Her eyes darted to his face, probing the sincerity of his question.
She did not give lightly of herself.
“I should like to go to Persia,” she finally said.
Most people would have said Paris. Perhaps Rome. “An ambitious destination.”
She shook her head. “I used to dream of owning a Greek galleon. In my mind, I have already sailed the seven seas.”
“A Greek galleon?” But of course, she studied the classics. “Did Odysseus inspire you?”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Possibly.”
“Why Persia?” he asked, intrigued. “Odysseus never left the Mediterranean Sea.”
“Because,” she said slowly, “there are theories about how Persia and Greece have influenced each other, in terms of architecture, government, literature . . . but we have few concrete proofs, and either side denies having been influenced by the other. And now my professor is very focused on this area of research.”
“Would that be Professor Jenkins?”
“Why, yes! Are you familiar with his work?”
“I’ve never met the man, but my secretary reads his proposals,” he said. “I sponsor some of his expeditions. Perhaps you have heard of the Royal Society.”
“But of course. I just wasn’t aware that you were a benefactor.”
“My family was one of the founding members.”
She gave him a thoroughly appreciative look, and he nearly preened. Ridiculous.
“Thanks to you, then, Professor Jenkins will begin a project in the Peloponnese in April,” she said.
“To do what?”
“They have located a battleship on the bottom of Pylos Bay, and will lift parts of it to study them.”
She had become increasingly animated while talking about it, her body vibrating with suppressed passion, and damned if that didn’t affect him, urging his mind down wholly unacademic paths—
“Is he good to you, Jenkins?” he asked, pretending to study one of the thermostats on a tree trunk.
“Oh yes,” she said cheerfully. “He works me hard, but he helped me get my place at Oxford. I’m very grateful to him.”
For some reason, he didn’t like the sound of that overly much. “Helped you how?”
“He was my late father’s correspondent,” she said. “After my father passed, I sorted his correspondence and found a half-written reply to Jenkins. I finished the letter, and well, he wrote back again. For years.”
“And he never expressed reservations about discussing academic matters with a woman?”
He could tell the question annoyed her a little.
“No. My father had taught me well, it turned out. And . . .”
“. . . and?”
“It may not have been clear from my signature, A. Archer, that I was, in fact, a woman.”
Her raised chin was daring him to take umbrage at her little subterfuge.
He very nearly smiled. “When did you tell him the truth?”
“When I knew I needed his help to secure a place at Oxford. He took no offense, none at all. I’m grateful,” she repeated.
She shouldn’t have to be grateful. She had proven herself capable; she should have her chance.
The large terrarium by the wall drew her attention entirely for the next minute.
“What are those?” She pointed a slender finger at a neat row of green pods that clung to a branch behind the glass.
“Chrysalides. Butterfly cocoons.”
She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “You keep butterflies, Your Grace?”
“They were my brother’s idea. After I vetoed his suggestion to introduce a troop of monkeys here.”
She laughed. A small burst of genuine laughter, showing pretty teeth and a flash of pink tongue, and it hit his blood dizzying like a gulp of sugar water. Want. He wanted to frame her laughing face in his hands and kiss it, anywhere, forehead, cheeks, nose. He wanted to feel her against his mouth. The hell . . .
She had already turned back to the display, bending forward.
“I think I see a caterpillar,” she breathed. “How fascinating.”
“Very.”
There was a pale inch of skin exposed between her collar and her nape. A stray curl nestled there, wound tight in the damp air. So tempting, to try and wind this silkiness around his finger . . . to touch the delicate softness of her neck with his lips.
Her shoulders went rigid, as if he had said it all out loud, and he realized he had begun to lean over her, hunting for her scent.
Good God.
He straightened, head spinning. The heavy air was clearly muddling his brain.
She turned, a wary expression in her eyes. “I didn’t think butterflies thrived in a terrarium.”
“They are released when they are ready.” His voice was hoarse. “You can open the lid”—he demonstrated it—“and anything with wings can leave.”