"Griffin has always been friendly," Corinna said in a tone that made the statement more like a complaint than a compliment. "Consider all the men he's managed to bring around to meet us already. My hand is hurting just thinking about writing all these invitations."
"Think about the new evening dress you're going to make him pay for instead," Juliana suggested.
Corinna grinned. "It's going to be yellow. With embroidery and seed pearls."
"I sent a note to the mantua-maker this morning," Alexandra said. "She should be here in a week."
"Excellent. I can scarcely wait for her to arrive." Corinna plopped onto a salmon velvet chair. "What shall we say on the invitations?"
"There's proper, accepted wording, I'm certain." Alexandra pointed her quill at her youngest sister. "You're the only one of us who's finished reading The Mirror of the Graces. What does A Lady of Distinction have to say?"
"Nothing. A Lady of Distinction is distinctly opinionless concerning invitations. She discusses dress and deportment only. We're supposed to choose the colors of our new evening apparel by candlelight, you know. For otherwise, she says, 'If in the morning, forgetful of the influence of different lights on these things, you purchase a robe of pale yellow, lilac, or rose color, you will be greatly disappointed when at night it is observed to you that your dress is either dingy, foxy, or black.'"
"Black!" Juliana rolled her eyes. "As though a gown of pale yellow might ever appear black."
"A Lady of Distinction is a twit," Corinna said.
"None of this is helping with the invitations." Alexandra frowned. "Mama always knew what to write."
"She had a book with proper examples of all correspondence," Corinna reminded her. "Remember that slim volume with the dark green cover?"
"Oh, yes!" Juliana exclaimed. "I think I saw it in the library last week."
"Will you fetch it, then, please?" Alexandra asked. "We'd best get busy writing if we're to give everyone proper notice."
"Proper," Corinna muttered as Juliana rose and left the room. She went back to her easel and dabbed a brush in blue paint. "Everything must be proper."
Less than two minutes later, Juliana returned. "I think you'd best fetch it yourself, Alexandra. It's up too high for me to reach."
Alexandra was busy adding yet another name to the list. "Use the ladder."
"The ladder is at the far end of the room." Juliana sat on the sofa and picked up her menu. "And it's dreadfully heavy."
"The ladder is on wheels." Corinna set aside her paintbrush. "Was there ever anyone more lazy? I shall fetch the book. Where in the library is it located?"
"Lower level, at the top of the third bank of shelves on the right. The middle bookcase." Juliana scratched something out on the menu. "But I think Alexandra should go. She's taller."
"Only by an inch."
"I think," Juliana repeated meaningfully, "that Alexandra should go."
"Ohhh," Corinna said. "Is it up that high, then? Alexandra, perhaps you should go."
"We could have written a dozen invitations by now." Alexandra pushed back from the desk. "Third bank of shelves on the right? I shall return directly."
With a long stride that A Lady of Distinction would surely disapprove of, she hurried through the picture gallery, past the music room and the billiard room. Her sisters, she thought as she entered the two-level library, wasted entirely too much time on petty disagreements.
She strode down the red-and-gold striped carpet, then stopped short. Precisely in front of the third bank of shelves on the right, at a round mosaic table, sat Tris.
She mentally revised her last thought: Her sisters wasted entirely too much time on conniving plots.
An inch taller, indeed.
Pencil in hand, Tris was engrossed and hadn't noticed her. While he erased a line and carefully sketched another, she watched. Even drawing a picture, he looked like a man of action. Lean, wide shouldered, his skin kissed by the sun. Like last night, a lock of hair flopped over his forehead.
Like last night, she wished she could push it back.
It was pointless, she reminded herself—any feeling for him was pointless. But she remembered the exquisite intimacy of his kiss. The wonderful warmth of his body. Her own body melting against that wonderful warmth.
He looked up, then bolted to his feet. "Lady Alexandra."
Lady. So they were back on formal terms. It was for the better, she decided, hoping he couldn't divine her earlier thoughts by the heat that had crept into her cheeks. "Sit, please. I didn't mean to bother you. I just came in to get a book."
He didn't sit. "May I help you?"
"It's right behind you." Walking over, she slid between him and the shelves. The books were covered by doors of brass mesh in mahogany frames. In order to open them, she had to step back. "Pardon me," she murmured, wishing he would move.
Then, when he did, wishing he hadn't.
"It's right here," she said, rising to her toes to reach the top shelf.
"Let me help you." The words were soft by her ear. He reached around her and up, his front grazing her back. He was as warm as she remembered, and his very male scent seemed to surround her. Her breath caught in her throat.
It took everything she had not to lean back against him.
"This green one?" he asked.
"Yes." The single syllable came out as a breathy sigh.
"Here you go," he said, sliding it free.
She twirled around, almost in his arms. Almost.
But if she expected to see her own lust mirrored in his eyes, she was doomed to disappointment. With a polite smile, he handed her the book. Then he returned to his chair and lifted his pencil.
Apparently, while her knees had been threatening to buckle, he'd only been getting her a book.
"Thank you," she said from behind him, feeling schoolgirlish and silly.
"You're quite welcome." He erased another line.
She clutched the book to her chest as though it could protect her from unwelcome emotions. "What are you drawing?"
"A water ram pump. I'll be giving these
