Chapter Four

I t was disagreeable for a man to be excessively attractive. Heloise took up her pen and made a note of it on a loose slip of paper. For a start, it was distracting. One could hardly focus on being cogent and insightful while ogling one's conversation partner.

Take now, for instance. Here was her tutor, sitting in the same chair as yesterday. Lounging, really, long legs crossed at the ankle and fingers drumming the tabletop. She had already lost several minutes staring at his hair. It was glossy brown, with a slight curl that fell in waves about his brow and temples. His full lips were pursed, the hint of a dimple on one cheek. He was looking at her oddly, but she couldn't focus her attention. All she could think was that his eyelashes were as black and liquid as India ink over his coffee-colored eyes.

Further, his looks complicated what ought to have been a straightforward arrangement. When she had devised her plan, the tutor had been a faceless, formless figure who would help her gather data. She saw now that she had underestimated the effect of being in close quarters with the flesh-and-blood reality. She spent little time around people, almost no time at all around men, and was beginning to suspect she ought to have chosen a less stunning specimen. All the more reason this research was essential; these early missteps revealed just how much she had to learn on the subject of romance.

Her tutor cleared his throat, and she tore her eyes away from the perfect, Euclidian slope of his nose.

"We had better discuss your proposal," he said.

Heloise felt her breath catch. "You were adamantly opposed to it yesterday."

"Yes, but since then I've unpacked my things, spent the night in an extremely comfortable bed, and woke this morning to find a tray of bacon and toast at my door. I am fortified for battle." He cocked his head at her. "Besides, you made a list. That is worthy of at least one serious conversation."

Heloise studied his face, the masculine planes and angles, the dark hair, and eyes. Yesterday, when he had been so appalled by her request, she had experienced a brief, sharp pain in her chest. She later identified it as the sting of rejection. Now, she felt anxious at the prospect of his acceptance. Their every encounter confounded her, and their lessons had not yet begun.

"Present your case." Her tutor leaned back and laced his fingers over his lean midsection, giving her his full attention.

Heloise chewed the inside of her lip. She was unpracticed at debate, having deliberately constructed a life in which she would never have to explain herself to anyone. Her tutor waited patiently. Finally, she took a breath, folded her elbows on the table, and forced her gaze to his.

"I consider myself a student of humanity," she said. "I've an interest in morality, ethics, and behavior. I've written many philosophical essays, poems, and plays exploring our state of being."

Her tutor nodded. "I would say the same."

"When I want to think through an idea, I write a play." She put her hand atop a pile of loose pages on the table, her manuscript in progress. "This is my latest work. It's about a young couple, Marie and Francois, living in 12 th century Paris. They have a love affair."

"Sounds delightful."

She grimaced. "I can't write it. Everything I say rings hollow. I've never had a lover. I haven't experienced desire or longing. I've never been heartbroken. I don't understand love."

"Experience is not necessary for understanding."

"Spoken like someone with experience." The words came out too sharply and her tutor's brows shot up. Perhaps she ought to make an effort not to antagonize the man she was trying to convince to compromise her.

"Forgive me." She rubbed a hand over her face. "I've grown quite frustrated. Usually, when I seek knowledge, the answers are here." She waved a hand at her beloved books. "But I've read everything I can find on love. Plays, poems, essays, gothic novels with brooding, scarred heroes. I have exhausted my resources, and for the first time in my life, I remain unsatisfied."

"Why this subject?" Her tutor's voice was kind, but curious. "Romantic love is not a topic of serious scholarship."

"Well, it should be!" Feeling her skin prickle in agitation, she rose from the table and began to pace. "It is a persistent theme in every mode of artistic expression. Wars have been fought for it." She spun to face him. "It is essential to our understanding of humanity!"

"I take your point." The flash of white teeth in his smile broke her train of thought. "Does that conclude your argument?"

"No." Here was the part that was difficult to explain. That she had begun to chafe against the limitations of her life. That she was restless and dissatisfied, and when she looked to the predictable, quiet years ahead, she did not like what she saw.

"Frankly," she said, "I resent the fact that, as an unmarried woman, I am forbidden to pursue my interest in romance. I am insulted by the suggestion that I benefit from ignorance in this matter." A wave of bitterness filled her throat, and she swallowed it down. "I abhor ignorance. I will not deny myself an experience so fundamental to our existence. I refuse."

Heloise realized that she had become emotional. She put her palms to her flushed cheeks, her chest rising and falling on unsteady breaths. Her tutor's eyes were fixed to her. They were bright with interest, the deep brown irises almost glowing, and she had to look away. He made no response, silence fell over the library, and Heloise jumped a foot when she heard an abrupt knocking, signaling Sarah had arrived with the tea tray.