Heart of Light by Sarah A. Hoyt

her throat and for just a moment her thoughts stopped. He called to Emily's mind the Greek and Roman statues she'd glimpsed in her trips to London museums.
    Dark, deep-set eyes lit his chiseled features, surmounted by just slightly unruly black curls, all of it set above the broad shoulders of an athlete, narrowing to a waist almost as small as Emily's own, though the man stood a good two heads taller than her. His creamy coat and pants highlighted a long-legged, muscular build.
    His gaze met hers and Emily realized that she'd looked him in the eyes. Then his craggily handsome features opened in a dazzling smile.
    Averting her eyes, Emily fixed her attention upon unfolding her napkin and laying it across her lap. As she did, she was aware that the man approached her in decisive strides, arriving at her table so close that he almost touched the tablecloth. Emily continued to look down in embarrassed confusion, a painful heat burning in her cheeks.
    He could not be thinking of accosting her. It was most improper. They had never been introduced.
    Emily had heard that in outposts of the empire and in far-flung lands, when Englishmen met they often dispensed with the customary courtesies observed as a matter of course in the motherland. Perhaps the man thought she was single.
    Emily twisted her linen napkin in her lap, refusing to look up, lest she encourage the man to do the unfathomable. But he cleared his throat and when she glanced up, involuntarily, she found herself staring into the darkest pair of green eyes she'd ever seen. They were so dark that at a distance she'd assumed they were black, save for the glistening currents of color that moved within like a vast, frozen, unlit ocean.
    His eyes reflected increasing amusement, and Emily realized she'd been staring again. Before she could look away, the man assumed a military posture, clicking his heels together—not so much on purpose but as though long years in the army had formed his manner of standing and being in the world.
    “Mrs. Oldhall,” he said, and bowed, polite and respectful like any gentleman in any receiving room.
    Emily looked up, puzzled. How would he—? Of course, the waiter had said her name, but how did he dare use it, as though they'd been introduced?
    She lowered her eyebrows and pursed her lips just as her stepmother did when she wished to freeze someone out. But his lips stretched in a slow, ironic smile, and—within his eyes—the glacial currents of a primeval ocean swirled and spun, betraying amusement and something else—something she couldn't even imagine, much less put into words.
    “You'll forgive my introducing myself in this way,” he said, polite and composed. He spoke with a highbred accent, a lot like Nigel's. “You'll forgive me if I trample upon those rules of courtesy that I normally would strive to observe.” He again straightened himself and appeared to stand at attention. “It is just that I heard the servant mention your name, and I used to know the Oldhalls passingly well. I wondered if you were Mrs. Carew Oldhall or . . .” He hesitated and looked away from her. She was aware of it, though she did not look directly at him, but ostensibly at her hands gathered on her napkin. He cleared his throat. “Or perhaps Mrs. Nigel Oldhall?”
    Surprised at the names, Emily looked up. Because she was fairly sure there was no other Oldhall family with two such an names amid its offspring. She met the man's gaze and saw that he was embarrassed, though he seemed to hide it under a faint veneer of amusement. A high color tinged his prominent cheekbones and he looked away from her, even as his lips tried to form a smile.
    “I am Mrs. Nigel Oldhall,” she said, emboldened by his shyness. This man—with his athletic build—was doubtlessly one of Carew's friends. Carew was, after all, the athletic one who excelled at all games, or so Nigel had told her.
    But the man smiled wide at the name. “Excellent. If you'll forgive me, my name