He rose and helped her to stand, his hand warm on her arm through the thin silk of her purple gown. Her skin seemed to prickle underneath.
“I would have you stay and read,” he said. “If you’re finished with your dinner, we’ll adjourn to the drawing room.”
“But you must be exhausted—”
“Think of it as a bedtime story, then.” When she laughed, his eyes glittered green in response. “Honestly,” he added, “tonight will be soon enough for me to rest. I’m accustomed to keeping long hours when a project demands it.”
And that was just the point, wasn’t it? she thought as she let him guide her into the light-flooded drawing room. The people in her life had no demands that would keep them up all the night—or at least none they hadn’t put on themselves. She had nothing in common with this man.
But despite that—despite herself—she liked him. His ease, his self-confidence, his quick sense of humor. In fact, she liked him a little too much. She felt uneasy when he was too close.
When he fetched the book and sat beside her on the pale moss green settle, she briefly considered moving to a chair. But considering they needed to work from the same book, that would be silly—not to mention insulting.
She took the book from him. “‘Perspectiva Pictorum et Architectorum,’” she read aloud, “which means, ‘Perspective in Painting and Architecture’ by Andrea Pozzo.”
“Just as I thought,” he said, reaching to open the cover and flip pages.
She caught a whiff of his scent again—the same mix of frankincense and myrrh that she remembered him wearing at Lily’s wedding. It was woodsy and masculine and made the champagne bubbles dance in her stomach, no matter that she’d been drinking Madeira instead.
She’d have to see if she could duplicate it in Mum’s perfumery. Perhaps the Duke of Bridgewater would like some.
“See here,” Kit said. “There’s a sketch of how to properly mount paper on a board for drawing. I’ve done it, but I couldn’t tell what to do after that.” Rising, he strode across the room to a desk and lifted a piece of wood with sheets of parchment tacked to it. “What does that page say?”
“To the lovers of perspective,” she translated. “The art of perspective does, with wonderful pleasure, deceive the eye, the most subtle of all our outward senses…”
While she read, Kit grabbed an inkwell and quill and wandered back to sit beside her.
She turned the page. “This section is called ‘Explanation of the lines of the plan and horizon, and of the points of the eye and of the distance.’” She read on, turning the Latin into English as she went. “That you may better understand the principles of perspective, here is presented to your view a temple, on the inner wall of which…”
With quick, precise motions, he sketched the lines of the classic Greek temple pictured beside the Latin words. He nodded as he followed her translated instructions, adding a man—tiny, as fit the proportions—standing before the structure with its high, arched windows.
“Let me see,” she said when she’d finished reading the page.
He set down the quill and turned the sketch board to face her. “What do you think?”
“It’s lovely.”
“Just lovely?”
“Well, you’ve drawn it skillfully, of course.”
He smiled. “It’s a perfectly proportioned structure. Can you see the way the arched windows echo the arches in the rest of the building? A true thing of beauty.”
If she couldn’t quite appreciate the structure itself, she couldn’t help but notice his enthusiasm. “You find buildings beautiful.”
“Not all buildings, but the well-designed ones.” He cocked his head, piercing her with those all-seeing eyes. “What do you find beautiful?”
A little flutter skittered through her, but she ignored it. “Are we back to playing the getting-to-know-each-other game?”
“Tell me. Beauty is…”
“Oh, flowers, jewelry, rainbows—”
“No. Not what others find beautiful; what you find beautiful. For example, this curve of cheek to chin”—he reached a long finger to trace along her face—“is a thing of beauty.”
She shivered.
“Tell me,” he said softly.
Your eyes, she thought. Your voice, when you talk like that. Your ideas…
“Flowers,” she repeated aloud. But then she added, “When they’ve just been kissed by the rain.”
He nodded solemnly. “What else?”
“Children’s laughter.”
“And?”
“The sun reflecting off the Thames at dusk.”
He seemed to be staring at her mouth. “Yes.”
Her lips tingling, she licked them. “And my sister, playing the harpsichord. Even more beautiful when her husband sings with her.”
Kit nodded again. “Rand has an incredible voice.”
“Yes, he does.” And it didn’t hurt anymore to think of him as Lily’s husband.
“How about,” Kit suggested, “the first blade of grass that pushes through the ground in the springtime?”
“Oh, yes.” She’d never thought of it before, but a blade of grass could be a thing of beauty.
“Church bells ringing through the fog.”
“Fog,” she repeated. “Tendrils of fog creeping over the rooftops of London.”
“The fog in London?” Laughing, he picked up his sketch board and ripped off the top sheet of paper. “Perhaps we’re getting carried away. Read on, please.”
She hesitated a moment, wishing the game could continue. “‘Figura Tertia—The Third Figure.’ The delineation of an oblong square in perspective…”
FOURTEEN
KIT SKETCHED while Rose read all that pleasant long afternoon.
And the longer he spent with her, the more he wanted her.
Rose was much more than just a pretty face. He’d known that, somehow—known it in his gut before he’d even really known her. But now he knew for sure.
“You’ve never seen these buildings,” she commented after translating the text accompanying several more figures. Eleven, or maybe twelve—he’d lost count. “In person, I mean. Have you?”
“No.” He placed the sketch board facedown on the table and stuck the quill into the inkwell. “I’ve always dreamed of traveling abroad to study the classical buildings, but”—he couldn’t help but laugh at himself—“I don’t know how I’d communicate.”
“I’ve also never been outside of Britain.” She shifted to angle toward him, her dark eyes growing hazy. “I’d
