Page 33

A few days after their arrival, the weather took a turn for the worse, and Aunt insisted on keeping Lark inside for fear of her catching a cold.

“It is only ten days until we return to London,” Aunt Harriet said. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to return to your mother with a chest cold.”

Lark had reluctantly agreed, especially when she discovered the men would be remaining indoors, as well.

However, instead of being treated to time with Mr. Branok, when the group gathered together for tea and conversation, she discovered his absence immediately.

She remained for as long as possible with the present company but soon found herself longing for solitude—if only so she might not have to feign interest in the conversations around her.

Excusing herself, Lark returned to her bedchamber, gathered her collection of Mr. Branok’s and Thomas Beswick’s books, then made her way to the library where she swiveled around an oversized, single-seat chair to face the window.

There, she nestled into the cushion and pulled out the first volume of Mr. Branok’s works, rotating between his words and the view she had out of the window as rain poured down onto the green grass and thick trees beyond.

The room was warm and comforting, the dark wood shelves and green furnishings made only slightly brighter by the dim light seeping in through the many windows that made up nearly all of the west wall.

Lark breathed a sigh of peace, finally feeling at one with herself.

The last few days she’d had with Mr. Branok had been a dream—occasionally flirting, regularly whispering, and frequently sharing in the joys of observing new birds like ospreys, ring ouzels, and jackdaws.

Mr. Branok had often sought her out and asked for her knowledge on the birds they discovered, as well as any other information she might be willing to divulge, causing Lark to feel seen, heard, and appreciated.

Yes, she was quite content with their relationship the way it was—their friendship the way it was.

And yet, her emotions continually and errantly strayed.

Each time he helped her down from the carriage, warmth rushed through her limbs to remain in her heart like an inextinguishable flame.

And each time they spoke in hushed tones by the fire at night, her soul yearned to be nearer to him, so much so that when she was away from him, she could hardly focus on anything but him.

This was her problem now. For even though she attempted to read more about the schomburger from the West Indies and its reddish-brown color and long bill, all she could think about was Mr. Branok, if he had discovered the bird during his own time in the West Indies…

and how he might have looked in the heat of the day while there.

Tanned features. Sweat beading across his brow. Dark blond hair dipping over his bright blue eyes that matched the skies above. Cravat and waistcoat gone—it was too hot to wear such things out there, after all.

He would be hunched over low, hidden in long grass.

A thin shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.

Perhaps he’d unbuttoned the top, allowing the contours of his chest and collar bone to be just visible.

His lips would be slightly parted as he released soft breaths to avoid scaring off the bird.

Lips that were formed, wet from just licking them to keep them moist, and then?—

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Lark started, hefting herself out of her very unladylike daydream. With a racing heart, she peered around the corner of her chair to see who had disturbed her from such enjoyable thoughts.

Her stomach dipped at the sight of Mr. Branok himself entering the room. He didn’t see her, moving instead to the bookshelf where he faced the six shelves stuffed with brown, red, and blue leather-bound books.

In silence, she shifted her own books on her lap so Beswick’s was on top. Once secure in her knowledge that Mr. Branok would not discover her reading his books out of her own personal collection, she took a moment to unabashedly observe him as he perused the shelves.

He wore no jacket—and his waistcoat was buttoned to his cravat—but it contoured his broad shoulders closely as he held his hands behind his back.

She should probably be more ashamed of spying on him, but the time between them had been so comfortable, so casual, that she could not help but treat this situation as he would. It was much more fun this way anyway.

After a moment, he turned away from the shelves and faced the windows instead, walking forward to better view the grounds. Was he watching for birds? As Uncle would say, “The weather is not even fit for ducks.”

He appeared pensive, a small smile on his lips, and Lark longed to know of what he thought until he turned to leave. Before he managed two steps, however, he caught her gaze and stopped, pulling back with a smile.

“Miss Fernside? My apologies. I did not see you there.”

“I know,” she answered with a smile of her own.

He narrowed his eyes. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Since you entered the room.”

“And you did not think to alert me of your presence?”

