No, in spite of their minimal conversation, her hesitance to approach him and his usual lack of awareness as to her very existence, it was Michael who pulled at her heart. She knew from Poppy that, while not titled, his family had a significant fortune as his grandfather had founded Shepard’s department store, an establishment nearly as large and prestigious as Harrods. He had attended Oxford, he spoke three languages fluently and several others passably and he was well versed in ancient Greek, Roman and Coptic texts. Every now and then he would look up from his work to catch her staring at him and she would pretend to be staring into the distance, contemplating whatever it was she was working on and not thinking about the way his lips would feel on hers. Now and again she would look up to find him studying her and she would smile politely in response and immediately look away.
But regardless of their lack of conversation, Dulcie knew the sound of his laughter and the cadence of his speech. She had overheard any number of discussions between Michael and gentlemen who wandered into the library with the express purpose of engaging him in conversation. None of whom ever seemed to realize—or care—that Michael was not alone in the room. Under the strictest definition of the term, one might consider her attention eavesdropping but she made no effort to hide her presence and any idiot could see she was there.
It was fascinating to be privy to these chats even if she was not included. Just as it was impossible to overhear those discussions that were quiet and discreet—she was on the far side of the room after all—it was equally impossible not to listen to the more raucous debates on the most fascinating topics. Was Mr. Calvert really correct in his theories of where the legendary city of Troy might be located? Would Dr. Livingstone ever be found or had he perished in the jungles of Africa? Had all the tombs of the kings and queens of Egypt been discovered or were there still untold historic treasures and riches waiting just under the sands? In even the most amicable of these conversations voices would rise, words would fly and passion would fill the air.
The first time Michael’s gaze had met hers with any significance had been in the midst of a debate on the relative merits of Lake Victoria versus Lake Albert as the source of the Nile. He’d appeared quite startled but hadn’t paused in his discussion and had acted as if his gaze hadn’t meshed with hers for one glorious moment of unique and perfect communication. It then happened again and again. Sometimes she would nod in agreement with something he had just said or frown when she thought he was wrong. His eyes would narrow slightly but he didn’t seem to mind.
Even if they never spoke directly, there was something between them. Something fraught with potential and possibility. Something that might well be quite wonderful.
Obviously Michael’s courage—and there was no question as to the bravery of any man preparing to head into the unknown—did not extend to furthering their connection.
Unfortunately, neither did hers.
THE BLASTED WOMAN was staring at him again. Michael didn’t need to look up from his notes on the indigenous species of the upper Amazon to know Dulcie was studying him. He had long ago stopped thinking of her as Miss Middleworth. Quite improper but how could he think of her as Miss Middleworth when he could feel her gaze on him as if it were a physical touch. As if she were laying her hand on the side of his cheek. Not that such a thing would ever happen.
As much as he would like to further his acquaintance with the lovely Dulcie Middleworth, it was pointless. He was to join an expedition—his first—into the jungles of South America on a venture to settle the question of the true headwaters of the Amazon in a little over a month. It didn’t seem right, and certainly not fair, to engage any woman’s affections if he intended to go off without knowing with any certainty that he would return. He’d observed firsthand what happened to such women and he had vowed never to marry. Of course, it wasn’t fair either that this particular woman with her blue eyes and her engaging laugh had not only taken up permanent residence in the sanctuary of the Explorers Club library but had invaded his dreams, as well.
He had thought he would discourage any attraction between them by keeping to himself. Aside from a cordial daily greeting and insipid agreement on both their parts as to the state of London’s weather, they scarcely ever spoke. Nonetheless, he was continually acutely aware of her. How could he not be? She was so annoyingly there.
She left the faintest scent behind whenever she walked through the room, something vaguely floral and slightly spicy, like an exotic jungle blossom. When any of the women from the Ladies Committee were present doing whatever it was they did—it seemed suspiciously like puttering, but they did go about it in a determined manner—they routinely chatted with Dulcie or stopped to admire her work. Or shared surprisingly astute observations on the events of the day. Inevitably someone would say something amusing and Dulcie’s laughter would drift through the air and wrap around his heart. He wasn’t sure there was any sound quite so delightful and enchanting as that of Dulcie Middleworth’s laugh.
She was as talented as she was lovely. Whenever she left the library for whatever reason, he would find it necessary to stretch his legs or he would require a book on the far side of the room and would inevitably pass by her table where her work would be spread out for all to see. He knew nothing about artistic endeavors but anyone could see her work was good. Very good. With pen and ink and paint she made the bits of ancient pottery or rare Roman coins or artifacts from long dead civilizations come alive.
Keeping his distance from her was perhaps the hardest thing he had ever done. He had known it would be difficult from the moment he had first walked into this room three months ago. She had been sitting where she was now but the time of year and time of day had conspired to bathe her in a ray of sunlight, gilding her dark hair and casting a glow around her. As if she were an ethereal being composed entirely of light and beauty. Or a goddess sent to tempt unsuspecting mortals. A man of less practical sensibilities would have thought it a sign of divine intervention and not simply the angle of the sun and the placement of the windows. Michael’s plans for the foreseeable future did not include falling head over heels for anyone, let alone the daughter of a viscount and an influential member of the Explorers Club.
Dulcie Middleworth was not making his resolve any easier.
For one thing, she might well be every bit as attracted to him as he was to her, although he was grateful she had never said or done anything to confirm his suspicions. It was far easier to ignore any foolish feelings he might have if he pretended there was nothing between them. But aside from the fact that she stared at him rather frequently, just as he stared at her, there had been any number of times their gazes had met for longer than a fleeting instant. Understandable really. When he was in the midst of a heated discussion with other club members about a past discovery or some as yet unknown find, he forgot his determination to avoid any connection with her. The first time his gaze had caught hers in the midst of an impassioned debate about something he couldn’t even remember now, he was stunned to note she was not only listening but appeared to be quite interested. But then why wouldn’t she be? After all, her father was an ardent supporter of the club and known for inviting promising younger members, as well as those well-known experienced explorers, to his home for dinner and stimulating conversation. Michael had never been fortunate enough to receive such an invitation and wasn’t entirely sure he would be comfortable accepting as Dulcie would surely be in attendance.
Her obvious intelligence only made her more intriguing. It was his understanding that women were not, as a rule, particularly interested in matters of this sort. The next time he had been engaged in a rousing discussion, he couldn’t help but glance her way, only to find her nodding in agreement with him. His heart—which