“Well, that’s terribly vague.”
She thought for a moment. “I wish I could go to school, find some reason for existence beyond being a wife and mother.”
His brows furrowed. “There is more to a woman’s life than being a wife and mother?”
She threw a pillow at him and he laughed as he dodged the assault. “You know what I mean,” she said with a scowl.
“So, if you could have something else, what would it be?”
Eleanor smiled as warmth bloomed in her chest. “When I was a girl, my mother took me to the British Museum to see the Elgin Marbles. I was astounded, not just by the artwork, but by the docents themselves. Their ability to tell stories and make the art come alive. That’s what I would do.”
“Be an ancient Greek statue?”
“No, be serious!” He smiled, and a shot of warmth having nothing to do with the brandy spread through her chest. “I want to know the stories, share them with others. Transfer knowledge from one generation to the next.”
“Then why aren’t you doing that?”
She scoffed. “I am trying to. You should see my bedroom—” He opened his eyes comically wide. “Not likethat, you goose. I mean, it’s stuffed with art history books, every period you could think of, and every artist you could name. But after a while, there is only so much a book can give you.”
He leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist. “So you want to study art history formally? Like in a university?”
She nodded; it wasn’t the first time she allowed this dream to marinate in her mind. While girls had studied arts and classics at Oxford University for nearly a decade, her father found it gauche, a waste of time for a lady of her caliber. Why make her less appealing to suitors by showing her to besmart?
“Why don’t you, then? Attend Oxford?” He gave her a wry smile. “If I can do it, surely anyone can.”
“Perhaps, in time,” she said, her tone non-committal. She wasn’t ready to admit her fears to him, the possibility she was not smart enough, or strong enough, to survive outside the nursery and guidance of her governess. That her father’s warnings about being a bluestocking would be true, and men would shun her even more than they did now. “For now, reading and visiting museums will have to suffice.”
Silence fell between them as they watched the fire scatter embers in the grate. “What do you think would happen if someone were to find us… together like this?” Eleanor asked.
“Well,” Henry replied after a pause. “SinceI’mhere, I would think one would assume something untoward was taking place.”
Heat rushed through her veins and settled low in her stomach. She shifted in her seat. “But… it isn’t,” she said cautiously.
His eyes were serious; leaning back in his leather chair with a brandy in hand, Henry looked like a dark prince, a dashing rogue sent to drag innocents to their doom. His gaze carried heat, and her body burned under it. She suddenly felt preposterously dowdy and out of place in his presence and broke their eye contact.
Henry cleared his throat and shifted. “It isn’t. We’re merely chatting.”
“As friends,” Eleanor suggested.
He hesitated. “Friends.”
Silence stretched. “Middle name,” he said.
She turned. “Pardon?”
“What’s your middle name?”
She let out a laugh. “Guinevere.”
“Ouch.” He chuckled.
“I’m assuming yours is something dull, like James or Mark or some other apostle.”
He leaned back again and fixed her with his chocolate stare. Lifting his glass in a mock salute, he spoke, drawing out each syllable. “Galahad.”
Eleanor nearly fell from her seat as peals of laughter overcame her.
“It’s true. My mother had high hopes for my chivalrous behavior. I’m sorry to say she has been gravely disappointed.”
