Julia Quinn - Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He chuckled. “There is someone at some university attempting it right now, I assure you.”

She looked over at him, which was probably a mistake, because it left her feeling somewhat breathless. Nonetheless, she was able to say (and in a remarkably reasonable voice), “Are professors so very eccentric, then?”

“The ones with long fingernails are.”

She laughed, and he did, too, and then she realized that neither of them was looking at the map.

His eyes, she thought, with a strange kind of detachment, as if she were regarding a piece of art. She liked his eyes. She liked looking at them.

How was it that she had never realized that the right one had a stripe in it? She’d thought the irises were blue-not pale, or clear, or even azure, but a dark, smoky shade with the barest hint of gray. But now she could see quite clearly that there was a brown stripe in one of them. It ran from the pupil down to where one would find the four on a clock.

It made her wonder how she’d never seen it before. Maybe it was just that she’d never looked closely enough. Or maybe he’d never allowed her close enough, for long enough, to do so.

And then, in a voice as contemplative and muted as hers surely would have been, had she had the nerve to speak, he murmured, “Your eyes look almost brown just now.”

Amelia felt herself jolted back into reality. And she said, “You have a stripe.”

And promptly wanted to flee the room. What a pea-brained thing to say.

He touched the bruised skin of his cheekbone. “A stripe?”

“No, in your eye,” she clarified, because it wasn’t as if she could take the comment back. She might as well make her meaning clear. She motioned awkwardly in the air with her right hand, darting forward as if to point it out, but then jerking back since she could not touch him, and certainly not in his eye.

“Oh. Oh, that. Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it?” He made a strange sort of face. Well, no, not really. It would not have been strange on anyone else, but on him it was. It was a little bit modest, almost a little bit sheepish, and so thoroughly and wonderfully human that her heart skipped a beat.

“No one else has ever noticed it,” he added. “It’s probably for the best, really. It’s a foolish little imperfection.”

Was he fishing for compliments? She pressed her lips together, avoiding a smile. “I like it,” she told him. “I like anything that makes you less than perfect.”

Something in his expression warmed. “Is that so?”

She nodded, then looked away. Funny how it was easier to be frank and brave when he was angry (or, she supposed, tipsy) than when he was smiling at her.

“You will find many things to like about me, then,” he said, his voice too close to her ear for her comfort, “once you get to know me better.”

She pretended to study the map. “Are you telling me you are not perfect?”

“I would never presume to say that,” he teased.

She swallowed. He was leaning far too close. He probably didn’t even notice the nearness; his voice sounded completely unaffected, his breathing controlled and even to her ears.

“Why did you say my eyes were brown?” she asked, still keeping her eyes on the atlas.

“I didn’t. I said they looked brown.”

She felt a completely unbecoming swell of vanity rise within her. She’d always been proud of her hazel eyes. They were her best feature. Certainly her most unique. All of her sisters shared the same blond hair and skin tone, but she was the only one with such interesting eyes.

“They looked green this morning,” he continued. “Although I suppose that could have been the drink. Another pint of ale and there would have been butterflies coming out of your ears.”

She turned at that, utterly indignant. “It was not the drink. My eyes are hazel. Far more green than brown,” she added in a mutter.

He smiled rather stealthily. “Why, Amelia, have I discovered your vanity?”

He had, not that he was going to get her to admit it. “They’re hazel,” she said again, a little primly. “It’s a family trait.”

Someone’s family, at least.

“Actually,” he said quite softly, “I was rather marveling on their changeability.”

“Oh.” She swallowed, discomfited by his gentle compliment. And at the same time rather pleased. “Thank you.” She turned back to the map, which sat, safe and comforting, on the table before her. “Look how big Greenland is,” she said, mostly because the big blob at the top was the first thing she saw.

“It’s not really that big,” he said. “The map distorts area.”

“It does?”

“You did not know that?”

His tone was not insulting. It was not even condescending, but nonetheless, she felt foolish. It seemed like the sort of thing she ought to have known. And certainly it was the sort of thing she’d like to have known.

