veins, the sun burnishing his hair . . . She flushed anew at the memory of her own thoughts.
Well, Rachel Dunne, it is a wonder the entirety of London hasn’t discovered all of your secrets, because you are as transparent as good glass.
Throwing the final panels onto the pile, Rachel jumped off the chair she stood upon. She bundled the brocade in her arms and glared at Peg, who returned the look with an expression so sour it seemed she’d bitten into a handful of lemons. “I believe I am finished up here.”
“Yes, miss. I think you might be.”
Without another look at the girl, Rachel marched out of the room and down the stairs.
Straight into James Edmunds’s arms.
CHAPTER 18
Miss Dunne!” James retrieved the dusty curtain that she’d dropped. Rachel had plunged headfirst through the kitchen entry and right into his arms. The weight and warmth of her body didn’t stay there for long. She had squirmed in his grasp and, reluctantly, he’d had to let her go. “I was just looking for you.”
Pink blushed her cheeks. This close, he could spy the freckles peppering the bridge of her nose like flecks of cinnamon atop a sugared cake.
“Our meeting in your father’s library” She shifted the weight of the curtains to better balance them. “I was busy upstairs, but I hadn’t forgotten.”
He took the curtains from her arm, surprising her. She was so petite, she looked as though they would swamp her beneath their weight. He knew, though, she was strong. Enviably, admirably, strong. “The roof leak ruined the chambers up there, didn’t it?”
“Not too badly. The plaster has fallen in spots, and some of the furnishings got wet, but these curtains have only a small stain along the top. Easily fixed by a quick brushing with hot water.”
“Now that’s a pity. They’re so ugly I hoped for an excuse to burn them.”
His teasing brought out a smile. He liked her smiles.
James glanced around the kitchen, quite bare but for a few stray pots hanging over the cold fireplace. Cavernous in its emptiness.
“You know, Miss Dunne, I haven’t been in this kitchen since I was a lad.” So very long ago, when the house hummed with activity and life was still full of promise.
“You haven’t?” she asked.
“Father was insistent that the family keep separate from our staff,” he explained. “Only my mother would occasionally come down to check on the stores or confer over the menu, but I was such a favorite of Mrs. Mainprice, I often visited. When I used to sneak down here to get away from my lessons, she would fill me up with treats, samples of the evening’s dessert or Tonbridge biscuits she would make just for me.”
“Have you ever had barmbrack, Dr. Edmunds?” Miss Dunne asked.
“No. What is it?”
“The best treat I know of. Sweetened flour cakes studded with raisins or currants.” Her fine eyes shimmered happily. “My little sisters love them as much as I.”
“They sound wonderful.”
“Not as wonderful as a good tart made with butter and fresh fruit, I would guess, but wonderful enough for us.” She snatched the curtains from his arms. “Here, let me take these back to the scullery. No need for you to dirty your clothes with them.”
With ease, she moved through the kitchen as if she belonged there. Comfortable in a way James’s mother had never been, drifting from room to room in the house, the murmur of her skirts never more than a ghost’s whisper. Whereas Miss Dunne . . . just the sight of her bright hair set a spark to the space, eye-catching among the whitewashed kitchen walls and massive plate shelves.
He would miss that spark. Miss her.
Miss Dunne returned, wiping her hands across the yellowing apron she had tied around her waist. “Those are taken care of, and I am ready to examine your father’s library now.”
James led the way. This time when he entered, the scent of pipe smoke was less noticeable. As if Miss Dunne had not only the power to brighten a room but banish joyless memories as well.
Miss Dunne released a long breath as she strode the length of the library and back. “And I thought you had a great deal of books back in London, Dr. Edmunds.” The wall of glass-covered bookcases dwarfed her.
“My father and I shared a love of the written word.”
She looked over at him. “You must have had a great deal in common.”
“No. Not at all, really. Other than medicine.” The key ring jangled as he