“Is it?”
I waited, quite used to his diversionary tactics, and arched a brow.
He laughed. “Her name is Arabella, you curious fiend.”
My brow remained exactly in place.
“She’s a wonderful person. Endlessly curious, like you,” Whit said, rolling his eyes. “And we’re very close. She loves her watercolors. I suspect she’d rather remain in the country to paint than have a season in London.”
“I’ve heard of those.” I paused. “The dancing sounds fun.”
“They’re absolutely not. Starchy clothing, deplorable small talk, and determined mothers foisting their equally determined offspring onto every known eligible bachelor in the country. And there is nothing interesting about the quadrille.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds like a section of meat.” At his confused expression, I added, “In Argentina, my favorite cut of meat is the cuadril.”
“Oh, well in England, a quadrille is a horrifyingly boring dance.”
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never danced it.”
“I’d rather have the steak. You can trust my word.”
That brought me up short. “No, I can’t.”
He lowered his lashes and gave me an inscrutable look. “Smart girl.”
The air between us caught, as if on an electrical current that zipped between our breaths. His eyes lowered to my mouth. Warmth spread to my cheeks. I was seized with a desire to tip my chin upward, my lips closer to his. But I stayed rooted, the blood roaring in my ears. Whit wrenched his face away, the line of his jaw tightening.
The moment passed, disappointment crashing against me like a battering ram. I tried to remember all the reasons why Whitford Hayes was a terrible, preposterous idea. He worked for my uncle. He knew more about my parents, truths he wouldn’t share. He drank too much and probably flirted with every woman he met. It was hard to feel special if I was just a drop in the bucket.
But he had saved my life. Cared to make sure if I was comfortable. Took my side in arguments with my uncle.
Whit shifted away, closing himself off.
“I suppose,” I began, wanting to draw him into conversation. I lifted my brush and began painting the top of one of the columns a lush, soft green that reminded me of the sea. “You are such a bachelor English mothers are constantly throwing their daughters at, hoping for an engagement.”
Whit regarded me for a beat without speaking. Then he twisted his mouth in distaste. “I used the word eligible, remember? You are confusing my oldest brother with me.”
“You also have a brother.”
“Correct.” His expression twisted into one of exasperation. “Porter.”
“So, no young ladies for you?” I pressed.
“Has anyone told you that you’re unspeakably irritating?”
“They’ve said I’m unspeakably curious.”
He laughed. “All right, Olivera. I was a cadet by the age of fifteen, my commission purchased practically when I was still in the nursery. I haven’t seen an Englishwoman in years.” He lifted his gaze from my work in order to meet mine. “And you? Do you have a beau courting you?”
“Not really, but I suppose there is someone if I want there to be.”
Whit stiffened, and his lips pinched slightly. An interesting reaction that both thrilled and terrified me.
His voice was nonchalant, but I didn’t believe it. “Oh?”
“My parents had picked out the son of a consul. Ernesto Rodriguez. He’s exactly the sort of person my mother would approve of. Polite and well-mannered, connected, and from an old Argentine familia.”
“How wonderful for him.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic,” I said.
“I’m not,” he said, predictably.
“Liar.”
“I keep telling you, Olivera. Don’t believe anything I say.” Then he wrenched his gaze away. I resumed my work, squinting at one of the columns, trying to discern the hieroglyphs, but the reliefs were too far away. I stood and handed him my sketchbook, careful not to smear the paint. I dusted myself off, and walked to where he indicated. I peered at the reliefs carved into the stone, brow furrowed. There were hundreds of symbols I didn’t know, drawings of various people in different kinds of clothing.
“Olivera.”
“Hmmm?”
“Will you please come over here?”
“In a moment.”
“Now.”
Well, now I wouldn’t go over there for another ten minutes. “I’m busy, Whit.”
“That’s twice now,” he said. He stood and walked to me, my sketchbook open. For some reason he appeared to brace himself, as if preparing for something he didn’t want to hear.
“You’re counting how many times I call you by name?”
“I notice because I haven’t given you permission to address me so informally.”
I let my gaze travel from the buttons undone at the collar, his wrinkled and untucked shirt, and the windswept, untidy hair. “You can’t be serious.”
“I thought you said I was never serious.”
“So you are paying attention to me. I wasn’t sure how much of that was because my uncle is paying you to do so. I notice the way you stare.”
“I stare at many pretty ladies, Olivera. Don’t make anything of it,” he said, but the words came out stern, without their usual teasing lilt.
“You’ve certainly warned me enough.”
His blue gaze narrowed. “I don’t like your tone. Just what are you implying?”
“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”
“Bloody hell,” he said. “Shakespeare again.”
“What did you want, Whit?”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I want you to explain this.” He pointed to an illustration in my sketchbook.
An illustration of the gate.
I crossed my arms. “It’s a temple gate.”
“Right.” Whit narrowed his gaze. “Where did you see this?”
I waved my hand airily. “In a travel brochure, I think. I can’t be sure.”
The parenthetical lines bracketing his mouth deepened. Late afternoon light cast his features in a softened haze. His hair appeared burnished copper in the cozy dimness. “Try.”
“Honestly, I don’t remember.” I was incredibly proud of my nonchalant tone. “If you haven’t noticed, my sketchbook is filled with such illustrations. I ought to do a better job of taking notes, but I forget. Why the sudden interest in the gate?”
“It’s not something I’ve seen around too much.”
His carefully worded reply didn’t escape my notice.
“But you have seen it. Somewhere.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You certainly did,” I countered.
“Well, I can’t stop you from thinking that,” he snapped. “Inez, this is important. Tell me where you’ve seen this particular gate.”
“Only if you tell me the significance.”
Whit clenched his jaw. “I can’t.”
“Because my uncle wouldn’t wish it.”
“You think so?” he asked, his chestnut brows climbing to his hairline. “That’s quite an assumption.”
We stared at each other, a line drawn between us. I had stumbled onto something, I knew it. What I couldn’t decide was how Whit truly felt about it. If he wanted me to figure out something that my uncle was deliberately keeping from me.
Then it hit me.