“It comes from having to spread a spherical object onto a flat plane,” he explained. “Try to envision wrapping this map around a sphere. You’d have a great deal of extra paper at the poles. Or conversely, try to imagine taking the surface of a sphere and laying it out flat. You would not get a rectangle.”

She nodded, cocking her head to the side as she considered this. “So the tops and bottoms are stretched. Or rather, the north and the south.”

“Exactly. Do you see how Greenland looks nearly equal in size to Africa? It’s actually less than one tenth the area.”

She looked up at him. “Nothing is as it seems, is it?”

He was silent for just long enough to make her wonder if they were still talking about maps. And then he said, his face devoid of emotion, “No.”

She shook her head, turning back to the map. “Strange.”

And she thought she heard him say, “You have no idea.” She glanced at him curiously, intending to ask what he meant, but he’d already returned his attention to the map.

“These projections do have their advantages,” he said, sounding somewhat brisk, as if it were his turn to wish to change the subject. “It is true that they do not preserve actual area, but the local angles remain true, which is why they are so useful in navigation.”

She was not sure that she fully understood what he was saying, but she enjoyed listening to him discuss something so academic. And she adored that he had not brushed it aside as a topic that would surely be of no interest to a lady. She looked over at him and smiled. “You certainly seem to know a great deal about this.”

He shrugged modestly. “It is an interest of mine.”

She sucked in her lips, a habit of hers that her mother detested. But she could not seem to help it. It was something she always did when she was deciding what to say. Or whether to say it.

“There is a name for this subject, is there not?” she asked. One of her feet was tapping nervously in her shoe. She wanted to know the name, because she wanted to try to look it up in her father’s encyclopedia at home, but she hated revealing her ignorance. It brought to mind all those times she’d been forced to smile politely when her mother described her as smart (but not too smart).

“You mean mapmaking?”

She nodded.

“It is called cartography. From the Greek chartis, for map, and graphein, to write.”

“I should have known that,” she muttered. “Not the Greek, I suppose, but at least the word. Did my parents think we would never have use for a map?”

“I imagine they thought you would have others to read them for you,” Thomas said gently.

She looked over at him in dismay. “You agree, then? That I have been educated appropriately?”

It was a terrible question to ask him. She’d put him in a dreadful spot, but she couldn’t help it.

“I think,” he said, his voice soft and deliberate, “that if you showed a desire for more knowledge, you should have been given the opportunity to acquire it.”

And that was the moment. She didn’t realize it right away, and in fact she wouldn’t realize it-or rather, she wouldn’t let herself realize it-for several weeks to come. But that was the moment she fell in love with him.

An hour later, after pulling fourteen atlases from the shelves and explaining to Amelia the difference between Mercator, sinusoidal, and conical map projections, Thomas deposited her in one of the front drawing rooms and notified the butler that she was there to see Miss Eversleigh.

Grace would have to be informed of the morning’s activities, there was no getting around that. If a lie could not be made as close as possible to the truth, then Thomas was of the opinion that the truth ought to be made as close as possible to the lie. Everyone was far less likely to get confused that way. This meant, however, that Amelia needed to visit with Grace, and more important, that Grace understood that she was to have been shopping in Stamford that morning and invited Amelia back to Belgrave.

He, however, needed to speak with Grace first, without Amelia’s knowledge, and so he positioned himself in the doorway of another drawing room, closer to the stairs, where he might intercept her before she reached her destination.

After five minutes he heard footsteps coming softly down the stairs. Definitely a feminine footfall. He moved closer to the doorway, confirmed that it was indeed Grace, and, when the time came, reached out and yanked her inside.

“Thomas!” she exclaimed after her initial yelp of shock. Her eyes widened as she took in his disheveled appearance. “What happened to you?”

He put his finger to his lips and shut the door behind them. “Were you expecting someone else?” he asked, since her surprise had seemed more to the who than the actual event.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. But her skin colored all the same. She looked about the room, probably to discern if they were alone. “What is wrong?”