“I thought it would be more enjoyable this way.”

“You are beginning to sound like me, Miss Fernside.”

They shared a smile.

“Did you not wish to visit with the others this morning?” she asked.

“I did, but my time was spent this morning writing letters of business to my steward.” He paused. “Did you not wish to visit with them either?”

“I was for a moment, but I prefer reading.”

Mr. Branok glanced toward the doorway, as if wondering whether or not he should leave since the two of them were alone, but he seemed to think better of it, taking a few steps toward her instead.

His gaze dropped to the books in her lap, and she breathed silently in relief that she’d thought to hide his books. They’d grown closer as friends, but not nearly close enough for her to reveal just how obsessed she had been—and still was—with his writing.

“Reading, I take it?” he asked, motioning to the books.

“I was, yes.”

“Which books?” He tipped his head to the side to read the spines, but she discreetly shifted her hand to hide them.

“Thomas Beswick,” she said.

“Ah, of course. I trust you are not using the birds within those pages to add to your list.”

He gave her a look of warning, and she attempted to tamp down how greatly she enjoyed the attention.

“I would never dream of breaking the rules, Mr. Branok. You know that.”

“Mmm. Yes, I do.” He tipped his head to the side again. “What other books have you there?”

“Oh, just more of his.”

“I wasn’t aware he’d written so many.”

She scrambled to think of a response, and in so doing, Mr. Branok had a moment to witness her hesitation. Once again, he narrowed his eyes. “Is there a reason you are keeping the other books from me? To hoard the knowledge to yourself, perhaps? Become the better bird observer, after all?”

“No, that would be ridiculous,” she replied.

“Then why do you not tell me what other books you have?”

“I never said I would not.”

“Very well, then tell me.”

She drew a deep breath. Perhaps she could play it off coolly, as if she hardly cared. She raised Beswick’s to reveal Mr. Branok’s own books. “Oh, they are yours, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” He was barely restraining his smile now as he took a step closer.

“Yes. I…I just saw them and thought I might peruse them.” That was more or less the truth. She needn’t mention they were her personal copies, nor that she’d “just” seen them on her bedside table.

He moved forward, leaning toward her. “Which volumes?”

“Let us see,” she began, reading them as if she didn’t already know. “Volumes one, three, and…five.”

“Ah, of course.”

He peered closer, his head just over her shoulder. Her mind swirled at his closeness as the scent of his earthy cologne wafted around her. Still, she forced herself to remain still, if only to pretend she was unaffected by his proximity.

“Those volumes hold some of my favorite birds I’ve ever recorded,” he said. He wandered away from her, taking a seat diagonally from her, though he faced away from the window and toward Lark. “Have you read them before?”

This was the question she’d been dreading—no doubt the question he’d been dying to ask her for weeks.

The innocent smile on his lips and the mischievous look in his eyes told her that he already knew the answer to that question.

After all, she’d essentially admitted to reading his work when she’d critiqued him for mixing up the redstart and the golden-crested wren.

But her pride hindered the truth from coming forth more fully, so she remained silent.

“It is a simple enough question, Miss Fernside,” he began. “Yet I detect a struggle within you to reply. Why is that?”

His smile grew ever wider.

“Truthfully?” she asked. He nodded. “I do not wish to inflate your head to an even greater size than it already is.”

He laughed. “Always the flatterer.”

“I do try.”

“Come now, my friend,” he coaxed. “Surely you can tell me if you have read my work before now.”

Lark pulled in her lips. Very well. If he wished for her to bear her soul, he would need to bear his own first.

“I will tell you that and more,” she began, “if you tell me why you become upset whenever Blackstone’s is mentioned.”

Instantly, his features fell, but he picked them up swiftly with an easy smile. “You do drive a hard bargain. Though I am minded to accept your suggestion. But first answer me this…Do you care that I am part of such a club?”

“Not in the slightest,” she answered truthfully. “I know nothing of gentlemen’s clubs. I am merely curious after seeing your reaction when speaking of them.”

And Uncle Francis’s reaction, but she would keep that to herself.