He leaned back, seeming satisfied with this explanation.
“I see. I’m happy to provide whatever knowledge I can. What exactly do you wish to build?”
“A handsome structure in London—perhaps in one of the new squares to the north of the city. It would need to include dormitories, a grand lecture hall, and five or six workshops to prepare ladies for apprenticeships.”
His brow furrowed. “Apprenticeships for ladies? Do you mean needlework and service and the like?”
She smiled. “Apothecary, smithery, joinery. Any trade at which one can make a living.”
He inclined his head, though not with any challenge. “Ah.”
If Mr. Anderson had heard of the scandal the origination of this plan had caused, he did not let on. Though, she supposed the public outrage that had gripped London in the weeks since Elinor’s abduction was more about Bell’s claims of her adultery than about the essay that had provoked him to accuse her of it.
This was why they needed to wed their mission to secure funds with scandal. In the quest for public notice, gossip won over philosophy every time.
“The building must be gracious and comfortable,” she said. “Not some penal place to learn drudgery like one of those oppressive Magdalen houses. I’m imagining a home where a lady might cultivate her mind and spirit. With a bit of a garden and plenty of light and air and places to enjoy conversation.”
A light in his eyes bloomed, and he leaned forward. He seemed intrigued by the idea. This was not the usual male response to her proposed plans, which tended to fall between objection and outright derision.
“How many women would you wish to accommodate in residence?” he asked.
“At least a hundred at a time. And the facility must have a nursery for any with young children.”
He tapped his chin, musing. “Have you any paper?”
She rummaged in her desk for a leaf of paper and handed it to him, along with a pencil. He bent over the pages, a lock of his chestnut hair falling over his forehead. His fingers were long and square and agile and he projected such a sense of certainty—of calm, efficient skill—that she found herself transfixed by the sight of his swift sketching.
A quarter of an hour passed as he drew, pausing to ask her questions about the need for faculty accommodation, visiting lecturers, and stables.
He was intelligent and thorough—exactly the type of person with whom she preferred to work. Besides, competence, self-assurance, and dexterous fingers were all favorable qualities for the other role she had in mind for him.
“There,” he said, handing the page over to her.
In a few economical lines, he had sketched out a building that rose up proudly from an open square, with a neoclassical symmetry and a graceful elevation.
“I’d suggest a horseshoe structure across four levels, opening onto an interior courtyard lined with outbuildings for the workshops off a mews. It allows for the central facade to be quite grand, while creating a more intimate feeling in the residence off to the wings.”
She marveled at the drawing. It was practical but fanciful. Exactly what she wanted. “How much would it take to construct something like this?”
He paused, thinking. “Anywhere from three to six thousand guineas. Plus the land, furnishings, and labor.”
She looked up in surprise. “That’s quite a range.”
“Much of the expense will depend on your taste. The rest depends on your architect.”
His eyes were brown and warm and did not dodge hers. “Oh?”
“Aye. A good one can keep material and labor costs low without sacrificing the quality of the construction and design.”
She could not ignore such an opening falling so neatly into her lap. She smiled into Mr. Anderson’s nice eyes. “I see. And are you one of these good architects, Mr. Anderson?”
If he heard the invitation in her voice, he did not acknowledge it. Instead, he chuckled. “I fancy myself something of a talent. But we Scots are famously vain creatures.”
“So I’ve been told,” she purred.
He leaned back from her desk. “I can send you a list of reputable firms if you plan to invite proposals.”
She leaned forward, in a way she knew would press her breasts up against her stays so they swelled invitingly. “I’d be grateful.”
His eyes, damn them, remained on her face.
His expression was still warm, but it was difficult to gauge whether he had perceived that her interest in him was not entirely professional.
Where had that hungry gaze gone? Had she imagined he had wanted her?
There was only one way to find out.
She rose and gave him a meaningful smile. “Mr. Anderson, I was just about to go out to the terrace for some air before you arrived. Would you join me? I think you will find the view of the Kestrel extraordinary from this elevation, and the light is so good at this time of day.”
Adam flinched at the condition of Miss Arden’s house as she led him to her terrace. It was as airy as he’d imagined when he’d seen it from a distance, but in far worse repair. The walls shook and rattled with the moaning wind, and he wondered if she suffered from the drafts coming off the ocean. If he’d had more time, he would offer to inspect the building.
Walls shouldn’t rattle the way hers did.
But she didn’t seem to mind. She sauntered gracefully through the room as though the floorboards didn’t groan beneath their feet. Something about the way she moved was at once sumptuous and authoritative, like a panther.
Watching her made his pulse quicken.
“Do you spend much time here?” he asked, so as not to become too fixated on his rather rude desire to stare at her. For a moment, in her study, he’d had the odd sensation that her manner was flirtatious. But surely he had simply imagined it. For why would such an exotic, feline creature as Seraphina Arden take more than a cursory interest in him?
“I haven’t been here since I was a girl,” she answered. “I inherited it two years ago, after my stepmother died.”
A peal of wind caused a shutter to clap against the house. Seraphina winked at him. “That’s no doubt her ghost. Trying to drive me out by haunting me.”
It was actually the ravages of salt air, rusting the hinges. But he sensed she was amused by the idea of a bitter spirit pounding at the windows to unsettle her.
“I could send a man to come replace the hinges if it bothers you.”
She waved the offer away. “Oh, not worth the labor. I’ll only be here for a month. I came to write my memoirs of my youth. The decrepit state of the place adds atmosphere, don’t you think?”
He nodded and followed her out the door to a small table overlooking the sea. Her house was nearly a hundred feet above Tregereth’s. The view was stunning.
As was Miss Arden, standing in the sunlight. With her strong features, she was as striking to behold as the purple clouds behind her.
It had been years since he’d been so taken by a woman’s looks. It was not so much that she was beautiful—her face was more striking than pretty—but the fascinating way she caught the light.
And, of course, that bloody sheer chemise she’d been wearing when he met her, which his thoughts kept drifting to at odd hours of the day.
“You do have a gorgeous view,” he said. “If I could find time, I’d love to paint it.”