Chapter 2 #2
“I hardly think the fornices to fornication connection is enough to link cornice to cornication. Your argument is not etymologically sound, since the actual word is fornix, not fornice.”
Slowly, he turned to her, one brow raised…was he impressed she’d met his challenge?
She raised a brow right back at him, calling his bluff. Two could speak of silliness. “More modern art is not my forte, but I would guess the cornices were completed in the last century.”
Sir Kenneth’s lips curled wryly. “And they were commissioned by the Earl, not his Countess.” The wink he sent her said that he’d seen the lewd parts of the satyr.
Most of a satyr’s parts are lewd.
True.
Inspired to meet his challenge, Barbara raised her own brow. “And that the Earl was not a particularly…large man.”
Sir Kenneth blinked, understandably shocked at her insinuation—although Barbara knew, if her mother were to ask, she could claim to be speaking of the bygone Earl of Standish’s height—then threw back his head to laugh.
The laugh made her feel good, and she found herself smiling with genuine delight.
“Cousin Errol is far more interested in ancient work—”
“Cousin—och, the Earl of Standish’s name is Errol, aye?” Sir Kenneth was still chuckling. “Ye’re his cousin?”
That’s right, he said he’d asked about her. “My mother is his cousin on his mother’s side. They grew up close, since he was not expected to inherit—” She bit off her words, wondering if she was blathering too much.
The handsome man holding her hand captive suddenly made a noise of surprise and yanked her hand. “Och, Miss Fokette, how unfortunate!” he exclaimed as he peered at her palm.
Barbara worked hard not to wince. “Yes, sir, that is a phrase often associated with me. But to what, exactly, are you referencing?”
“Yer buttons have come undone!”
With that, the rakish Sir Kenneth Fraser pulled her very-much-buttoned-up-begloved-hand into his lap and bent over it, fiddling with the buttons.
The practiced ruse was so unbelievable, so patently false, that Barbara began to giggle. He glanced up at her, and she saw the loveliest brown eyes; warm and soft, with a ring of topaz around the outside of the iris.
“Miss Fokette?” He was still fiddling with the inside of her glove, as if helping her with her buttons.
“I am sorry, sir,” she gasped, trying to stifle her giggle. “But you are bad at buttons. You must be new at them—”
As the callused tip of his first finger slid along the soft skin at the inside of her wrist, Barbara bit down on her teasing. In fact, her entire being was suddenly focused on that touch, the warm tingly sensation which crawled up her arm and down her chest to settle somewhere in her stomach.
And lower.
“Ye were saying?” Sir Kenneth murmured, his warm gaze holding her captive.
She’d forgotten how to breathe.
Oh Lord, she’d forgotten how to breathe.
She was going to tip over and expire, sitting here in her cousin’s ballroom, because she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Try inhaling.
She sucked in a breath.
Oh yes, that was it.
Change the subject! Change the subject!
What had they been speaking of before his attempts at buttonry?
Oh yes, her family. A nice safe, appropriate topic.
“My parents are…” Here. Pleasant to speak with.
The type who enjoy asparagus. She needed to finish that sentence somehow because he was still touching her skin.
“M-My father and the Earl are likely discussing taxation on antiquities somewhere. Mother will be bored.”
Why did it matter? Why did she think he cared? Why was she blathering? Why was he still touching her?
Barbara’s pulse throbbed against the tip of his finger, and she swore she could feel his caress through every vein and artery.
“Both yer parents are here?” Sir Kenneth did seem genuinely interested. “I didnae expect that.”
She’d remembered how to breathe, good, but now it was happening too quickly. “You did not expect my parents to attend the ball hosted by their cousin?”
“Nay, I didnae expect them both to be alive and interested in yer well-being. Ye understand that usually, the lady in these sorts of stories is a puir wee orphan with nae protection—or she has to make do with only one parent, and then it’s either a hysterical mother or a distant father.
Conversely, a doting father or an imperious mother is acceptable. ”
His words had finally broken through her singular focus on his touch, and now Barbara frowned. Was Sir Kenneth doing the blathering now? “What are you speaking of, sir?”
“The narrative causality of such a situation—”
“This is what reading too many novels will do to you, sir.” She managed to pull her hand back, carefully forgetting the many novels she and Margaret consumed.
“Indeed.” He nodded solemnly. “A deliciously wicked habit. You dinnae read?”
“I read.” Rather overmuch. “I just prefer the better sort of book.”
