Chapter Six

P eter's student stared at his proffered hand as if she expected it to pinch her. He himself had been quite unsettled yesterday morning. But once he had been installed in the bedchamber with the floral-and-peacock wallpaper, spread out on the four-poster bed inhaling the fresh scent of clean linen, the situation had presented itself in a different light. He could spend a few weeks writing his treatise and kissing a somewhat odd but extremely engaging young woman. Not such a trial, really.

Now, he watched his student hesitate. Her face, which he had thought plain only yesterday, was in fact highly sensitive and expressive. Peter could see apprehension written in the tension on her brow and the tight twist of her mouth. Perhaps she would call it off, admitting this was all mere bluster, a young woman's idle fantasy. He felt a stab of dismay at the thought.

"Have you never held a man's hand before?" he asked, though the answer was clearly written in the rigid lines of her body.

"I don't get out much." She kept watch over his hand, as one might keep their eye on an unpredictable wild animal.

"Surely you must leave the library at times."

"I walk around the block in the evenings, for exercise." Her brows knit as she searched for other examples. "Sarah and I attended an opera at the Covent Garden Theater. That was four years ago. I didn't like the crowds." When she looked up and saw his expression, she gave him a defensive glare. "Everything I need is here."

Peter might have pointed out that she would hardly have hired him if that were the case. But he could see that she was nervous and flustered. "Come," he said, rising from his seat. He went to the tall picture window set in the wall behind the table. The window was shaped in a wide arch, framed in the same dark wood as the bookshelves. It curved almost to the ceiling, and the sill was built out into a deep reading bench. The bench was covered in a colorful, motley pile of cushions; square and round and oblong, some with tassels, some velvet and some silk. Peter saw a few lacy bed pillows in the mix. He took a seat on the soft, yielding pile, and after a moment, his student joined him.

They looked out over the garden. It was stark this time of year, the rose bushes mostly thorns and bare, knotted branches. A few wrens hopped and pecked in the box hedges, and the whole scene was washed in the frigid, sparkling light of February.

Peter tucked one leg under and rested his open hand casually on his knee. He didn't look at his student, but he could hear her soft breathing, and the faint tick of the mantlepiece clock. They both continued gazing out the window. Then, without warning, she reached out and slipped her hand into his.

Peter held his breath as she wiggled it, trying to find a comfortable fit. After a little experimentation, she settled on a loose clasp with their palms fitted together. Her hand was soft and warm; he had the impulse to lace their fingers. But he didn't move, letting her grow used to the sensation.

His student studied their joined hands, and he studied her face. Slowly, her tense expression faded, and her features brightened with curiosity. She gave his fingers a timid squeeze. Then she flipped his hand over, palm-down. For one giddy moment he wondered if she would kiss his knuckles, like a gentleman greeting a well-bred lady. But she only brushed her thumb over the back, examining the sparse, dark hair at his wrist. Once satisfied, she turned his palm up again and spread his fingers apart.

"You have a callus here." She touched a spot high on his middle finger, where the skin was raised and rough. "From writing. I have one, too." She showed him where years of holding her pen had left their mark. Then she ran her fingers through his, gingerly stroking between them and down to the whorled tips.

Peter did not consider his hands to be particularly sensitive. But when she caressed his fingers again, he shivered. He could not recall a time he had ever been handled with such careful intention, and with no expectation beyond the simple pleasure of touch. Finally concluding her exploration, his pupil held his hand once more and reclined against the window, her temple set to the glass. Peter found himself too restless to keep quiet.

"Well?" he asked.

"It's…pleasant."

"Two words all men long to hear."

She nibbled her lip. "I'm not sure what I expected."

Peter could almost read her thoughts in the quirk of her eloquent mouth, the questioning light in her eyes. "The experience can vary based on the partner. Holding hands might be thrilling, or revolting, or simply dull, depending on your feelings for the person attached."

"Truly?" She looked baffled, and he was reminded that, for all her intelligence, she was a complete novice in this area. "Can we take a break?" She frowned down at their joined hands. "I'd like to make some notes. Also, my hand is sweating."

He released her and she unselfconsciously wiped her palm down the front of her dress. She went to sit at the table, and presently he heard the rustle of paper and the scratch of her quill. He remained seated at the window, admiring the ceramic tiles and terra cotta pots that lined the garden walk.

"When did you first hold someone's hand?" The question floated toward him over the steady rasp of her pen.

"I was twelve. One of my professors invited me to his home for Christmas Day. He had a daughter my age; she was wearing a red velvet dress with a white bow. We were seated together at dinner. When we bowed our heads to pray, she took my hand under the table."

A chuckle from across the room. "How bold."

"It was terribly exciting."

"Why? You scarcely knew her."

"Youth and novelty contributed to the effect, I suppose."

When she didn't reply, he turned to her. She sat with her shoulders hunched nearly to her ears. Then, the noise of the quill ceased.

"Why were you spending Christmas with a professor?" She twisted around and he was caught in her inquisitive gaze.

"I stayed at school year-round. It was a natural fit for me. I didn't feel the need to return home often."

Before she could ask another question, he hurried to the table and took a seat beside her. They were elbow to elbow; he picked up the fresh scent of soap, and underneath, the faint, tangy sweetness of ink. Not a particularly exotic perfume, but fitting, and appealing, nonetheless.

"What conclusions have you drawn from our experiment?" he asked.

She rested her chin on her hand. "More questions than conclusions. How can a simple action produce such varied effects?"

"Love and attraction are extremely subjective, I'm afraid."

She grumbled and took up the quill again. Her profile was like a face stamped on a coin, placid and serious and turned inward. She finished a line with a flourish and stole a glance at the gilded antique clock on the mantle.

"We should press on." She squared her stack of notes.

"As you wish."

He tried to catch her eye, but she seemed to be studying something on the ceiling. She tapped her fingers on the table and moved her pen to the other side of the inkwell.

"Kissing, then," he said helpfully.

She turned to face him. Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up again. He suspected she may have stopped breathing.

"There's no need to rush," he said.

"There's no reason to delay." She straightened her spine, pressed her lips into a thin, bloodless line, and closed her eyes. "Please proceed."

He sighed. She was frightened but resolved to be kissed. He leaned forward and touched his mouth to her dry lips. She stiffened. He held perfectly still for a count of three. Then he sat back, and she remained with her face thrust forward into empty air. When nothing else happened, she opened her eyes.

"What was that?"

"A kiss."

"It can't be."

"I assure you it was."

His pupil crossed her arms and recited:

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss:

Her lips suck forth my soul, see where it flies!

Come Helen, come, give me my soul again.

Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips,

"You're telling me those lines refer to what I just experienced?" Her face was flushed, and a whisp of hair had fallen from her twist. Peter found the effect enchanting.

"My dear…," he began, but she shot him a killing look, and he held up his hands. "Heloise. There are other, more intimate sorts of kisses. I simply thought, to start—"

"Oh, for God's sake. If you're going to kiss me, I wish you would do it properly!"