When was the last time she’d been so aware of another person? She couldn’t recall it and that made her feel terrible. It should have been Stuart, shouldn’t it? She should have been able to recall feeling this thrill for the man she’d married, loved, genuinely missed.
“Are you a fan of museums in general?” Roarke asked, and she shook away the darker thoughts. Gracious, she was not going to be much of a pleasant companion if she was so serious and dour and lost in tangled emotions.
“Er, yes,” she stammered. “I’m a great fan of art and attend any exhibit I can. I’m also a member of Lady Lena’s Salon, so I enjoy the readings and lectures there, as well.”
Roarke’s eyebrows lifted with interest and she blushed. She hadn’t been trying to brag, but Lady Lena’s was a sought-after membership and a lovely escape for those who belonged.
“I’ve heard a great deal about the salon,” he said. “Is it as wonderful as everyone implies?”
“Even more wonderful,” she said with a smile. “Over the summer they did a lecture series about new discoveries in the field of amphibians. We had a spirited discussion about the recent population reduction of native tree frogs here in England.”
He tilted his head and she stopped talking. Did he find this boring? Stuart certainly had, though he’d indulged her. Was she being silly in being enthralled about such things? She knew not everyone was enraptured by knowledge.
But then Roarke leaned closer. “The species is under threat?”
He seemed genuinely engaged and her heart fluttered. “Potentially,” she said. “And the researcher showed us drawings and talked about their habitats. I’ve never been so interested in frogs in my life.”
He smiled then and she caught her breath. Goodness but he was handsome. Why did he have to be so handsome? “Magnificent,” he said, and he could have been describing himself.
She thought of what Bernadette had said to her earlier in the day. That she was allowed to think him handsome, to like spending time with him, whether it led to anything or not. That she was free and shouldn’t tie herself in knots about whatever thrill of attraction Roarke inspired.
She shifted. “You know, salon members are allowed to bring a guest to any lecture. I normally take Bernadette when the subject interests her, but she mostly comes to the author readings.”
“Not a tree frog person?”
She laughed. “I think Bernadette would be snoring in three minutes if I tried to talk to her about tree frogs. Her eyes would glaze right over.” Flora shook her head. “She’s brilliant about music or books, but I don’t even think she likes frogs.”
“Capital offense,” Roarke laughed.
“Yes. Clap her in leg irons!” She swallowed hard. “If-if you’d like to join me at the salon some time, I’d be happy to be your hostess.”
There was a flicker of something that came over his expression. Something like longing, only it was gone so quickly she had to think she imagined it. His smile became more false as he nodded. “If we are both in Town at the same time, that would be a very kind offer.”
Her brow wrinkled. Somehow she had expected a more enthusiastic response after his questioning and gentle teasing. Lord, but this was difficult. She’d never had to read a man before, judge his interest. It was unendingly frustrating.
The carriage made a wide turn and she pushed back the curtain. “We’re arriving,” she said, happy to change the subject.
Soon they would have art to discuss and hopefully she wouldn’t make an awkward mess of herself while they did so. Hopefully.
Roarke had hoped that when he and Flora were walking the halls of the museum, staring at portraits together, that he would be less taken by her. After all, they would have more space between them than they’d shared in the carriage. But now they had been roaming the halls for twenty minutes, looking at the portraits collected for the Ezra Pembroke exhibit, and he found himself even more aware of her.
They felt more alone together, for one thing. The museum was not busy on this day and her lady’s maid had stepped away, no longer right between them. Taking in art felt more intimate than he’d expected. He could hear Flora’s intake of breath whenever she looked at a piece that moved her. See the intensity of her stare when she leaned closer to look at a particular brush stroke.
He cleared his throat. “What do you think of his work, Your Grace?”
She pivoted toward him. “It’s everything I’ve heard and more,” she gushed, her hands lifting to her heart. She looked just as enraptured as she had when she talked about nature in the carriage, and he was just as taken by her enthusiasm.
“Not only is he a talented artist who can capture the true look of a subject—some of them almost look alive, like I could have a conversation with the piece as easily as the person—but there is emotion there,” she continued. “Sometimes that’s missing in these types of work.”
“I tend to agree. It’s what sets Pembroke aside. Like this one.” He pointed toward a portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Abernathe, a golden couple of the day. Together they moved to it.
Flora let out a sigh. “It really does look like her.”
“You know her?” Roarke asked.
“Just a little,” Flora said. “She’s very kind, and that kindness is reflected in her expression here. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
He nodded, looking at the composition of the piece. The lady was seated, cat winding around her feet. Her husband stood slightly behind her, his hand on her shoulder. A pose like a dozen others, but for the details Pembroke had added.
“Look at how his fingers are slightly curled in the areas where they touch her skin,” Roarke said softly. “And how he’s turned a little toward her.”
Flora’s breath was short. “And she’s looking up at him, isn’t she? Her expression has a…a…”
“Heat,” he said. “There is a heat to it. And one grounded in reality, if the stories of the great love match of the Abernathes are to be believed.”
“It is.” There was a wistfulness to her voice when she said it. “No one who met them could deny it. It’s a wonderful portrait. So special, I’m glad they agreed to let it be displayed for this exhibit.”
They stood together in front of the portrait for a moment longer and then Roarke cleared his throat. The room felt a little warm now. His clothes a bit too tight all of a sudden. He was about to move on to one of the singular subjects for a bit of a break from the intimacy of what he and Flora had discussed, but she said something that stopped him short.
“I wonder if the same comes through in his…his other work.”
She said it so softly he might not have heard it if he were a foot further way. But he wasn’t and every word hit him in the gut. A little lower than the gut.
“His other work,” he repeated slowly. “Yes, you said something about his public pieces a few days ago, as well. What do you know about Pembroke’s other work, Flora?”
She glanced up at him, blue eyes holding his, pupils dilated with…oh, he recognized that flare of desire. It called to his own wildly inappropriate draw to her. He didn’t want to take advantage. And yet she made it very difficult not to…to touch her. To pull his glove off, finger by finger, and drag those same digits down her bare arm until she sighed. Until she melted.