His soft laugh in response was warm, authentic. “Did we just find something in common?”
“We have all kinds of things in common,” she said, feeling the familiar stupidity descend. Here it came, the inane babble. “We’re both humans. We both speak English. We both understand what a logarithm is. We both have brown hair, two eyes . . .”
“We both have skin.” His fingertips grazed her exposed shoulder, and sensation rippled down her arm. “We both have hands. And lips.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. She held her breath for a long moment, before realizing she’d braced herself for a kiss that wasn’t coming. She cursed him, cursed herself. She needed to put all thoughts of his kiss out of her mind. It was just—she couldn’t stop picturing the way he’d stared at her while she was singing downstairs. The way he’d moved toward her, scything his way through the crowd.
The way he’d laid that man flat, and bled for her.
She cleared her throat and stepped forward, still facing the wall. “Thank you for your assistance. Will you turn, please?”
“I’ve turned.” The floorboards gave a weary creak of confirmation.
Minerva swiveled her head, stealing a glance in the mirror to make sure. She almost wished she would find him stealing glances at her, too. But evidently he’d seen enough last night. He remained with his back to her as she drew her gown down over her hips and stepped out.
Once she’d stripped down to her shift, she dove under the bed linens and turned her face to the wall. “It’s safe now.”
“Safe.” He made a wry, disbelieving noise. “For whom?”
She tried to feign sleep as he moved about the room, removing his boots, casting watch and cufflinks aside. Stirring the fire. Making all sorts of unapologetic, manly sounds. Men never hesitated to declare their presence. They were permitted to live aloud, in reverberating thuds and clunks, while ladies were always schooled to abide in hushed whispers.
The bed creaked loudly as he dropped his weight next to her. His arm brushed against her back. Just that slight contact set her whole body humming. As he settled into the bed, she was so aware—so clearly, perfectly aware—of every part of him. Every part of her. Everywhere their bodies touched, and everywhere they didn’t.
“Will you be able to sleep?” she asked, after a few minutes.
“Eventually.”
“Did you want to talk?” she asked the wall. She felt like a coward, unable to turn and face him.
“I’d rather listen to you. Why don’t you tell me a bedtime story? One you read as a child.”
“I didn’t read any stories as a child.”
“I don’t believe that. You always have your nose in a book.”
“But it’s true,” she said quietly. “When I was a girl, it took them ages to realize my farsightedness. Everyone thought I was just mischievous at best or dull witted, at worst. My mother chided me for frowning, for daydreaming. Diana would always be reading tales from her storybooks, but no matter how she tried to teach me, I couldn’t make sense of the letters. We had a nursemaid who sang ballads as she went about her work. I used to follow her everywhere and listen, memorizing as many as I could. They were my stories.” She closed her eyes. “Eventually, a governess realized I needed spectacles. When I first put them on my face, I can’t even tell you . . . it was like a miracle.”
“Finally seeing properly?”
“Knowing I wasn’t hopeless.” A knot formed in her throat. “I’d believed there was something incurably wrong with me, you see. But suddenly, I could see the world clear. And not only the parts in the distance, but the bits within my own reach. I could focus on a page. I could explore the things around me, discover whole worlds beneath my fingertips. I could be good at something, for once.”
She didn’t know if he could understand, but this was why the symposium was so important to her. Why Francine meant everything. This was why, a few mornings ago, she’d opened up the trunk that held her trousseau and swapped out those bridal fantasies for new, scientific goals. Minerva had never been the daughter her mother would have wished. She was different from her sisters, and she was reconciled to the fact. She could live with being a hopeless excuse for a fashionable, elegant lady . . . so long as someone, somewhere, respected and admired her just for being her. Minerva Highwood, geologist and bookworm and . . . and after tonight, sometime troubadour.
“Once I learned to read,” she said, “they couldn’t tear me away from books—still can’t. But I’d already outgrown the fairy tales.”
“Well,” he said, sounding drowsy. “That was a fine bedtime story. Downtrodden girl. Kindly nursemaid. Happy ending. The fairy tales are pretty much all like that.”
“Really? I was under the impression most of them feature a handsome, charming prince.”
The silence was prolonged. And miserable.