Talk Sweetly to Me (Brothers Sinister #4.5)(5)

As far as he could tell, he was just tormenting himself.

A noise sounded in the hall; he caught the low murmur of voices, and then the office door scraped open. Stephen turned from the window to face the newcomers.

Barnstable stood in the doorway. Behind him were two figures. The first was a heavy silhouette of an older woman with a substantial bustle; the second figure, far more familiar, hid herself behind the other woman’s bulk. She was scarcely visible in the dim hall light. Still, Stephen felt his pulse begin to accelerate.

He stood and addressed himself to the first woman. “You must be Mrs. Barnstable.”

“Mr. Shaughnessy, this is my wife, Mrs. Barnstable.” Dr. Barnstable stepped to one side.

The woman behind him moved into the room, all smiles. “Oh, Mr. Shaughnessy! It is such a pleasure to meet you. After all these years of reading your words! I adore—absolutely adore—everything that you write.”

“Of course you adore what I write,” he said. “You must be a woman of excellent taste. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“I shall have palpitations of the heart,” Mrs. Barnstable announced. “Listen to me, going on like a green girl. I sound like a chicken, squawking away. What must you think of me? I’m not silly. I’m not. It’s just that I’ve been reading your work for years now. Can you…” Her lashes fluttered down. “Can you do the Actual Man thing?”

It was how he ended all his columns. The advice column he wrote was entitled “Ask a Man”—and women wrote to him in droves to do just that. He signed every column almost precisely the same way.

“If you’d like.” Stephen looked into Mrs. Barnstable’s face.

The woman’s eyes grew wide; a hand drifted up to touch her throat as if to touch nonexistent pearls. He let his voice drop down a few notes and imbued his next words with all the wicked intent that he could muster.

“I’m Stephen Shaughnessy,” he said. “Actual Man.”

Mrs. Barnstable let out a wavering sigh. “Are you as wicked as the gossip papers say, young man?”

He didn’t feel wicked. “Oh, no,” he said, lowering one eyelid in a lazy wink. “The papers don’t know the half of it.”

“If you’re that bad, then I mustn’t introduce you to my charge.”

In direct contradiction to these brave words, Mrs. Barnstable turned around. She took Miss Sweetly by the elbow, drawing her into the room. “Miss Sweetly, look who it is! It’s Stephen Shaughnessy—and I know how you delight in his column.”

That was not a proper introduction. It wasn’t even an improper introduction. It left Miss Sweetly at a horrendous disadvantage, after all, putting her directly into the class of enthusiasts like Mrs. Barnstable.

Miss Sweetly was many things, but effusive she was not. She dropped him a little curtsey. “I do read your column, Mr. Shaughnessy.” Her voice was quiet and subdued in comparison with Mrs. Barnstable’s.

When she looked up at him, though, she seemed anything but subdued. Her dark hair, just a little frizzy, had been tamed and wrestled into a bun. She wore a demure gown—not one of the fashionable creations that a lady might wear, but a sensible, high-necked muslin, a thing of long sleeves and buttons that his fingers itched to undo. The fabric hinted at curves of breast and hip; her bustle, less pronounced, could not quite hide her figure.

Her eyes were dark and still, and he felt as if he’d been struck over the head—as if he were looking up into a night sky, bright with stars.

He gave her a little bow. “Miss Sweetly.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Barnstable said, shaking her head as if she had just now remembered her duty. “Mr. Shaughnessy, this is Miss Rose Sweetly, Dr. Barnstable’s computer. She is very young, although I suppose to a thing like you, she’d not seem so. But she’s ever so clever.”

“I’m always happy to meet clever young ladies,” Stephen said. “They’re my second favorite kind.”

Miss Sweetly grimaced at this in embarrassment and lifted a hand to adjust her spectacles.

She had no idea what that simple motion did to Stephen. It made him want to do the same himself—to run his fingers up the line of her nose, slowly tracing that elegant curve. To hook his finger under the bridge of her glasses and slide them down her face, and then…

But Miss Sweetly did not ask about his favorite kind of young lady, and the answer that he’d come up with to that obvious question went to waste. Over the months of their acquaintance, she’d always forced him to deviate from his usual responses. When he was around her, he had to think, to pay attention—because she never said what he expected.

She did not mention that she knew him. She did not, in fact, say anything at all. She simply looked over Mrs. Barnstable’s shoulder, out the window, as if she had more important things than Stephen Shaughnessy on her mind.

It had always been like that with her. The first day he’d met her, he had run into her on the street—quite literally, as they had both been distracted, and neither of them had been watching where they were going. He’d asked what had her so deep in thought, and she had told him.

It had been the most intense experience of his life, seeing her transform from a shy, nervous miss into a magician who intended to coax secrets from the sky. He’d never found mathematics erotic before that day, but watching her lips form the words “parabola” and “Newtonian step” had been utterly riveting. He had been riveted ever since.