Chapter Twenty-Eight #4
Peter chuckled and turned his attention back to the stack of books beside him. “Letters. That’s all. Letters. You can’t come to know a person through letters.”
Her objection was sidelined by the piles he was creating.
By what criteria was he discarding some books and keeping others?
She refocused. “I disagree. I know all that I need to. He is kind and sensitive and intelligent. He has a curious mind and a witty sense of humor. He is perfect.” Almost perfect.
“Is he the man who failed to meet you that night?”
She pressed her lips together but nodded anyway.
Peter shook his head. “Yet he’s perfect.” He pushed forward a pile. “These are good enough to keep. Your pen pal should go.”
She skimmed the titles. By happenstance, the Captain had sent her most of them prior to his disappearance. “Fine, maybe he’s not perfect. But people can’t be judged solely on one mistake.”
“Truthfully?” It was said with the timbre of hope.
He brushed his hand against hers and she forgot the books.
She was trapped by his gaze. His gold-flecked eyes looked as optimistic as they had when he was searching for platypuses.
Platypi? The left corner of his lips quirked like it had when he first saw her at the Duchess of Wakefield’s ball, and the space between them crackled—just as it had right before she discovered the truth about him.
She pulled her hand away. “Technically, you made two mistakes.” She twisted as she went from cross-legged to standing, avoiding his hurt expression as she did so. “You lied about who you are, and you destroyed my career.”
By the time she turned back to him, his earnest demeanor had been replaced by a resigned one.
He also stood, with more grace than she had, and he gave an exaggerated shrug.
“Well, then. It’s confirmed. We cannot be friends.
” He stepped toward her. The heat that crackled surged, proving her point. They could not be friends.
She wobbled slightly and retreated. “I don’t think so.”
He stepped closer, touching her elbow with a steadying hand.
A shiver ran down her arm. Her fingers tingled and itched to touch him.
She flexed and unflexed them, trying to dispel the energy, but he was mere inches from her.
Her heart raced and her arm hairs prickled.
The current woozy sensation was not at all from the gin she’d consumed.
“Not friends,” he whispered.
She swayed toward him, filling her lungs with his scent, reveling in the heat that emanated from his body.
He was so beautiful. From this close angle, his perfectly symmetrical lips were full and tempting.
The hard lines of his jaw looked soft and graceful.
The collar of his shirt winged out in white points, like an open book.
She wanted to trail her fingers against it. She wanted to flick through the pages.
She wrapped the lapel of his jacket in her hand.
Later, if anyone was to ask, it was so she could stay on her feet, but truthfully…
She reached up onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his.
They were soft and warm and caused lust to swirl in her belly.
She wrapped her free hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer, until the lengths of their bodies were pressed against each other.
His hand traveled down the small of her back and grabbed her arse. His other hand sank into her undone hair, pulling slightly. Her whole body shuddered. Dizzy, she broke the kiss just enough to suck in a breath, and on the exhale, a small mewl escaped her.
He pulled away. His gaze was unfocused, and his tongue flicked across his lips. He ran the back of his hand against her cheek.
“You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
His hands traveled to her shoulders. Gripped them. With a sigh, he stepped back and held her a full encyclopedia set’s length from him. “Two terrible gins are not enough to fell me, though I fear you might be.”
Her cheeks burned hot. Nothing would be more well received than disappearing into the floor.
Oh, Eleanor. You’ve read too many novels. Why can’t you distinguish between what is realistic and what’s a fantasy?
She shook her head so hard her slippery face could not keep up with it. “Of course. That was incredibly inappropriate. We are not… We should not be… This cannot…”
He put a finger to her lips, and she ceased mumbling. “If we cannot be friends, can we at least be friendly?” he asked.
Did kissing constitute friendly? Or was it something unrelated? What on earth had just happened?
He stared at her as if waiting for an answer. Crap. She hadn’t answered. Her befuddlement was total. She shut her mouth to avoid saying something stupid and nodded.
He grinned. “Perhaps we can be friendly tomorrow afternoon? I’ll meet you at the front of the zoo at three and we’ll coax the wombat from its lair.”
“Burrow.” Damn.
He raised an eyebrow. “My mistake.”
She swallowed and worked her tongue around the inside of her mouth.
Only when she was sure that she could respond without another wombat-related tidbit did she attempt further speech.
“I am accompanying Lady Wharton to Lady Anne Lester’s garden party tomorrow.
” Which she was grateful for, given her current discombobulation.
Lions at the Paris Zoo had escaped last year.
If she was always to be this off-balance around him, the zoo was dangerous.
She would not have the wherewithal to avoid an escaped Tasmanian tiger.
“Lady Anne’s, you say?” He retrieved his coat from the hook by the door, cheerfully shrugging into it. “Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow. We can be friendly there.”
In half a second, he was gone. The door snicked shut, and she was left questioning everything.
Dear Booklover,
Do you believe in fate? I have not until now, but everything in my life has been preordained. I was always expected to take on the family business, and so I have. My siblings have been tiresome since birth, so spending my time putting out their fires is not destiny but an ongoing reality.
However, the fact that my sister’s lady’s maid was called away just as Jacqueline needed help with her correspondence cannot be accounted for by genetics. Which leads me to think that fate might just exist. What else can be responsible for our meeting?
My youngest sister has an overabundance of enthusiasm for Christmas.
Every time she sees something shiny, she’ll nab it for the tree.
Her branches are chaos. I imagine yours are festooned with colors that are perfectly complementary and arranged in orderly patterns that match what could only be a perfectly arranged home, surely?
I imagined your branches and hers, side by side, and the picture stuck with me all night.
She left a string of bells in the hallway yesterday, and I thought of Baskerville. Cats like to play, do they not? My sister won’t miss them. If she does, she won’t blame me.
Yours,
Captain