“Diana is rather shiny, I suppose. Golden hair, luminous skin. Sunny disposition. All things radiant. Perhaps you couldn’t outshine her.” He cocked his head and regarded her from a new angle. “But Min? You could outsing her.”
“We’re sisters. Not competitors.”
He made a dismissive noise. “All women are competitors, and sisters most of all. Ladies are perpetually jockeying for position, sizing themselves up against their peers. I can’t tell you how often I’m enjoined to comment on which lady is the prettiest, the wittiest, the most accomplished, the lightest on her feet. And who solicits these opinions? Always women, never men. Men could not care less. About those comparisons, at least.”
She eyed him warily. “What comparisons do men discuss?”
“I’ll answer that some other time. When I’m not bleeding and at a disadvantage.”
Minerva wrapped the bandage tight. “We’re not talking of callow young ladies in society. We’re speaking of Diana. I love my sister.”
“Enough to hide your one talent, just so she won’t suffer by comparison?”
“My one talent?” She cinched the bandage, and he grimaced with pain. “It’s hardly my one talent, or even my best talent.”
“Ah. Now I see how it is.” He nursed his bandaged hand. “You’re every bit as competitive as the rest of them. Only you’re vying for a different title. That of least attractive, least congenial. The least marriageable.”
She blinked at him. He’d doubtless meant the words to tease her, but something in them rang rather true.
“Perhaps I am.” She folded the surplus linen and replaced it in her trunk. “I’m committed to my studies, and I’m not sure I ever want to be married at all. Not to the sort of man my mother would wish, anyhow. So yes, I’ve always been content to let Diana be the prettiest, the most elegant, the kindest. The best singer. She’s welcome to have all the suitors.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Except me.”
“You’re a special case.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You really shouldn’t.”
And he really shouldn’t look at her that way. So intensely. Searchingly.
“Why didn’t you marry long ago?” she blurted out. “If you don’t want to sleep alone, marriage would seem the logical solution. You’d have a wife beside you every night.”
He chuckled. “Do you know how many husbands and wives actually sleep in the same bed after the honeymoon?”
“Some marriages are affectionless arrangements, I’m sure. But more than a few are love matches. I can’t imagine you’d have trouble getting women to fall in love with you.”
“But if I married, I should have to keep a woman in love with me. Not just any woman, but one particular woman. For years. And what’s more, I should have to stay in love with her. If by chance I met the woman I wanted to try this with—and I haven’t yet, after years of sampling widely—how could I ever be certain of achieving that? You’re the scientist. You tell me. How can love be proved?”
Minerva shrugged. “I suppose it must be tested.”
“Well, there you have it. I always fail tests.”
She gave him a pitying look. “Yes, of course. We both know that’s why you never earned high marks in maths. It had nothing to do with a lack of effort. You simply couldn’t pass the tests.”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned back in his chair, propped his hands behind his head, and regarded her with an inscrutable expression. Whether his was a gaze of annoyance, admiration, appreciation, or anger, she could not have guessed.
With a sigh, she rose from the table. “We might as well sleep.”
The suite had two connecting bedchambers–to keep up appearances for the Fontleys. But they both knew they’d only use this one. She crossed the room and began unbuttoning her spencer. She felt his eyes on her as she shook the garment from her shoulders, pulled her arms free, and set it aside. Didn’t he have manners enough to look away? Her body warmed under his appraisal, growing light and hot as a cinder swirling through the smoky air.
She turned away from him and reached to loosen the hooks down the back of her gown.
“Allow me,” he said, suddenly behind her.
She froze for a moment, seized by the instinct to shrug away. But this dress had stubborn fastenings. She would appreciate a little help.
“Just the hooks,” she said.
“Of course.”
Brushing some loose strands of hair aside, he began at the base of her neck. He loosed the hooks slowly, one by one. She crossed her arms over her chest, holding the gown in place as her neckline began to gape.
“How did you know?” His voice was a gentle murmur, sliding over her neck.
“Know what?”
“ ‘Barbara Allen.’ How did you know it’s my favorite ballad?” The husky intimacy in his voice undid her.
“Isn’t it everyone’s favorite?”
His soft laugh in response was warm, authentic. “Did we just find something in common?”
“We have all kinds of things in common,” she said, feeling the familiar stupidity descend. Here it came, the inane babble. “We’re both humans. We both speak English. We both understand what a logarithm is. We both have brown hair, two eyes . . .”
“We both have skin.” His fingertips grazed her exposed shoulder, and sensation rippled down her arm. “We both have hands. And lips.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. She held her breath for a long moment, before realizing she’d braced herself for a kiss that wasn’t coming. She cursed him, cursed herself. She needed to put all thoughts of his kiss out of her mind. It was just—she couldn’t stop picturing the way he’d stared at her while she was singing downstairs. The way he’d moved toward her, scything his way through the crowd.
The way he’d laid that man flat, and bled for her.
She cleared her throat and stepped forward, still facing the wall. “Thank you for your assistance. Will you turn, please?”
“I’ve turned.” The floorboards gave a weary creak of confirmation.
Minerva swiveled her head, stealing a glance in the mirror to make sure. She almost wished she would find him stealing glances at her, too. But evidently he’d seen enough last night. He remained with his back to her as she drew her gown down over her hips and stepped out.