he saw Loretta, strolling beside him, lift her head and sniff. She seemed to be concentrating on every little thing, as if taking an inventory so she could describe the scene accurately.
Perhaps she kept a travel journal.
Regardless, it was time to return to the hotel for luncheon. He gathered Hassan with a look, and Hassan brought Rose. Rafe reached for Loretta’s elbow—felt her start when his fingers closed about her arm. When she shot him a narrow-eyed look, he merely said, “We should get back to the hotel.”
He steered her to their carriage, released her, but offered his hand as he opened the door with the other.
She considered his hand for an instant before steeling herself and placing her fingers in his.
Pretending he didn’t notice the leap of her pulse, the hitch in her breathing, he helped her into the carriage. Moments later, they were all inside and the carriage started its lumbering journey down the hill.
Head back against the squabs, eyes apparently closed, through the fringe of his lashes he watched Loretta, this time sitting opposite him. For half the journey back, she peered out at the steetscapes, concentrating as if fixing the various styles of architecture in her mind.
Her observational intensity impressed him, and tickled his curiosity. It was too acute to be innate, yet looked to be something of a habit.
When the carriage reached the Castle quarter, an area with which she was already familiar, she turned to him. He opened his eyes, met hers.
“You mentioned before, when speaking of the villages in India, that they often had no council to run them. How do they manage community decisions, then?”
It wasn’t the sort of question he would expect a young lady to ask, yet it fitted with the thrust of her earlier interest in his observations of India. So he answered, and let her interest lead her to ask further questions.
When the carriage drew up outside the hotel, he stepped down. After a survey of the street revealed no cultists lurking, he handed her down and escorted her inside. Climbing the stairs in her wake, he debated asking why she was so interested in social customs, but decided the time was not yet.
She wouldn’t tell him yet.
Lengthening his stride, he closed the distance between them. As she neared the door to the suite, he reached around her and opened it.
She gave the smallest of jumps. From close quarters she met his eyes, her own a touch wide, then she raised her chin, haughtily inclined her head, and swanned in.
Lips curving fractionally, he followed.
He bided his time through luncheon, then, leaving Hassan with Rose at the hotel, he and Loretta set off once more in the carriage. This time, she asked to be driven into Pest. As they rolled off the bridge over the Danube, he glimpsed two cultists idly watching the carriages rumbling onto the bridge, heading toward Buda. Neither cultist saw him.
He looked at Loretta. “What are you planning on seeing this afternoon?”
She glanced at the notes in her lap. “According to the guidebook, if we stay on this road, we’ll see many of the mansions of the local aristocracy.”
“Do you intend making calls, or just looking?”
“Just looking.” She glanced out of the window, but at the moment the street was lined with shops. “Ah—there’s the museum.”
She peered at the structure as the carriage slowly rolled past.
“Are you a student of architecture, then?”
She blinked at him, then sat back. “No, I’m"—she waved a vague hand—"merely interested in such things.”
“Museums or buildings?”
“Both.” After a moment, she amended, “I’m interested in buildings that are museums, churches, castles, and the like.”
“And the houses of aristocrats?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
She glanced at him, then looked out of the window again. “I just am.”
And he would eat his busby, fur and all, if that were the truth.
She sat forward when the carriage obligingly slowed as a succession of large
Perhaps she kept a travel journal.
Regardless, it was time to return to the hotel for luncheon. He gathered Hassan with a look, and Hassan brought Rose. Rafe reached for Loretta’s elbow—felt her start when his fingers closed about her arm. When she shot him a narrow-eyed look, he merely said, “We should get back to the hotel.”
He steered her to their carriage, released her, but offered his hand as he opened the door with the other.
She considered his hand for an instant before steeling herself and placing her fingers in his.
Pretending he didn’t notice the leap of her pulse, the hitch in her breathing, he helped her into the carriage. Moments later, they were all inside and the carriage started its lumbering journey down the hill.
Head back against the squabs, eyes apparently closed, through the fringe of his lashes he watched Loretta, this time sitting opposite him. For half the journey back, she peered out at the steetscapes, concentrating as if fixing the various styles of architecture in her mind.
Her observational intensity impressed him, and tickled his curiosity. It was too acute to be innate, yet looked to be something of a habit.
When the carriage reached the Castle quarter, an area with which she was already familiar, she turned to him. He opened his eyes, met hers.
“You mentioned before, when speaking of the villages in India, that they often had no council to run them. How do they manage community decisions, then?”
It wasn’t the sort of question he would expect a young lady to ask, yet it fitted with the thrust of her earlier interest in his observations of India. So he answered, and let her interest lead her to ask further questions.
When the carriage drew up outside the hotel, he stepped down. After a survey of the street revealed no cultists lurking, he handed her down and escorted her inside. Climbing the stairs in her wake, he debated asking why she was so interested in social customs, but decided the time was not yet.
She wouldn’t tell him yet.
Lengthening his stride, he closed the distance between them. As she neared the door to the suite, he reached around her and opened it.
She gave the smallest of jumps. From close quarters she met his eyes, her own a touch wide, then she raised her chin, haughtily inclined her head, and swanned in.
Lips curving fractionally, he followed.
He bided his time through luncheon, then, leaving Hassan with Rose at the hotel, he and Loretta set off once more in the carriage. This time, she asked to be driven into Pest. As they rolled off the bridge over the Danube, he glimpsed two cultists idly watching the carriages rumbling onto the bridge, heading toward Buda. Neither cultist saw him.
He looked at Loretta. “What are you planning on seeing this afternoon?”
She glanced at the notes in her lap. “According to the guidebook, if we stay on this road, we’ll see many of the mansions of the local aristocracy.”
“Do you intend making calls, or just looking?”
“Just looking.” She glanced out of the window, but at the moment the street was lined with shops. “Ah—there’s the museum.”
She peered at the structure as the carriage slowly rolled past.
“Are you a student of architecture, then?”
She blinked at him, then sat back. “No, I’m"—she waved a vague hand—"merely interested in such things.”
“Museums or buildings?”
“Both.” After a moment, she amended, “I’m interested in buildings that are museums, churches, castles, and the like.”
“And the houses of aristocrats?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
She glanced at him, then looked out of the window again. “I just am.”
And he would eat his busby, fur and all, if that were the truth.
She sat forward when the carriage obligingly slowed as a succession of large
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