Page 45 of More or Less a Countess
“Nicholas? Why aren’t you eating?”
Nick gave his aunt a vague nod, shoved the fork in his mouth, and swallowed his eggs without tasting them.
He’d vowed not to call on Miss Somerset again. For God’s sake, he’d made the decision less than an hour ago, and already here he was, tempted to call on Miss Somerset.
But then he’d made that decision before it occurred to him how much she’d enjoy the Hunterian Museum. Everything had changed since then, and in any case, surely one more day wouldn’t make any difference? It was asingleday. What could be the harm in delaying for asingleday? He could stop calling on her tomorrow just as easily, couldn’t he?
Nick tossed his napkin aside and shoved his chair back from the table.
His aunt looked up in surprise. “Are you off, then? You haven’t finished your breakfast.”
“Yes, I beg your pardon, my lady. I’m not hungry, and I find myself anxious to get to…the museum.”
Quite anxious, indeed.
* * * *
“The Hunterian Museum?”
Miss Somerset had looked grim enough when she entered the drawing room to receive his call. He didn’t see any cobwebs today, and she was dressed in a flattering soft pink day gown, but she was pale, and she had dark shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept.
But the moment he mentioned the Hunterian Museum, her entire face had lit up, and she’d clapped her hands together with unrestrained delight.
“Truly, Lord Dare? Oh, I’ve always wanted to go, but I never imagined I’d get the chance. Oh, how wonderful!”
“Yes, well, it’s raining, so I thought…” Nick trailed off as his stomach leapt in response to the sparkle of anticipation in her dark blue eyes. It wasn’t her pleasure that made him feel as if the sun had just emerged from behind a cloud, though. Of course it wasn’t.
He cleared his throat. “That is, I thought perhaps you hadn’t ever been, and would find it amusing.”
She was gazing at him as if she’d never seen anything quite so wonderful as he. “How kind you are, my lord!”
Nick gazed back at her for a moment, then had to clear his throat again. “Well, as to that, I’m, ah…would you like to fetch your sketchbook before we go?”
“Oh! Oh, yes. I won’t be a moment.”
She ran from the room, then returned a few minutes later in a dark blue cloak, her sketchbook tucked under her arm.
He led her to his carriage and handed her in. She bounced on the edge of her seat with suppressed excitement during the entire ride to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. “I’ve heard they have the Irish Giant’s skeleton at the Hunterian.”
Nick’s lips twitched at her boundless excitement. “Charles Byrne, you mean? Yes. He was nearly eight feet tall.”
“Oh, I know, I’ve read all about him. He was only twenty-two when he died, and he wanted to be buried at sea in a lead coffin, you know. By all accounts he was a dear man, and I feel rather sorry for him, having his bones on display for all the world to gawk at, but I don’t deny I very much want to see him. Eight feet tall. Can you imagine the stress all that weight must have had on his skeleton, Lord Dare?”
Nick grinned. He hadn’t even thought of that, but he liked it very much thatshehad. Damn, how is it he’d never before realized how engaging bluestockings were?
But perhaps it wasn’t all bluestockings.
Perhaps it was justher.
Either way, it was damned difficult to regret today’s outing, despite his decision to end this friendship between them, especially when she was smiling at him with those lovely pink lips. He’d dreamed about her lips, but even in his dreams he couldn’t conjure such a sweet smile.
“I hadn’t considered the stress on his skeleton, Miss Somerset, but I’m glad you mentioned it, because now perhaps we’ll notice something when we view it. Some buckling about the knees would be my guess. Cracks around the knee bone, perhaps. What do you think?”
Nick waited with far more impatience than he’d ever imagined he could possibly feel to hear a bluestocking’s opinion about an eight-foot giant’s stress-related knee injuries.
She tapped her lip as she considered it. “Yes, I would think the knees would take the brunt of it.” Without warning, she hopped across the carriage, plopped down next to him—rightnext to him, so his thigh was touching hers—and flipped through the pages of her sketchbook until she reached a blank page. “Like this, perhaps?”
She moved the sketchbook between them, drew out one of the drawing pencils she seemed to always have tucked into a pocket, and began to sketch a series of long lines on the page. “It wouldn’t fall on his hips, I don’t think, because—well, simple gravity, you know, but there’s better weight distribution in the pelvic region than the knee area.”
