The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,28
admitted. “I enjoy rereading them. And . . .”
“And?”
“My grandmother loves hearing them read aloud.”
“Ah, yes. The top-secret grandmother who is well known to trustworthy Mr. Curtis.”
“She says their correspondence reminds her of my grandfather’s courtship when he was young and too proud to admit his love directly.” A smile tugged at her lips. “Early in their acquaintance she suspected that he was smitten with her, even though he waited quite a while to declare himself. Until then she had great fun reading between the lines of his teasing remarks to decipher his affections.”
“Your grandmother is an admirer of Peregrine too?”
“And Lady Justice. Like so many people! Which is how this idea occurred to me. What if Brittle and Sons were to compile the best letters and pamphlets of Peregrine and Lady Justice, and publish them in a single volume?”
“A single volume? What for?”
“For entertainment. For posterity. For every society hostess who wishes she were the repository of all things fashionable. We could bind it in fine leather and give it a marvelous title, and sell it for twenty times the price for which the broadsheets themselves sold originally.”
“Miss Flood, you have a shockingly material appreciation for your hero and heroine’s love affair.”
“Oh, well, the decorative binding and the price are for Mr. Brittle’s sake. He would never take to the idea if he did not believe he could turn a profit from it.”
“Turning a profit is not your purpose, then?”
“I would simply like to see their letters collected. At least my favorites.”
“Which are they?”
“These.” She passed her fingertips over the pages. “These are the most heartfelt.”
“Sounds like a capital idea, Elle.” His voice seemed sincere, but not entirely like him either.
She looked up into his face, but he was staring at the broadsheets, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow beneath a lock of glossy black hair. She had touched that. She had touched him. Now, if she wished, she could reach up and touch him again. She could lean onto the desk and put her lips beneath his, and feel his kiss again. And perhaps taste his jaw too. The muscles there were bunched. She wanted to run her fingertips and then her lips over them and loosen the strain there.
Abruptly he turned his gaze to hers and she choked on her own desire.
She slapped a palm over her hacking mouth.
“Quite all right there?” he said in a low voice.
“Yes.” She coughed again. “Yes, that is—yes. The Brittles will return from Bristol in a sennight, and I hoped to have a proposal for the volume on Mr. Brittle’s desk when he arrives. Therefore, you see, I really must finish this—”
“Not this afternoon.” He drew the pen from between her fingers. “This afternoon you are coming with me.”
“To where?” Damn her wretched voice for quavering. And damn her heart for wanting him to reply, To a dark room so I can kiss you silly again.
As though he knew her thoughts, he smiled a smile that sent her swift heartbeats into her toes. Then he set the pen in its stand.
“To meet my sister at the shops,” he said, backing away. “Aha, didn’t expect me to say that, did you? Miss Flood, I might very well be a scoundrel, but I’m not such a scoundrel as all that.” With a decidedly rakish grin, he went into the front room and called back, “Come along. Madame Étoile awaits her live doll.”
As he handed her up into his dashing carriage behind the matched grays, she said, “Live doll?”
“Can’t call on my uncle for tea in rags suited to a ball.”
“Rags?”
“A mantua,” he said, snapping the reins. “Pinafore. Whatever the blazes females call it.”
“A gown?”
He scowled. She had never seen him scowl. Other men scowled, even on occasion mild Charlie and pacific Mr. Curtis. Not Captain Masinter. He was the most blithely untroubled man she had ever met, the sort of man who might kiss a woman in a dark library until she was a puddle and think nothing of it. And yet he was a naval captain, hardly an untroubled profession.
But she did not want to care whether he scowled or not, or why. She did not want to care about him in any manner. And she most certainly did not want to long for more of his kisses, no matter how the sight of his strong hands on the reins made her insides flutter rather aggressively.
“The gown I wore last night is beautiful. It will do for tea.” She could hear the