Page 31 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Then he sobered, rubbing his hand over his chest, where she’d pressed his heart.

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What was it about the shift in the air of a drawing room when the gentlemen entered? Was it a waft of their scent? Coffee, tobacco, or pomade? A change of gravity in the room itself, as though the heavier beings transformed the women into moons circling in their orbits? Or perhaps it was because Violet found herself oversensitive to the whereabouts of her old—and apparently agile—nemesis. Especially after her display at dinner and the now-forever-secret fact that the entire event came about because of a reference to his mouth.

She turned in her seat and swallowed. That mouth was heading directly for her. Cyril passed his sister and Violet’s mother with a nod and a few words. Violet set her coffee cup down and stood, though she really had no reason to. But she was standing, at full height, and Cyril tilted his dark head toward her.

“Miss Whittemore,” he said in a hushed tone, though she knew very well that Florrie and Lydia were absorbing every word from the settee. “I wonder if I may speak to you a moment.” His gaze darted to her friends, then back.

She couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say to her, specifically. She was more curious than suspicious. She motioned to a corner bookshelf with an overstuffed chair and a potted palm older than her father. The windows had been open earlier, to air the room with crisp spring breezes, but they were shut now, the heavy curtains drawn, making it a cozier nook than Violet had anticipated. Upon turning to face Cyril, it also occurred to her that they were perhaps more alone in this corner, even with the others in the room, than they had been in a decade.

She gently cleared her throat and rolled her hand open. “Go ahead, Mr. Burke.”

He paused, a smile flickering above that beard of his. “You know, it is an odd thing, given the names we used to call each other, to hear you address me so formally. Propriety being what it is, of course.” His gaze narrowed. “You say, ‘Mr. Burke,’ and yet I can’t help wondering if in your head you’re actually calling me Silly Cyril Sells Seashells.”

A sharp laugh escaped her, and she put her hand over her mouth.

He’d surprised her.

She pressed her hand to her stomach. “You cannot tell me you pulled me all the way over here to dredge up that old memory. Now I shall be unable to hear you address me as Miss Whittemore without suspecting you really mean Violent Violin.”

He grunted a laugh and held his hands wide. “I admit nothing.”

She tsked. “So ungentlemanly.”

“What can I say? You brought out the worst in me.”

He’d said it innocently enough, but the truth of his words shot down whatever lightness she’d begun to feel as if it were one of her father’s clay pigeons. Cyril seemed to sense it, and a few awkward moments passed as they studied the room. Violet’s cheeks began to feel hot, and she readied to excuse herself.

“Mr.Burke—”

“MissWhittemore—”

His eyes widened as hers narrowed in suspicion, then they both snuffled their laughter, this time drawing the obvious attention of the others.Violent Violin, indeed. She immediately turned to the bookshelf, and he adjusted the position of the armchair nearer the gas lamp, offering her a seat as she pulled out a volume and sat down as if to read. Cyril studied a palm leaf the size of a small goat.

Seemingly mollified, the Wendy League went back to their conversations. Violet felt Mama’s gaze linger.

“Now look what you’ve done,” she whispered.

“Me?” he whispered back. “You started it.”

“You’re the one who asked to speak to me.”

“You’re the one who called me ridiculous names.”

“Well, somebody had to.”

He swatted the palm leaf away. “Why on earth would somebody have to?”

She leisurely turned a page of Eliot’sThe Mill on the Floss—Violet grimaced at her selection—and stood to find another. “Somebody had to keep you grounded, with all that perfection potentially going to your head.”

“Perfection?” he asked. Amusement laced his question.

Her hand froze on a volume of Scott. “I meant pretension. Did you have a purpose in asking to speak to me, Mr. Burke? Or are you just bent on making me remember what a horrid little nuisance I was?”

He sighed shortly. “You were not horrid. And hardly ever a nuisance. You had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a mind to keep up with that thirst.”

She continued her blind search for a book as her pulse sped. The combination of the richness of his adult voice, the nostalgia of their discussion, and his notice—hisunderstandingof her psyche battled in her head. “Hardlyever a nuisance,” she muttered. “Well, that’s generous.”