Good grief! Those poor little birds must be exhausted!
In addition, her birdbrain had her hopping like a finch every time one of the library doors opened—but every time it was only a guest, wandering in to join the others lounging around in a post-ball haze.
Until the door opened for the hundredth time, finally revealing Guy.
He paused in the doorway to study her, as if struck by something unexpected. She resisted the unfamiliar urge to smooth out the skirt of her striped morning dress and adjust its long sleeves.
He was frowning, of course. Still no “happy to see you” smile for her! Then he was moving again, charging at her across the library, as he had charged across the ballroom last night: as though she were a dreadful accident about to happen and it was up to him to stop it.
She lowered her eyes to the illustration of a chiffchaff—a confusion of chiffchaffs!—but all she saw was Guy, shoulders broad in his tailored riding coat, buckskins hugging his long, booted legs, Guy coming closer and closer, bigger and bigger, setting a gale blowing through the room as the huge library shrank to a cave.
Until he was there, by her side, infuriatingly untouchable. He took up too much space and carried the elements with him: his hair tossed by the wind, his cheeks warmed by the sun, his eyes bright like leaves after rain.
Her skin burning like fire.
“You were out riding,” she said.
“Keeping track of my whereabouts already?”
“I had little choice in the matter. The standard greeting used to be ‘Good morning, Miss Larke,’ but today everyone greeted me with ‘Oh, Miss Larke, Lord Hardbury is out riding.’ One would think our engagement were a matter of such consuming importance that I could not possibly have an interest in anything else.”
A glance around the library showed a few guests eyeing them with idle curiosity, but a room this size allowed for private conversations. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice.
“I did not get a chance to thank you last night, for agreeing to…help me.” He watched her steadily; his expression gave away nothing. “I will not pretend to understand the reason you changed your mind, and I do not intend to inquire too closely, in case you change it again.”
As if already bored, he shrugged and turned away, his eyes on the pages spread out on the table. “You went to considerable trouble and risk to help Freddie. It seemed a fair exchange.”
“I didn’t help Freddie to secure an exchange,” she said. “She needed helping and I was in a position to do it.”
“I know.”
“Have you confronted Sir Walter?”
“No, and I don’t intend to. This morning, I called on Sir Gordon Bell, and with his legal advice and assistance, have written express to request an urgent hearing in Chancery.”
Arabella fingered the corner of a turtledove. A pitying of turtledoves. “And Miss Treadgold?”
“What about Miss Treadgold?”
“You appeared to be courting her.”
“When our engagement is over, I shall choose a bride.”
“Someone sweet and amiable. Of course,” she murmured, and busied herself with moving the peacock. A pride of peacocks.
“What are these drawings for?” he asked.
“The Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries, a book I am making. This is to decide the final page order.”
He picked up a drawing: a heron. A siege of herons. “These illustrations are excellent. There is joy in every line of these birds. You count writing and drawing among your talents too?”
“Good grief, no. My talent is for issuing orders; other people do the actual work. Juno Bell drew the illustrations, and Livia Bell wrote the text.”
“How do you make these into a book?”
He put down the heron—crookedly!—and picked up a page of writing. Arabella took her time straightening the heron illustration while she tried to form a reply. The world had gone mad: She and Guy were making harmless, civilized small talk. They should be fighting. If they were not fighting, then they were…what?
“I send the pages with my instructions to a publisher in London, who organizes the engraver and colorist for the illustrations, and sets the type. When the galley-proofs are ready, I check them, and when I am satisfied, they print and bind them. This will be my first attempt at full color, because of the cost.”
“But you’ve made books before.”
“I began by creating an ornithology journal based on Papa’s conventions.”
He replaced the page of writing and scowled at the table. She scowled too, as she straightened the page.
“You make books,” he said.
“I do have some respectable interests. It cannot be all skulduggery, you know.”
He nudged the corner of another page. Apparently, he did not even care that he had made it crooked. She straightened it irritably.
“Do you even like birds?” he asked.
“I don’t dislike birds.” She considered his question. Did she like birds? “I like the way the hawk circles and dives, all that speed and precision. I like how magpies use tools, and how crows recognize faces, and how blue tits chatter at each other like friends. I like that so many birds mate for life and that when they migrate, they know unerringly where and when to fly.”
He said nothing, but regarded her as though she herself were a new species of bird.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I found that charming. I am not accustomed to thinking of you as charming.”
“Indeed. You made your opinion of me very clear last night.”
“Ah. Those words were unkind and uncalled for. I apologize. I hurt your feelings.”
“Don’t be absurd. I have no feelings. My enormous pride swallowed them up years ago.”
Still smiling, his eyes searched her face, and clearly she had become bird-brained, because she thought she read in them some tenderness, even affection, and that could not be right.
Then he propped himself against the table, legs outstretched, losing enough height to bring their faces level. He was so close that her skin anticipated his touch.
The door opened. Mama came in and joined a trio of ladies. From a distance came music: Someone in the drawing room played the pianoforte.
“You ought not stand so close,” she said. “People will think we’re…”
“In love?” he finished easily.
“Yes. That.”
“That’s what we want them to think.”
“You ought not have said that last night. About us being…”
“In love?”
“Yes. That. You should have given a rational reason. My property, your title.”
“If I gave a rational reason, people would feel entitled to ask rational questions and demand rational answers. If we say we are in love, no one will expect us to be rational ever again.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, but that made him regard her oddly again.
“You laugh now,” he said. “You smile. I do not think I have ever seen you laugh or smile before.”
She pressed her fingers into the table. “At any rate, it’s ridiculous. The very notion of us being…”
“In love?”
“Yes. That. No one will ever believe it.”