He halted next to her, close enough to smell roses, and reached for a plate. “Why the Ophelia?” he asked, his voice low.
Pink champagne splashed onto the tablecloth. She spooked easily and like a cat, all four paws in the air.
“Your pardon?” She was keeping her body angled away from him.
“When you were at—”
“Hush,” she hissed, then cringed, presumably for shushing him. He randomly selected a pastry while she composed herself.
“Why the Ophelia?” she then said under her breath. “Because she is a marvel.”
“You’ve seen it before?”
Her gaze was darting around the room, he could tell from the corner of his eye. She was engaging him only to keep him from attracting attention. Undoubtedly, all attention was on them already. It was true that ladies appeared at his doorstep once in a while, and though they wanted what he offered in the bedchamber, at a social function such as this the same women would herd their precious daughters and nieces out of his reach at all speed. His little chat with Miss Greenfield was on borrowed time.
He turned to her just as she reluctantly turned to him. Her face was already familiar; he knew the smattering of freckles across her nose and that her plush bottom lip could taste like sugar. Her eyes were dark and shiny like the chocolates piling high on her plate. He knew the wholesome impishness was a decoy—he’d never forget the impressive slap she had dealt him. She was a southpaw, the only reason why she had managed to catch him, he had reflected later on—he hadn’t expected a blow from the left. He hadn’t expected a blow at all; no one dared raise a hand to him outside the boxing ring. Aoife Byrne would like her for that slap. . . .
“I have seen prints of the painting,” she said. “In its original color and size, it should be utterly enchanting.”
“Enchanting,” he echoed.
Her chin tipped up. “Dreamlike, of a yearning quality . . . Pre-Raphaelite. I understand the Ophelia embodies all their best principles. I thought if I looked at her long enough, perhaps I could decipher the brotherhood’s secret.”
“They have a secret?”
She nodded. “Something in their technique that renders a scene lush and romantic but not mawkish; whimsical but not saccharine.”
She talked fast and said things he hadn’t thought real people would say. He imagined characters in a novel spoke like her. “And it doesn’t offend you that Ophelia is about to take her own life?” he asked, far too sarcastic in tone. He meant to lull the girl, not shock her. Her wee perky nose and her naïve enthusiasm about death by drowning were grating on him.
Unexpectedly, her stance eased, as though they were falling into a regular conversation. “I prefer to think of her dying from unrequited love,” she said, “which I find tragic rather than deserving of spite.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Then you think tragedy enchanting?”
She returned his stare with a small pucker between her brows. “I think everyone should have at least one person they love well enough to die for.”
He gave a soft grunt of surprise. “Ophelia didn’t die for Hamlet,” he said. “She died because of him.” He knew this because he had been dragged along to Shakespeare’s plays by old Graham, who had occasionally felt called to civilize the adolescent Lucian.
Miss Greenfield’s frown had deepened. “I gather you have strong feelings about the difference.”
“It matters not to me either way—no one person is worth dying for.”
She looked at him very earnestly. “I’m terribly sorry this is the case for you, sir.”
He felt winded then, as though he’d abruptly run out of breath. His gaze dropped to his plate, now filled with costly delicacies that he’d never planned on eating.
“Why did you purchase her?” came her soft voice.
He looked up. “Because she will fetch a high price one day.”
Her face fell. The very concept of profitability seemed to displease her, naturally, since she would’ve never known a day without all the comforts money so conveniently provided. Her skin was proof of it: it had the muted glow and smooth texture of milk glass. Such skin had never seen the sun or strain.
“If profit is your only motivation,” she said, “I’m surprised you aren’t protecting the Han vases on your mantelshelf with greater care.”
He stilled. “Why do you think they’re Han vases?”
“I know they are; I studied art history books long before I went up to Oxford,” she said with a small shrug. “One could argue they belong in the British Museum. Or that the Chinese Legation in Portland Place would be pleased to receive them.” She sipped champagne and absently licked her lips.
He dragged his gaze away from her damp mouth. “There’s nothing unusual about keeping one’s Han vases instead of letting them gather dust in a museum.”
“Even if they are part of the long-lost Empress Lingsi Collection?” she chirped.
This unnerved him again, and he couldn’t remember the last time another person had had this effect on him, which unnerved him more. He supposed she had the advantage of being underestimated in her fluffy, glossy, chirpy disguise.
“I had a feeling I had seen the pattern of the relief in the context of Han vases before,” she continued. “I confirmed my suspicions in the Bodleian with a textbook, a fifteenth-century book on ceramics containing copies of old relief patterns. Of course, I could be wrong.”
“You know you’re not wrong,” he said quietly. He had consulted the same book a few years ago and she was correct on all counts. “You are remarkably observant. Contrary to what your aunt thinks, you might well be one of the cleverest people in this room, certainly the one with the best visual memory.” He leaned a little closer. “But what you might find impossible to fathom is that, sometimes, a man will hoard priceless things and yet treat them with no more care than cheap trinkets, simply because it gives him pleasure that he can.”
He knew his words were shocking; more shocking was that she had drawn them out of him.
Her eyes were wide, and very near. “If this is true,” she breathed, “it would be terribly decadent.”
“I can be decadent, Miss Greenfield.”
The warmth of her fine skin touched his cheek, for the distance between them had shrunk to nothing. If he were to lean down, he’d be close enough to taste the corner of her mouth. He wanted to. The room dimmed and blurred as the urge took him, while her face remained precisely etched, down to the last golden freckle.
“Harriet.”
He straightened and stepped back.