Marquesses at the Masquerade(50)

“I think they are quite nice prints,” the man said instead. “But sadly, none are selling.”

Exmore watched her face fall a fraction. No, you ignorant, young clerk. She wants to talk about her father. You make her feel insignificant when you say no one wants what she and her father found valuable.

“I suppose they aren’t very exciting to someone who doesn’t study botany or zoology,” she conceded. Exmore could hear the tinge of hurt in her voice. “But to me, there are so many tiny miracles in these prints. For instance, have you noticed something particular about this print you have among the Australian floral illustrations? The Phyllopteryx taeniolatus? It’s not a plant at all, but a sea horse. Or sea dragon, to be more precise.” Excitement sped her words and brightened her face.

My God, it could really be her.

She turned and walked in Exmore’s direction, but her gaze was fixed on the wall above him. He slipped farther behind his statue, concealing his face.

“And don’t let this sweet-looking flower fool you,” she continued. “It’s a sinister Australian pitcher plant, or Cephalotus follicularis. These dainty petal-looking things actually trap flies and digest them.”

She stood at least fifteen feet away—too far to pick up her scent or reach out to touch her. Yet, some odd energy shot through his veins, speeding the beat of his heart and bathing him in heat.

And he knew it was truly Annalise Van Der Keer. He remembered the same wild energy that emitted from her body into his that night she embraced him. The sensation had scared him and sent him rushing to his wife.

What had happened to Annalise that so radically changed her?

He remembered the morning his wife died. In a matter of hours, he had gone from knowing who he was and what he wanted, to being a stranger in his own home. The servants had been the same, all the furnishings had remained in place, he had met the same people along the walk by his home, yet he had had the disorienting sensation of being lost. Of not knowing what he had thought he knew. His world had completely turned upside down, yet everyone else had carried on in the normal cycles of their everyday lives. But maybe Annalise’s world had changed too.

“Would you like a print?” the clerk asked Annalise. He was painfully smitten now.

“Why, yes, all of them.”

“Shall I—”

She tossed back her head with a musical chuckle. “I’m sorry. I was jesting. I’m supposed to be buying fabrics and bonnets and such annoying little things.” She sighed with a drop of her shoulders. “But this duck-billed platypus wants to live on my wall and so does this koala bear. Oh, I can’t decide. There’s nothing for me but to go to Australia and collect them all.”

The clerk’s mouth dropped open again. She gave that laugh that seemed to resonate in Exmore’s chest. “I’m still jesting. I guess I shall take the platypus—my father adored it. My other monies I shall waste on silly ball slippers and such.”

Exmore suppressed an appreciative smile. The poor young clerk’s hands were positively shaking when he lifted the desired illustration from the table and began to wrap it in paper. Meanwhile, Annalise returned to studying the pictures. She turned toward Exmore again, and her gaze was about to take him in. He couldn’t hide. Instead, he rose taller, bracing for the impact of eye contact. His heart hammered as if it were located behind his eardrums. What would she say? Would she still hate him? Did she love someone else? Did she know his wife had died? Did she know how low he had sunk?

Then the door flew open, the bell ringing violently. Annalise spun around as Sally Sommerville rushed in. Two young ladies were in her wake, one he had seen dangling about the woman at balls. He made himself as invisible as possible behind the statue and lowered his head. He could not see the ladies, but he listened to their conversation.

“Annalise, it was all for naught. The shipment from India is late,” one of the girls said.

“How thoughtless of the Indian and Atlantic oceans to delay us,” Annalise quipped. Again, his lips curled into a smile.

“Thank you, miss,” the clerk said.

“Did you buy an illustration?” Mrs. Sommerville asked.

“Oh yes.” Annalise’s voice was breathy with joy. Paper crinkled as she must have opened the package for the others to see.

“What is that?” one of the girls asked.

“It’s a duck-billed platypus.” Annalise enunciated each syllable. “Isn’t it delightful?”

“It’s rather homely.”

“I’m sure to other platypuses it’s quite ravishing,” Annalise declared. Exmore smirked.

“I’m thinking of dressing as one for the masquerade,” Annalise continued. “Then, should I see another duck-billed platypus, I shall know that we are destined to be together. Perhaps you should like to be a sea dragon, Phoebe? Imagine the costume.”

“I should love to be anything other than a boring shepherdess.”

“But then you may use your crook to herd your dance partner,” Annalise pointed out.

They must be referring to the Boxhaven masquerade tomorrow night.

“Oh, I’m vexed that the shipment hasn’t arrived,” Mrs. Sommerville complained, putting an end to the banter Exmore had enjoyed. “Now we must try that other shop in the arcade. Hardly my favorite. Come along, girls.”