He didn’t feel wicked. “Oh, no,” he said, lowering one eyelid in a lazy wink. “The papers don’t know the half of it.”
“If you’re that bad, then I mustn’t introduce you to my charge.”
In direct contradiction to these brave words, Mrs. Barnstable turned around. She took Miss Sweetly by the elbow, drawing her into the room. “Miss Sweetly, look who it is! It’s Stephen Shaughnessy—and I know how you delight in his column.”
That was not a proper introduction. It wasn’t even an improper introduction. It left Miss Sweetly at a horrendous disadvantage, after all, putting her directly into the class of enthusiasts like Mrs. Barnstable.
Miss Sweetly was many things, but effusive she was not. She dropped him a little curtsey. “I do read your column, Mr. Shaughnessy.” Her voice was quiet and subdued in comparison with Mrs. Barnstable’s.
When she looked up at him, though, she seemed anything but subdued. Her dark hair, just a little frizzy, had been tamed and wrestled into a bun. She wore a demure gown—not one of the fashionable creations that a lady might wear, but a sensible, high-necked muslin, a thing of long sleeves and buttons that his fingers itched to undo. The fabric hinted at curves of breast and hip; her bustle, less pronounced, could not quite hide her figure.
Her eyes were dark and still, and he felt as if he’d been struck over the head—as if he were looking up into a night sky, bright with stars.
He gave her a little bow. “Miss Sweetly.”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Barnstable said, shaking her head as if she had just now remembered her duty. “Mr. Shaughnessy, this is Miss Rose Sweetly, Dr. Barnstable’s computer. She is very young, although I suppose to a thing like you, she’d not seem so. But she’s ever so clever.”
“I’m always happy to meet clever young ladies,” Stephen said. “They’re my second favorite kind.”
Miss Sweetly grimaced at this in embarrassment and lifted a hand to adjust her spectacles.
She had no idea what that simple motion did to Stephen. It made him want to do the same himself—to run his fingers up the line of her nose, slowly tracing that elegant curve. To hook his finger under the bridge of her glasses and slide them down her face, and then…
But Miss Sweetly did not ask about his favorite kind of young lady, and the answer that he’d come up with to that obvious question went to waste. Over the months of their acquaintance, she’d always forced him to deviate from his usual responses. When he was around her, he had to think, to pay attention—because she never said what he expected.
She did not mention that she knew him. She did not, in fact, say anything at all. She simply looked over Mrs. Barnstable’s shoulder, out the window, as if she had more important things than Stephen Shaughnessy on her mind.
It had always been like that with her. The first day he’d met her, he had run into her on the street—quite literally, as they had both been distracted, and neither of them had been watching where they were going. He’d asked what had her so deep in thought, and she had told him.
It had been the most intense experience of his life, seeing her transform from a shy, nervous miss into a magician who intended to coax secrets from the sky. He’d never found mathematics erotic before that day, but watching her lips form the words “parabola” and “Newtonian step” had been utterly riveting. He had been riveted ever since.
“Mr. Shaughnessy wants someone to show him around a slide rule,” Mrs. Barnstable was saying to Rose. “And teach him a few tricks. It’s for his next book. And he’s even offered to pay—what was that again, Mr. Shaughnessy? Three shillings per lesson? Is that what you said? Isn’t that generous!”
He hadn’t said anything of the sort, but he had to smile at the effrontery of the woman. Three shillings per lesson was downright exorbitant.
“Of course,” Mrs. Barnstable said, “most of that fee will go to you, Miss Sweetly, but as I will have to chaperone, I’ll expect sixpence per lesson, and another sixpence for my help in the negotiations.”
No, Mrs. Barnstable was not the fluttery mother hen she made herself out to be. But right now, it was not Mrs. Barnstable’s approval or her heart, mercenary though it might be, that he cared about. It was Miss Sweetly’s.
“Are you going to do the Actual Man thing to me, too?” she asked, not looking up at him.
“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “You sound apprehensive about it, and I try to do that only where it’s appreciated.”
She sniffed.
“Don’t look so disbelieving, Miss Sweetly. I’m a simple man. I like being appreciated.”
“At three shillings a lesson,” Mrs. Barnstable put in, “you could appreciate him a little.”
Miss Sweetly shut her eyes.