part. I could swear we’ve only been reading and taking notes.”
“Ah, well. Patience, you know. That’s the next phase of my brilliant plan, now that I’ve got rid of your brother.” He wiggled his brows.
Hers shot up. Then, as she caught sight of the edges of paper sticking out from behind his cushion, laughter bubbled up again. “Devious man, aren’t you? I thought we’d already brought that book over.”
“Desperate times. I’ve been trying for days to get you alone again, but . . .” He trailed off, frowning. “It wasn’t on purpose, was it? I mean—you weren’t making sure to keep others around? To avoid this—me? If so, I—”
“Sheridan.” She set a finger on his lips to silence him. And then leaned close, gaze locked with his. “Back on topic, please. I believe we were discussing a kiss.”
The blaze of uncertainty settled back down into his previous amusement. “Right. But, you see, I’m not just a man of words. I believe fully in the need for field research. So, less talk, as they say.”
And more kissing. She met his lips with her own, grateful that this time she could lift her arm without pain and settle her hand on his cheek. Send her fingers into the light auburn of his hair. Hold him there just a moment more when he made as if to pull away.
“Definitely, definitely counts,” he whispered a moment later, as he trailed his nose over her cheek.
Gracious. “Well, if you’re set on adding dates, I think we need to schedule a few more. A walk after supper, perhaps, in the Abbey Gardens.” He feathered a kiss over her jaw and made her breath catch. “And now that I’m feeling better, another sail—and I promise not to send you overboard. Probably.”
“Mm.” His lips trailed down to her chin. “You can if you want. I’ll just take it as a declaration of your undying affection.”
“You would. Incorrigible man.” Praise God he was that, and patient enough that he hadn’t turned and fled in those first few weeks.
“Well, I—”
Footsteps in the hall cut him off and brought a scowl to his brow. She slid to the cushion at his side, the racing of her heart shifting a little. A man’s step, without question. Was Oliver back already?
No. Telford had finally deigned to join the land of the awake and entered with a teacup in one hand and a telegram in the other. “Did you see this, Sher?” He didn’t even glance over at them.
“I haven’t seen anything today. I was busy plotting. Which you’ve ruined, thank you very much.”
That brought Telford’s gaze up. His lips twitched upon spotting them, no doubt well able to imagine what they’d been up to. “I may not be sorry about that, but I’m certainly sorry about this.” He held up the yellow slip of paper and then held it out. “They’ll be leaving Sheridan Castle tomorrow.”
His sisters. Beth’s stomach turned to a rock, and she eased away a few more inches. Sheridan had received a letter a few days ago saying they’d be coming, but they’d offered no definite date. And Beth had let herself think that maybe they’d get distracted and go somewhere else instead.
Because she had only to remember all the sneers she’d received from the aristocracy while she was at finishing school to know that, happy as the marquess was to steal kisses and talk about courtship, his sisters weren’t likely to approve of a match between him and an island girl.
An indisputable fact that didn’t seem to faze Sheridan at all. He took the telegram with a smile. “Oh, good! I was beginning to think they’d never come.”
Was the look Telford sent her commiserating, or was she imagining it? “Still not sure why you invited them, old boy.”
“Had to.”
“Did you?” She didn’t really mean to say it. It just slipped out. Probably the fault of the acrobats doing flips in her stomach. Obviously if this was really a courtship and it progressed, then she’d have to meet his sisters at some point. But did it have to be so soon?
And obviously Sheridan knew exactly what she feared. He took her hand, lifted it, and kissed her knuckles like he’d done the day of the accident, as she’d taken to calling it. “I did. For you. You’ll see.”
Would she? Because right now it didn’t seem like he’d given any thought at all to how she would feel about the invitation. Yet the way he was looking at her . . . clearly he believed it was for her benefit. Somehow.
Telford sank into his usual armchair. “Well, if it puts your mind at ease any, Miss Tremayne, you can at least tell them that we’ve all but proven you’re the descendant of a prince, which puts you in the heiress category, even if your inheritance has been lost over the centuries.” He offered a cheeky grin. “I intend to break out that argument if Mother gives me any guff for not objecting to Libby and your brother.”
Her gaze drifted back to the table, fully covered with papers and books and records. Other than on Sunday, she’d spent the last several days tracing out a family tree for both the Gibsons and the Dawes, and Saturday night she had found the linchpin to her theory—a single common ancestor, yes, two hundred years ago. The Gibson line traced back to a woman named Morgelyn, and the Dawes to her sister, Jenna. The two children of—she could still scarcely believe this—Ruperta, daughter of Briallen—who had no father listed.
But Ruperta. The very name that, more than a decade after their Ruperta’s birth, Prince Rupert’s mistress gave to their illegitimate daughter, who went on to marry a Howe, thereby guaranteeing Sheridan’s interest. Ruperta. Clearly a feminine form of Rupert. Which was not a variation of Robert otherwise present in Cornwall or the Scillies.
“It doesn’t make me heiress to anything but a good story. And it isn’t proof that anyone’s likely to accept, besides.” It seemed the reasonable thing to tell herself, because really, who would honestly care that her many-times-great-grandmother had secretly married a prince?
“I don’t know why not. If one cares so much about bloodlines, I mean. Which I always thought was rot. For the record.” Sheridan winced. “I mean, not that I mean to insinuate that you ought to be defensive about bloodlines, because—ah, blast. You know what I mean, don’t you? I adore your family, prince in its line or not. And you’re an heiress of the only thing that matters—an amazing family. That’s worth treasuring.”
She squeezed his fingers. A month ago, she probably would have tried to turn it into an insult. But she did know what he meant. “I adore them too—both sides. And I’ve still been thinking about Senara’s key.” A far happier thing to contemplate than what witty insults Sheridan’s sisters were likely to devise for her. “I find it quite plausible that it dates back to Jenna. To Ruperta. To Briallen. It could have been something Rupert left with her. It could be a literal key to a chest of pirate treasure.”