Page 43 of Aurelia

Yes, Roland knew he should. It was unwise to be alone in a room with Miss Burton at any time, but especially in the middle of the night, when the boundary between propriety and indiscretion was tissue thin.

Even though he knew what he should do, there he sat, suddenly wide awake and shockingly tumescent while Miss Burton appeared to be insultingly unaware of him and engaged in her work.

Roland was amused by his own frustrated desire. When had he last needed to curb his appetites? Long ago. Perhaps even as far back as his first London Season—a vapid, tedious waste of his time that he had agreed upon to please his father. The bargain had been simple: for each dreadful Season that Roland agreed to endure, his father would fund an expedition. Nothing so interesting as Africa or the Americas, but the earl had paid for Roland’s nine-month stay in Greece and then an eight-month excursion to Ireland.

After Roland had accumulated enough information to compile his first book—which had sold more than eight hundred copies, enough to cover production and fund his next expedition—his time in the Great Marriage Mart had been over, much to his father’s displeasure.

As long ago as it had been, Roland could still recall the look-but-don’t-touch frustration he had felt at ton functions. At every ball and Venetian breakfast, there had been dozens of beautiful young women clothed in gowns designed to whet a man’s appetite. And the most an admirer could hope for was the touch of a woman’s hand with two pairs of gloves separating flesh.

Roland was feeling a similar frustration right now as he stared at Miss Burton’s ridiculously ugly mobcap and the glimpses of rich brown hair that peeked out from beneath it. It was like seeing an Old Master painting that had been clouded by time and destroyed by milky bloom. Why in God’s name did women wear such appalling garments?

Her gaze suddenly lifted to his. She was lost in thought but her rich hazel eyes rapidly sharpened when she caught him staring.

She stole a glance at his false orb and then quickly looked back.

“No, it is not real,” he said, amused when her cheeks flared to life.

Her expression was one of mortification and Roland suspected that she was not accustomed to being discountenanced. It was unfortunate for her that he enjoyed how lively and full of passion she became when her rigid composure slipped.

“You needn’t feel embarrassed for looking, Miss Burton. Nor for asking questions. Curiosity is a sign of a healthy mind.”

“It also killed the cat.”

He laughed. “Ah, but we are not talking about a pussy, are we?”

The slight notch that formed between her eyes told him that she did not understand the double entendre. Roland really was a bastard.

She set down her quill and pulled her ugly shawl tighter, as if girding herself. “It is very lifelike.”

“Except for the fact that it does not move.”

“Oh,” she said, her brows knitting. “Of course that would be the case. Is it ceramic?”

“Glass. A man in Venice makes them for me. I have several, and they are made specifically for my eye socket.”

“Why do you cover it with the patch?”

“I have discovered that people are even more discomposed by an unmoving eye than the black patch.”

“Then why—” she broke off. “I’m sorry, I should not be asking these questions.”

“Why not?”

“Well… it is a sensitive topic.”

“Not to me. It is true,” he said when her expression turned skeptical. “I deeply regret the loss of function, of course, but I don’t worry about my scars. To answer your question, I wear the eye to protect the socket. Without support and structure, the bone would eventually sag and become distorted and that would cause other problems.”

“I hadn’t considered that.” She hesitated and then asked the question he expected her to ask. “Will you tell me how it happened—if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind. Unfortunately, I do not recall a great deal of what occurred that night.” He gestured to the left side of his face. “The first strike from the panther knocked me to the ground and I hit my head on a rock. I was unconscious when the beast clawed my arm, so I thankfully recall none of that. The last thing I do remember clearly before being attacked was lifting the flap to my wife’s tent and seeing the creature on top of her.” Roland omitted the part about the bare arse of the man who’d been fucking Jane at the time, his body between the big cat and Roland’s wife.

“I had grabbed my gun when I heard the screams coming from her tent. But when I pulled the trigger, it did not fire.” That fact more than almost anything else except Jane’s death, haunted him. Roland never left his gun unloaded on an expedition unless he was cleaning it. He’d gone over it and over it and still could not understand why that night he had forgotten to load it that night. He shook the thought from his head.

He saw she was waiting and continued, “The panther left off its attack of my wife when it noticed me. I took a swing at it with my gun, but it was far more dexterous with its paws. One of the bearers shot the animal while it was mauling me on the ground. The kill was messy and the animal was badly damaged, but then you’ve seen the creature. It was fortunate Arthur was there and did what he could to preserve the hide.”

She suddenly smiled and the expression made her so beautiful that Roland felt as if he’d just been kicked in the chest. “You are a naturalist even in the face of death.”

He smiled. “Yes, I suppose so.”