“Indeed,” he murmured, clearing his throat yet again as the woman studied his face. “I mean. Yes, quite so,” he agreed quickly.
“Good,” she said, her voice and smile bright yet again. “I’m glad we understand each other.” She raised a single finger. “Now, I know my family wants to be cautious these few weeks before it is announced—”
“And before the agreements are negotiated and signed,” he reminded her.
“That as well. But I couldn’t resist seeing you while I was here,” Miss Teres told him, confirming his initial suspicions. “Reminding us both what our mutual, brilliant future holds.”
“I’m excited for the same,” he assured her, pressing a hand to his most certainly upset stomach.
Hopefully, he was not becoming like one of those old men who picked and poked at anything with bolder flavors.
Though it would probably assist his enjoyment at certain dinner parties.
“As am I,” Miss Teres assured him, breaking his thoughts, her expression once again earnest. “I shall be counting down the days until then,” she told him, her voice and eyes softening. She tilted up her chin, almost as if she expected him to kiss her.
Inappropriate at this juncture, but not unheard of.
Furthermore, the woman was well-mannered, clever, and objectively beautiful. Not to mention, in a few weeks she’d be his wife. Thus, he should want to kiss her, posthaste. What was the matter with him?
“Oh good, my muff,” she cried, saving him from his own inaction, her gaze fixed on a spot above his head.
Roger whirled around to find Marguarite trotting down the stairs toward them, holding the named object, her expression formal and appropriate, even as her eye twitched between the two.
“Thank you so much,” Miss Teres said, accepting the item from his housekeeper, who stepped backward to stand behind him, now watching the scene.
Probably ending it.
He should not be so relieved by that. Especially as, sooner rather than later, Miss Teres would not be exiting at all.
“I must be going now,” his soon-to-be-betrothed said after a beat.
“Good evening, Miss Teres,” Marguarite said from behind him.
“Yes, good evening,” Roger said. “I’m so grateful that we were able to spend a moment conversing.”
“Leone,” Miss Teres insisted, firmly meeting his gaze.
Roger swallowed. “Leone,” he repeated.
The woman smiled once more. “You say that well,” she told him, dipping into another graceful curtsy.
Marguarite coughed.
Miss Teres paused and gazed up at her. “Oh, you poor dear,” she said to the housekeeper. “You should rest. I’ve heard, without proper treatment, winter coughs can be quite debilitating.” She turned back to Roger, still smiling. “Good evening, Roger.”
Without another word, she slipped on her muff and exited, leaving him staring after.
Carrying an old copy of Spinoza in Latin, the best thing in his library to help him sleep after Miss Teres’s surprise visit, Roger padded through the hall toward the staircase to finally retire for the night. However, as he approached, a loud series of thuds shook not merely the banister but the ground beneath his feet. He hurried to the landing, only to find Miss Adler—gown slightly mussed, red waves coming loose, sweat dripping from her flushed skin—attempting to drag the large trunk that had been rescued from her home down the entire staircase, using merely her good arm.
Abimerai, abimeras, abimera, abimerons, abimerez, abimeront.
“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level amid the dozen or so scenarios flitting through his mind in which she, his home, or both would be irrevocably harmed by the action.
A poetic bit of revenge.
Even if it wouldn’t help her in the slightest.
“I was called upon to render a tincture this evening and thought, as I was fully awake, I might as well finish furnishing my workspace,” she told him between pants shoving at the container with her knee against the flat surface toward the next series of stairs. “If you wouldn’t mind?” Annoyance dripped from her tone. She attempted to, rather comically, brush past him but failed, the trunk barely budging.
