“Oh, it was even more so! The sound was magnificent,” answered Isobel, turning to fix her brother with a winsome smile. “We are going to take tea at one of the shops. Would you care to join us?”
As Alec quickened his pace to join them, Caro shot an involuntary look at his boots. Dark and well polished. But that described the footwear of most gentlemen.
As for the flutter of his coattails—
She looked away quickly, pretending a sudden interest in the architectural details of the elegant Georgian townhouses, which had been designed by John Wood the Elder and his son John Wood the Younger at the end of the previous century. In the bright afternoon sun, the golden-hued local limestone—known as Bath stone—glowed with a mellow warmth, as if it had been drizzled with melted honey.
And yet, it did nothing to lighten her spirits. A sea squall, dark and blustery, with the rumble of distant thunder deepening the first spitting drops of rain, would have been a more fitting reflection of her mood.
“Did you enjoy the playing, too, Miss Caro?” For some inexplicable reason Alec chose to fall in step beside her instead of his sister. She couldn’t help but notice that his gait had the muscular grace of a prowling predator. Deceptively relaxed, but ready to spring for the kill at an instant’s notice.
A lordly wolf. With sharp, chiseled nose and ice-blue eyes that seemed lit by an inner fire.
“I have an indifferent ear for music,” she replied.
“Indeed?” He cocked an appraising look. “I would have thought a poet would appreciate the nuances of sound.”
“Then I must be a bad poet,” said Caro a little tartly. “Or your assumptions are mistaken.”
“Or perhaps there is some other answer that is not quite so obvious,” he said slowly. “The world can rarely be depicted in such stark shades of black and white.”
His gaze didn’t waver, and Caro could feel it burning like phosphorous against her skin.
“Ah, a lecture on painting, as well as poetry and music?” It was, she knew, a shrewish reply, but she couldn’t help herself. The exchange she had heard in the churchyard had left her very unsettled. “It seems we shall cover all of the arts before we reach York Street.”
“You seem bent on deliberately misunderstanding me,” replied Alec softly. “Is there a specific reason? Aside from the fact that, in general, you find me an odious oaf?”
“I don’t…”
When she didn’t go on, he murmured an encouraging “Yes?”
“As you say, sir, it’s not so black and white.”
His mouth quirked, softening the forbidding lines of his face. At that moment he no longer looked like a wild arctic wolf. But nor did he look like a housebroken lap dog.
“Your skill with language seems as sharp as ever,” observed Alec. “Which is no surprise. I would imagine that the author of a poem as lyrical as ‘Mist-Shrouded Moors’ would never be at a loss for words.”
“H-how did you know I wrote that?” Shocked, Caro released his arm and came to an abrupt halt on the walkway. “I swear, I shall throttle Anna when she returns from Russia. She promised she wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“Anna didn’t tell me.”
“Then how—”
“It was simply an educated guess,” he replied. “You said it was by McAdam, and I happen to own a copy of his complete works.” He fixed her with a speculative stare. “There seemed little reason for the subterfuge unless you had written it yourself.”
“Hmmph, I see that I shall have to work on becoming a better liar,” grumbled Caro.
He didn’t smile. “Concentrate your talents on learning to become an even better poet. There are enough accomplished liars in the world.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. He thought her a good poet? Her stomach gave a queer little lurch.
“Come, we had better catch up with the others.” Taking her arm, Alec lengthened his stride.
“McAdam is very good,” she said in a small voice, as they crossed to the other side of the street. “It is poetic justice that I was caught trying to fob off my own verse as his.”
“You are better,” said Alec brusquely.
Her foot slipped on one of the smooth paving stones, pitching her up against him.