studying the patterns of the cinnamon marks on his face. She wanted to memorize each and every one of them, starting with the sweetest of them all, the one on his earlobe. With a blissful sigh, she closed her eyes.
In the next moment, a sharp knock at the door interrupted her reverie. “Will you come downstairs?” Slightly muffled, Isabella’s voice reached her through the door. “The carriage is already waiting.”
“Oh.” Amy’s eyes snapped open. “Oh!” All at once, her heart thudded in her chest; her cheeks heated. Soon, soon she would… She snatched her gloves from the table and hurried out of the room. Wriggling her fingers into them, she followed Isabella downstairs. And there, there he was.
Her breath caught. At the small sound, he looked up and their gazes locked. Surely she must have flown down the remaining steps, for the next moment she was at his side, gazing up at him.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. “Miss Bourne.” He inclined his head.
“Mr. Stapleton.” Breathless, she curtsied.
“So very lovely to see you again,” he murmured, his voice softer than velvet.
Amy felt her cheeks flame with mingled pleasure and shyness, and lowered her gaze. “And you,” she breathed. It seemed to her they were enveloped by a rosy glow, sealing them together, making their hearts beat as one, and—
“Surely we must be on our way.” Isabella’s sharp voice dimmed the glow considerably. “I don’t suppose they will wait for us at the museum.”
Amy sighed. When she looked up, she caught Stapleton’s rueful expression. Wordless, but with a small smile hovering around his lips, he took her hand and placed it on his arm to escort her out into the street.
Soon they were all bundled into Lord Munthorpe’s landau, its hood pulled down so they could bask in the rays of the golden October sun. The sun sparkled on the windows of the houses they passed and made the trees in the squares and parks glitter like flitter-gold. They joined the flow of carriages in Oxford Street, most of them no doubt traveling toward Hyde Park. Lord Munthorpe’s landau, however, turned east toward Tottenham Court Road. They passed the old School of Arms and the once-proud Pantheon, now deserted and stripped of its fittings. On they drove, past the boundary stone and into Bloomsbury.
It was not too long before Lord Munthorpe, sounding extraordinarily pleased with himself, said, “Here we are,” just as the landau rumbled through an open gate into a wide forecourt, where a few other carriages had already been parked.
The landau halted in front of the stairs leading up to the entrance of the museum. Munthorpe opened the door, stepped out, and turned to help Isabella and Amy down. Mr. Stapleton was the last to alight from the carriage. The sunlight made his hair glint like molten copper—a sight that distracted Amy from admiring the stately building. She just couldn’t help smiling at him. Oh, he was so dear to her!
His lips curving, he came and offered her his arm. Amy slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and shivered a little when her arm brushed his side. “What a beautiful house,” she said quickly.
“Oh yes, enormous, isn’t it?” Stapleton cast a look around the forecourt before he looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Just as enormous as the debts Montagu incurred when he had it rebuilt after a fire. How desperate must a man be to marry a madwoman?”
“A madwoman?” Amy held her breath, enchanted as always with his stories.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and she wished she could reach up and put her finger there. Or even her lips. A blush warmed her face. She was turning into a terrible wanton.
“He had to pretend to be the Emperor of China before she would agree to marry him. It’s said the servants had to serve her on bended knees.”
“Really?” Amy imagined a stately matron adorned with fantastical dresses—for surely the Empress of China had to wear fantastical
In the next moment, a sharp knock at the door interrupted her reverie. “Will you come downstairs?” Slightly muffled, Isabella’s voice reached her through the door. “The carriage is already waiting.”
“Oh.” Amy’s eyes snapped open. “Oh!” All at once, her heart thudded in her chest; her cheeks heated. Soon, soon she would… She snatched her gloves from the table and hurried out of the room. Wriggling her fingers into them, she followed Isabella downstairs. And there, there he was.
Her breath caught. At the small sound, he looked up and their gazes locked. Surely she must have flown down the remaining steps, for the next moment she was at his side, gazing up at him.
The corners of his eyes crinkled with a smile. “Miss Bourne.” He inclined his head.
“Mr. Stapleton.” Breathless, she curtsied.
“So very lovely to see you again,” he murmured, his voice softer than velvet.
Amy felt her cheeks flame with mingled pleasure and shyness, and lowered her gaze. “And you,” she breathed. It seemed to her they were enveloped by a rosy glow, sealing them together, making their hearts beat as one, and—
“Surely we must be on our way.” Isabella’s sharp voice dimmed the glow considerably. “I don’t suppose they will wait for us at the museum.”
Amy sighed. When she looked up, she caught Stapleton’s rueful expression. Wordless, but with a small smile hovering around his lips, he took her hand and placed it on his arm to escort her out into the street.
Soon they were all bundled into Lord Munthorpe’s landau, its hood pulled down so they could bask in the rays of the golden October sun. The sun sparkled on the windows of the houses they passed and made the trees in the squares and parks glitter like flitter-gold. They joined the flow of carriages in Oxford Street, most of them no doubt traveling toward Hyde Park. Lord Munthorpe’s landau, however, turned east toward Tottenham Court Road. They passed the old School of Arms and the once-proud Pantheon, now deserted and stripped of its fittings. On they drove, past the boundary stone and into Bloomsbury.
It was not too long before Lord Munthorpe, sounding extraordinarily pleased with himself, said, “Here we are,” just as the landau rumbled through an open gate into a wide forecourt, where a few other carriages had already been parked.
The landau halted in front of the stairs leading up to the entrance of the museum. Munthorpe opened the door, stepped out, and turned to help Isabella and Amy down. Mr. Stapleton was the last to alight from the carriage. The sunlight made his hair glint like molten copper—a sight that distracted Amy from admiring the stately building. She just couldn’t help smiling at him. Oh, he was so dear to her!
His lips curving, he came and offered her his arm. Amy slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and shivered a little when her arm brushed his side. “What a beautiful house,” she said quickly.
“Oh yes, enormous, isn’t it?” Stapleton cast a look around the forecourt before he looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Just as enormous as the debts Montagu incurred when he had it rebuilt after a fire. How desperate must a man be to marry a madwoman?”
“A madwoman?” Amy held her breath, enchanted as always with his stories.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, and she wished she could reach up and put her finger there. Or even her lips. A blush warmed her face. She was turning into a terrible wanton.
“He had to pretend to be the Emperor of China before she would agree to marry him. It’s said the servants had to serve her on bended knees.”
“Really?” Amy imagined a stately matron adorned with fantastical dresses—for surely the Empress of China had to wear fantastical
Similar Books
