Page List


Font:  

“You’ve been very eloquent, Miss Sloane.” Her face was equally expressive, he noted. It spok

e volumes on the hidden passions that swirled within her.

She is a very interesting and unusual individual—if she were a man, we would be likely be good friends…

But Miss Olivia Sloane was not a man, he reminded himself. So however intriguing she was, he must be careful to keep a distance between them.

“And I think I understand what you are saying.” John made a slow circuit around the tables, taking in all the sets on display. A look, a touch, a tweak. None of them felt quite right.

As if sensing his thoughts, she murmured, “There are several others atop the storage cabinet in the far corner.”

He moved to the spot she had indicated. On one side sat a delicately carved set made out of a rich, fine-grained rosewood and a buttery ivory that was the exact color of Devonshire cream. The figures, John noted, were whimsical birds—light owls and dark ravens.

“Cecilia will adore this,” he murmured. “She has a great fondness for feathered creatures.”

Olivia nodded. “I think it will suit your sister very well.”

His gaze strayed to the other end of the cabinet top, where a quartet of miniature sets were aligned side by side. Crouching down, he saw they were all embellished with exquisitely rendered details. But one in particular caught his eye on account of the colors.

Carnelian—a deep shade of red-orange that glowed in the shadows like a glowing coal. Malachite—a sinuous swirl of smoky green hues.

“And I think this shall do very well for me,” he announced, running his hand lightly over the figures. They felt good against his bare skin. “I have missed having a traveling chess set. It will provide a welcome distraction during the tedious hours of being cooped up in a carriage.”

Olivia’s eyes were hidden by her lowered lashes. He couldn’t tell whether she approved or disapproved of the choice.

Not that it should matter.

“Enjoy your purchases, sir.” She turned abruptly, pausing only for an instant to scoop up a package from the table by the alcove opening before disappearing into the corridor.

Damnation—the book! John had forgotten that she had planned to pick up the volume of Hingham’s essays from the bookstore this morning.

“Miss Sloane!” he called, hoping to press his plea to borrow it sooner rather than later. However, by the time he sidestepped the chess displays and reached the passageway, the tiny bells above the doorway were already sounding a parting chime.

“Damn, damn, damn.”

He was leaving for Shropshire in the morning, and wasn’t due to be back in London for at least a week. There were duties to attend to at home—including escorting Lady Serena Wells to the County Militia’s annual ball.

Order and precision. Logic and discipline. Not fanciful musings about wood possessing a soul or stones having an inner fire.

Reason would rule.

Which, of course, was as it should be.

But as he gathered up his intended purchases. John found his thoughts were straying from smoothly polished marble to a substance that possessed a slightly rougher and more interesting texture.

Chapter Seven

The swirl of scarlet silk, a vivid reminder of a foot soldier’s regimental coat, turned the earl’s thoughts from the capering figures of the country dance to the upcoming debates in the House of Lords. It was, he thought grimly, going to be one hell of a battle. The issues concerning the welfare of returning veterans were complex, and it would take a good bit of adroit maneuvering to broach his reforms without stepping on toes…

“Wrexham?”

The staccato notes of the violins suddenly ceased sounding like the whine of bullets to his ears. “Forgive me,” he murmured, ruefully aware that one of his wandering feet had nearly crushed Lady Serena’s dainty slipper. Once again he found himself on the dance floor. And once again, he was making a hash of it. “I fear that what few skills I have at these sorts of maneuvers are a trifle rusty.”

“On the contrary, sir, your movements are quite precise,” replied Lady Serena. “You just need a bit of practice.”

“Like drills on the parade ground?”

“Exactly. Indeed, if you break the figures into individual elements and perfect each one, you will find it easy to avoid a making a mistake.”


Tags: Cara Elliott Hellions of High Street Historical