“And do you do this for all the swaths of silk you sell?” she asked. Her breath caught when his hands began to move again, stroking the fabric slowly. She kept her face lowered, her long hair draped over her cheek, watching as his long fingers moved in the rich folds.
“No. This is for a royal occasion. When an order comes from Buckingham, I go over every millimeter of multiple swaths myself, searching for flaws. It takes me weeks on end,” he said, his low voice richer and more compelling than the gleaming silk.
“Surely flaws are inherent to the process, part of the beauty of the finished product?” She glanced up when he didn’t respond. Her eyes widened when they met his. She jerked her gaze off him, blushing furiously. Her heart began to thump in her ears.
Dear God, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been prepared to look directly into his bold-featured face or intense eyes.
“You are right, in part,” he said, his fingers still moving in the silk. “But too many flaws ruin the light-play on the fabric, taking away the luminosity. I have tried to train various members of the Literati for the task. They have more acute vision than humans.”
“And?” she asked, a smile tickling at her mouth. “You are not satisfied with their work compared to your own?”
Her fingers stilled when he didn’t immediately speak.
“I can be a bit of a perfectionist,” he said.
“It’s very heavy for a dress, isn’t it?”
“For a dress, yes,” he murmured. “But this isn’t for a dress. It’s for a royal marriage.” Her hands tingled in the gloves, as though his stroking fingers gave off a charge and it came to her through the conduit of the lush fabric.
“Silk is a good generator of electricity,” he said.
She glanced up, cautious this time, but unable to resist looking into his face. Had he read her thoughts? His small smile seemed to indicate he had. She glanced away uneasily.
“If the fabric isn’t for a dress, what is it for?”
“It is for the royal bed. This will be made into sheets, Isabel.”
The fabric fell through her fingers heedlessly at the sound of him saying her name in his hoarse, accented voice. It had struck a chord of memory in her. She searched wildly to retrieve the memory, but the ephemeral threads had disappeared. For a moment, her lungs seemed collapsed, unable to fill with air.
She abruptly turned away from him, overwhelmed by longing.
“What are you carrying?” he asked from behind her as she walked toward the hearth.
She glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. She blinked in shock when she saw he stood just feet away. He’d come to her with paranormal quickness. What was he talking about? She noticed he looked at her hand. She clutched at the rolled-up script. Remembering why she’d sought him out gave her a renewed sense of purpose, flimsy though her excuse for seeing him was.
“I’ve come to ask you to be in the play.”
“I am no actor.”
“None of the Literati are, except for Titurino, who tells me he used to tread the boards in Rome long ago, to make money for his paints,” she said with a smile. She sobered when she noticed his fire-lit eyes. He was dressed as casually as she, in jeans and a simple gray T-shirt, but he looked elegant somehow…a noble savage.
“Thank you, for sponsoring the play for my benefit. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.”
“I thought it would please you, and help to occupy your time. When you are ready, say the word and I will bring you an audience, as well. You may choose whoever you’d like to attend.”
“Lester Dee?” she asked smoothly, referring to the professor who had brought her to England.
He kept his face impassive. “If that is your wish. We can come to terms on the matter.”
She smiled. “The Queen?”
“That one I can answer for more confidently. Consider it done.”
She shook her head slowly. “The funny thing is, I believe you. I would believe anything of you, at this point.”
“I’m sorry to have to keep you here,” he said.
She swallowed and examined the smooth mahogany mantel of the fireplace. “I’m not as angry about that as I once was. Why is that, do you suppose?”