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Henry shut the desk drawer and leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers over the arms. “Working late, the pencil markings on menus circling only one dish, nothing personal jotted on his calendar. When you put it all together, the picture that’s painted is . . . loneliness.”
That insight cleaved through Cameron’s momentary peace. He’d brought it upon himself, though. “A single, gay, lonely, avid Austen reader?”
Henry tapped atop The Mysterious Affair at Styles. “He loves adventure, or wishes for more of it. Open to new experiences.”
A sickening mix of loneliness and hope ached in Cameron’s chest.
Henry swiveled toward the bookshelf and dragged his fingers over the spines until they hit Cameron’s moleskin journal. He froze as Henry lingered on it. “Sentimental.”
Cameron let out a shuddering breath. Thank God he hadn’t pulled it out—or read it.
Loud laughter rang from outside, and Henry abandoned his position behind the desk, meeting Cameron in the middle of the room. They peered out the window and down the balcony toward . . . Knightly and Lake, helping themselves to an upstairs tour. Hands greedily exploring one another, lips locked.
For all Henry knew, Knightly or Lake—probably Knight, being older—was a likely candidate for executive producer.
Cameron wanted to snag Henry’s gaze and confess he was Cameron Morland. He wanted the pleasure of the man’s shocked expression, the stuttered apology.
But if he held back a while longer, he could indulge more in . . . this.
It wasn’t every day Cameron was accosted by such a confident—if not traditionally handsome, uniquely attractive—man.
The playfulness thrilled him.
He jerked a finger in Knightly’s direction. “What if that’s Cameron Morland?” He met Henry’s intelligent and lively eye. “What if he finds us and tosses us out?”
Henry pressed his lips together and hummed. “I found the knowledge I was seeking, but a disgraceful exit would ruin any chance of formally meeting this fascinating man.”
Cameron blinked rapidly. Fascinating?
He leaned in conspiratorially, catching Henry’s soft, papery scent. He neared Henry’s cheek, so his words were mostly delivered to a generous Adam’s apple. “What’s the plan?”
“Maybe we’ll be forgiven for sneaking into the boss’ office if we act drunk?”
“Would that make the best first impression?”
Henry nodded earnestly. “You make an excellent point.”
His lips tipped into a cunning smile. He faced Cameron and gave a shallow bow. “May I have the pleasure of a waltz?”
“A waltz?” Cameron was either dreaming, or living in another dimension.
“I confess, I’m ill-practiced at regency-style dance. The waltz is all I know.”
Cameron adjusted the frames on his nose and Henry waited patiently. “You think—what? He’ll assume we snuck into his office for a private dance?”
“Maybe he’ll even like what he sees.”
Henry held up a hand, and oh God, Cameron was clasping it. “You know, the waltz was considered quite scandalous during the regency period,” Cameron said.
Henry’s other hand warmly braced his waist under the cut-away coat and drew him close. A thousand shivers shocked his system. He followed Henry’s competent lead, breaths bouncing off the man’s chest.
One-two-three. One-two-three. Henry danced to the beat rising from the party downstairs, their rhythm making the piano music seem louder.
“Scandalous?” Henry’s words fanned over Cameron’s hair. “Because of how intimate it is?”
How very intimate it was. Henry’s shoulder muscles shifted under his palm; his grip was firm, steady, wonderfully warm. “It was associated with the bourgeoisie. A symbol of the emergence of ‘dangerous’ democracy.”
“‘Dangerous’ has never been so right.”
For a moment, Cameron thought he meant their dance. But he meant democracy, of course.
Henry glanced out the window, presumably toward Lake and Knight. They were taking their sweet time. Hopefully they could take a little longer . . .
“What will you do when you meet Mr. Morland?”
One-two-three. “I like what I know of the man. I’d love to strike up a conversation with him.”
He arched his brow. “How would that conversation go?”
Henry weighed his response as they danced toward the dark couch, the shiny frames, the traitorously revealing desk. “I’d ask him why he chose to open a studio in this old distillery. What his story is. How he likes his coffee.” He gazed into Cameron’s eyes and lowered his voice. “Why he chooses to play along with this gate-crashing, snooping English teacher.”
Cameron stumbled, and Henry tightened his hold, preventing an embarrassing tumble to the floor. A laugh-groan bubbled out of him.
He was disappointed, and yet . . . not? “When did you figure it out?”
“Your Ray-Ban glasses case in your desk drawer.”
“A while ago then.”
Cameron expected Henry to let him go and stop the charade, but Henry continued their waltz. “When you’re ready, I’ll begin with my questions.”
“Pretty sure the answers will bore you.”
“I doubt it.” Henry smiled and affected a bantering tone. “Why did you choose to open your studios in this old distillery?”
“The terms of the lease are in our favor. The property belongs to a friend.”
