The Rise And Fall Of Reginald Everheart. Victoria Alexander

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      “Miss Middleworth.” Michael glanced at her and, without thinking, cast her an encouraging smile.

      Her eyes widened in surprise. Admittedly, he rarely offered her anything more than a polite, disinterested sort of smile—part of his ongoing effort to avoid entanglement as well as the odd way his heart thudded when her smile lit her blue eyes. She returned a grateful smile and continued on, Drummond a scant step behind. She certainly didn’t look like a woman about to tie herself to a man for the rest of her life. Perhaps she was already aware of what an utter fool Drummond was. If not, someone should say something to her before she committed herself to the pretentious ass for the rest of her days.

      Not that it mattered. Who she married or whether she married at all was none of Michael’s concern. Their fates were not even remotely connected. His was to seek knowledge and adventure in the unknown and follow in the footsteps of his uncle Henry. Hers was to marry well and be a credit to her family.

      “Do you ride, Mr. Shepard?”

      Michael jerked his attention to the unexpected female voice. “Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore.” He stood at once. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you were here today.”

      “I’ve been here for hours, Mr. Shepard. You were entirely too absorbed in your work to notice and I do try not to disturb anyone.” She smiled pleasantly. “I was just about to leave myself.”

      “It is growing late,” he said cautiously. “Why did you want to know if I rode?”

      “Oh, I was just curious.” She studied him for a moment. “You look like the kind of man who rides.”

      “Do I?”

      “Indeed.” She nodded. “I was just saying to Miss Middleworth what excellent physical exercise it is. Keeps a person fit and in top form, don’t you agree?”

      “Yes, I suppose it does.”

      “Did you know Miss Middleworth rides in the park every morning? I am thinking of joining her some morning but—” she sighed “—I find when one is past one’s prime, with every passing year simply mounting a horse becomes a more awkward endeavor.”

      “Nonsense, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore,” he said with a smile. “You don’t look anywhere near past your prime.”

      “How terribly gallant of you to say, Mr. Shepard. You shall quite turn my head with such compliments.” The older lady dimpled. “Well, I shall leave you to your work. Good day.” She nodded, turned and swept from the room.

      Michael retook his seat, the smile still on his face. Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore nearly always made a point of stopping for a word or two with him. She reminded him very much of his beloved aunt Grace. The older lady was quite kind, even if she struck him as a bit flighty, and she frequently mentioned Dulcie in passing. She also on occasion chatted about her husband, usually the latest news from his dispatches. Malcolm Fitzhew-Wellmore had a stellar reputation among members of the Explorers Club and frequently ventured into the unknown with the newly knighted Sir Charles Blodgett. Lady Blodgett was often in the library with Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and Mrs. Higginbotham, the wife of a military officer. Michael had the impression the three were quite good friends. They certainly seemed to cope well without the presence of their husbands. In that, in Michael’s experience, they were exceptionally rare.

      How would Dulcie fare in their place?

      He ignored the question. He would soon head toward adventure and she would probably wed Drummond, who would no doubt put an end to her work. Rather a shame given her talent, but that was the way of things. She would no longer be present in the library, indeed, in his world. His heart twisted at the thought of not seeing her every day, bent over her work, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Not hearing her laugh. Not savoring the faintest hint of her scent in the air. Never knowing the feel of her lips on his, save in his dreams late in the night. Although he feared that might well continue.

      In spite of the impracticality, pointlessness and sheer absurdity of it, it did appear Dulcie Middleworth had worked her way firmly into his affections.

      And even the jungles of the Amazon might not be far enough away to banish her from his heart.

       CHAPTER THREE

      “I BELIEVE DULCIE MIDDLEWORTH has feelings for Mr. Shepard,” Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore—Poppy to her friends—said and played a card. She hadn’t particularly liked whist, or card games of any type really, when she and her dear friends Mrs.—now Lady—Guinevere Blodgett and Mrs. Ophelia Higginbotham had begun playing together some twenty years ago. Nor had she been very good at it. Now, she had moments where she was quite a wicked sort of player, much to Gwen and Effie’s mixed dismay and amusement. “And I am fairly certain Mr. Shepard shares those feelings.”

      “I suppose that’s entirely possible.” Gwen studied her cards. “They’re together for hours every day in that library and quite frequently alone.”

      “Oh, I don’t think anything untoward has gone on,” Poppy said quickly. “Not any sort of impropriety that is.”

      “The parties involved usually don’t announce their improper activities.” Effie played a card. “People tend to be discreet when having a liaison in a library.”

      “I doubt there’s anything even approaching a liaison. Why, they scarcely even talk. At least not to each other.” Poppy thought for a moment. “It’s extremely odd given they have been in that room nearly every day since he began frequenting the library some months ago but they do look at one another all the time.”

      “Well, if they look at one another there must be something going on.” Gwen played her card with a flourish, grinned and took the trick. “Three more tricks and I win this hand.”

      Poppy ignored her. “I know you think I’m being silly but I’m quite observant when it comes to this sort of thing.” She set her jaw firmly. “And I know what I’ve seen.”

      “You did say they look at each other,” Effie murmured, her attention more on the cards Gwen was dealing than on Poppy’s comments, as if she could somehow influence them by mere force of thought alone.

      “It’s not merely looking. That would indeed be silly.” Poppy drew her brows together. There was nothing more frustrating than trying to explain, even to her dearest friends, how something that had started as nothing more than a feeling had—through ardent observation and a very keen eye—become a conviction. “I first noticed when I would stop to chat with her and admire her work—she’s very good you know. I do think she could become quite successful. And there are a fair number of lady illustrators these days—”

      “All painting overly sweet pictures of children or flowers,” Effie pointed out.

      “There’s nothing wrong with children or flowers.” Gwen leveled Effie a chastising look. Effie did tend to be rather curt when she played cards. Gwen nodded at Poppy. “Do go on, dear. You were telling us about why you think Miss Middleworth has feelings for Mr. Shepard.”

      “Although I daresay I wouldn’t blame her.” Effie chuckled. “Nor would I mind spending my days alone in a library with him.”

      Gwen grinned. “He is quite dashing, isn’t he?”

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