Every Whispered Word Read Online Free PDF Page B

sidewalk toward an elegantly appointed black carriage, her crinkled skirts swishing heavily about her, her pale blond hair falling in a tempest of waves beneath the wilted roses of her ridiculous hat. He wondered why her driver had not waited with her carriage directly outside his door. Perhaps she had instructed him to park a little further down the street so that she might enjoy a brief stroll. Whatever the reason, her stride was quick and determined as she walked, her beaded reticule swinging from her gloved wrist. The mauve and pewter colors of early evening swirled in a dusky veil around her, and as she reached the carriage she turned and waved.
    Then she opened the vehicle’s door and climbed inside, evidently so anxious to depart that she did not wait for her coachman to climb down and assist her.
    Simon closed his door and stood in his front hall a moment. The leaden light had fallen like a caul over the barely furnished area, making it seem unusually oppressive and gloomy. He debated lighting the gas lamp fixture on the wall, then decided against it. He rarely ventured from his laboratory until the middle of the night anyway, and with all the straightening up he still had to do, he would probably be down there until the early hours of the morning. As he headed back down to the kitchen he noticed that his trousers were wet and clinging to him, and his sodden shirt was open nearly to his waist.
    Wonderful, he thought dryly. Now on top of being labeled reclusive, absentminded, and profoundly eccentric, he could add being an exhibitionist to his list. Lady Camelia had not seemed to mind his state of undress, he reflected, or if she had, she had been extremely adept at masking her discomfiture. Perhaps her time in the wilds of South Africa had desensitized her to the proprieties of English society. It was doubtful that the native workers she employed labored in the scorching heat in a starched shirt, waistcoat, and jacket.
    He lifted his experimental mop from the table and set to cleaning the floor, trying hard not to think about her sage green eyes, and how gloriously soft and warm she had felt in the achingly brief moment he had held her.
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    â€œGood Lord, madam, whatever do you think you’re doing?” demanded the beefy-faced gentleman staring at Camelia from the opposite side of the carriage. “This isn’t your carriage!”
    â€œIt isn’t?” Camelia looked about its wine velvet interior, pretending to be confused. “It certainly looks like my carriage—I recognize the curtains—are you certain you haven’t made a mistake and climbed into the wrong one?”
    â€œQuite certain,” the man returned adamantly, “since I’ve just returned from the country and have been sitting in this very seat for the last three hours. I was just about to disembark when you climbed in.”
    She cautiously peered out the carriage window, watching as Simon went back into his house and closed the door.
    â€œThen I must beg your forgiveness, sir,” she apologized, opening the door. “I told my driver to wait for me here, but it appears he must have moved a little further down the avenue. I regret causing you any inconvenience.” She disembarked and fled down the street, tightly clutching her reticule.
    Her heart pounded against her ribs as she raced along, fearful that at any moment Mr. Kent would discover she had stolen his drawing and chase after her. A heady mixture of triumph and fear kept her breaths shallow and her steps swift. She might not have Mr. Kent’s newfangled steam-powered pump, but she had an extremely detailed sketch of it. She would find someone else to build it for her—someone who would share her vision of advancing the field of archaeology. There were other inventors in London—men who were interested in loftier pursuits than trying to use steam power to launder underclothes or wring the last