Page 62 of A Dangerous Kind of Lady

“What about Miss Treadgold?”

“You appeared to be courting her.”

“When our engagement is over, I shall choose a bride.”

“Someone sweet and amiable. Of course,” she murmured, and busied herself with moving the peacock. A pride of peacocks.

“What are these drawings for?” he asked.

“The Illustrated Guide to the Vindale Aviaries,a book I am making. This is to decide the final page order.”

He picked up a drawing: a heron. A siege of herons. “These illustrations are excellent. There is joy in every line of these birds. You count writing and drawing among your talents too?”

“Good grief, no. My talent is for issuing orders; other people do the actual work. Juno Bell drew the illustrations, and Livia Bell wrote the text.”

“How do you make these into a book?”

He put down the heron—crookedly!—and picked up a page of writing. Arabella took her time straightening the heron illustration while she tried to form a reply. The world had gone mad: She and Guy were making harmless, civilized small talk. They should be fighting. If they were not fighting, then they were…what?

“I send the pages with my instructions to a publisher in London, who organizes the engraver and colorist for the illustrations, and sets the type. When the galley-proofs are ready, I check them, and when I am satisfied, they print and bind them. This will be my first attempt at full color, because of the cost.”

“But you’ve made books before.”

“I began by creating an ornithology journal based on Papa’s conventions.”

He replaced the page of writing and scowled at the table. She scowled too, as she straightened the page.

“You makebooks,” he said.

“I do have some respectable interests. It cannot be all skulduggery, you know.”

He nudged the corner of another page. Apparently, he did not evencarethat he had made it crooked. She straightened it irritably.

“Do you even like birds?” he asked.

“I don’t dislike birds.” She considered his question.Didshe like birds? “I like the way the hawk circles and dives, all that speed and precision. I like how magpies use tools, and how crows recognize faces, and how blue tits chatter at each other like friends. I like that so many birds mate for life and that when they migrate, they know unerringly where and when to fly.”

He said nothing, but regarded her as though she herself were a new species of bird.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I found that charming. I am not accustomed to thinking of you as charming.”

“Indeed. You made your opinion of me very clear last night.”

“Ah. Those words were unkind and uncalled for. I apologize. I hurt your feelings.”

“Don’t be absurd. I have no feelings. My enormous pride swallowed them up years ago.”

Still smiling, his eyes searched her face, and clearly she had become bird-brained, because she thought she read in them some tenderness, even affection, and that could not be right.

Then he propped himself against the table, legs outstretched, losing enough height to bring their faces level. He was so close that her skin anticipated his touch.

The door opened. Mama came in and joined a trio of ladies. From a distance came music: Someone in the drawing room played the pianoforte.

“You ought not stand so close,” she said. “People will think we’re…”

“In love?” he finished easily.

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