“Better than novels?” Sir Kenneth crossed his legs while keeping her pinned under his charming gaze. “Impossible.”
Barbara sniffed. “Homer. Voltaire. Herodotus. I am currently working my way through the latest volume of the Commission des Sciences et des Arts d'égypte.”
“Good God!” His booted foot hit the floor in tandem with his outburst. “Ye’re no’ just a wallflower; ye’re a bluestocking.”
There was such horror in his tone that Barbara couldn’t help it; she began to chuckle again. A snap of her fan hid her mouth, allowing her to grin at his clear discomfort. “Indeed, Sir Kenneth. I am educated, intelligent, and opinionated. Please go away, lest you be subject to such horrors.”
“On the contrary, lass…” How did he manage to lean even closer as he murmured? “I find myself even more intrigued.”
If Barbara could have gotten away with a harumph, she would have tried it. The Scotsman was outmaneuvering her at every turn!
Her eyes narrowed again. Time to call him out. He might claim he was intrigued, but he wouldn’t be able to stand idly by as she proved herself to him.
“More, I am a student of antiquities, sir,” she informed him proudly, the fan fluttering too quickly. “My father introduced me to the subject many years ago and Egypt is my field of focus. My cousin, the Earl—”
“Errol the Earl,” Sir Kenneth offered helpfully.
Her lips twitched. “Yes, that one. He has quite the collection from the New Kingdom, including a recent acquisition—a set of matching faience ushabti figurines from the Nineteenth Dynasty, as well as some beautiful canopic jars. I was just on my way to visit them.”
There. An excuse, an escape, and a chance for him to back away, acknowledging he had no interest in chancing interacting with an intellectual female about her academic business.
Which was why she was ridiculously surprised when Sir Kenneth jumped to his feet, offering her his hand. “My word, I wouldnae miss that—I would be honored to escort you to the Earl’s study, Miss Fokette.”
Perplexed, Barbara found herself mutely placing her hand in his. How had he known where Standish’s collection was? And why wasn’t he taking the offered excuse to leave her be? She couldn’t very well disappear into Cousin Errol’s study alone with him.
Could she?
But then Barbara forgot all objections because Sir Kenneth was tugging her to her feet.
Standing there before him, her head tipped back just slightly to stare into his warm eyes, she completely forgot whatever the concern was.
Yes, disappearing into a quiet dark place with this man seemed like a wonderful idea—and if canopic jars were involved, even better.
“Miss Fokette,” he murmured, turning them toward the door and tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. “Allow me.”
She likely agreed with a sound like a hungry sheep. Mrrapp, perhaps. Goodness, it certainly had become warm in the last fifteen minutes, hadn’t it? Had the servants lit the fires?
Kenneth—because really, when she was tucked into his side, limping around the perimeter of the ballroom, her skirts swaying against his boots and her gloved hand pressed to his ridiculously corded forearm, it was impossible to think of him as the formal Sir Kenneth—glanced down at her.
“So, the dinnae dance thing wasnae an excuse?”
It took a moment to figure out what he meant, and to her astonishment, Barbara found herself blushing.
After all these years, the pain had mostly faded—except when the seasons or barometric pressure changed, and she could feel it in the twisted bones—but the special boot she wore on her left foot still impeded her movements.
“Och, nay, lass, I’m sorry for embarrassing ye.” To her surprise, he sounded genuinely aggrieved as his wince offered another apology. “I thought it was just one of those things ladies said to chase a man away.”
“Really? I cannot imagine why anyone would want to chase you away,” she sniffed.
And his smile bloomed again. “Aye, I agree. But yer limp tells me it wasnae just an excuse.”
How had he asked for her name and connections, but hadn’t heard about the Unfortunate Circumstance? “My left foot is malformed, sir. An accident as a child which healed improperly.” There. A trite, simple phrase she’d perfected over the years. “It has limited me somewhat.”
She would never ride a camel or explore a tomb or have any of the adventures she’d always dreamed.
And Kenneth—Sir Kenneth—would make an amusing quip about how no wonder she lived her life between the pages of a book, like so many idiotic men had done before him, and they would both chuckle in amusement, and Barbara would die a little bit more inside.
But to her surprise her escort, who had slowed his steps as soon as he’d recognized her gait, merely shook his head.
“There’s nae need to allow something so small to limit ye.
” He winked, and it wasn’t lewd. More…kind, perhaps?
“There’s still plenty of fun and adventure to be had without running or dancing. ”
This time when he winked it most definitely was lewd, and left no question what kind of fun he meant.