CHRISTOPHER SPREAD HIS LEGS as much as the lecture hall seat would allow. His knees bumped up against the wooden back of the pew before him, the thin wool of his trousers doing little to protect him from the hard surface. Wincing, he shifted. His elbow struck the fellow sitting next to him, the man shooting him a dark glare, his lips twisted in a moue of displeasure. Ignoring the throb of pain radiating from the offending limb, he offered a weak smile of apology. The man jerked his gaze back to the lecturer, muttering under his breath a litany of what was no doubt curses.
Surreptitiously rubbing his knee, he focussed his own attention on the lecturer. The man droned on, something about crosschecking corroborating evidence with the… Good God, but the man was boring. Stupidly, he’d thought the lecture series on the murder of a young London tailor apprentice a few years back would be of interest. As near as he could recollect, the case had been full of lurid and salacious details; however, the lecturer was turning what had been a scintillating case into something yawn-inducing. A dry delivery and an insistence on reciting verbatim the minutia of constable reports fairly guaranteed the boredom of all who’d attended.
Leaning back, he braced his elbow on the edge of the pew and amused himself with counting how many attendees were doodling in their notebooks.
Ten minutes later, the lecture hadn’t become any more interesting, but there was something odd about the fellow before him. Arms now crossed, he examined the back of the fellow’s head. Dark hair pulled back into an old-fashioned queue, adorned with a subdued black ribbon, shoulders slight, neck delicate, and if he didn’t know better…
Bloody hell. He did know better.
Leaning forward, he arranged his arms on the back of her pew. “That’s quite a convincing wig.”
Etta stiffened.
A heady mix of amusement and exhilaration rushed through him. “Did you borrow clothes from your father?”
Her head whipped around. Gaze skewering him, she gritted out, “Be quiet.”
The fellow next to him issued another dark look and pointedly moved three seats down.
It didn’t deter him, however, and neither did her glare. “It’s quite convincing, I vow. Most people wouldn’t even notice.”
“I’m trying to listen, and I don’t want to be ejected.” Her tone was forceful even as she strove for almost total silence, and then her glare faded into an expression that approached pleading. “Please be quiet.”
That sobered him as nothing else could. He nodded, and, clearly relieved, she turned back to focus on the lecturer.
Abandoning the tedious lecturer, he instead studied her. It really was a good disguise. Strange she’d donned such an outfit to pass herself off as male. The Etta he knew would have bludgeoned her way into the lecture, seated herself, and refused to remove for God or anyone. This stealthy Etta was someone new.
A tiny portion of carrot-red hair had escaped the wig to curl around her neck. He fought the urge to tuck the hair beneath the wig and then run his fingers over the delicate skin. His hand would span her nape, his fingers reaching the wing of her shoulder blade. She’d tilt her head to the side, and he’d trace the cord the move revealed, fascinated by her reactions as her breath quickened and her skin heated. Her head would drop forward, and he’d lean over, wisps of carrot-coloured hair teasing his lips…
Clearing his throat, he shifted again in his seat and placed his hat over his lap.
As soon as the lecturer stepped from the lectern, Etta rose and darted toward the door. Shoving to his feet, Christopher followed her, weaving and dodging to keep the old-fashioned queue in sight.
Finally, in a quiet hallway, he caught up with her, rushing before her to block her exit. She tried to step around him, but he blocked that, too. Folding her arms, she set her stance, a rather magnificent scowl on her face.
Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms as he gave her a lazy smile. “Do you often attend lectures dressed as a man?”
Shoulders sagging, she lost her scowl. Wrapping her arms about herself, she said, “I have tried to attend lectures as myself. It does not go well.”
It hit him in the chest. Smile dissolving, he uncrossed his arms. He wanted to go to her, to wrap her in his embrace and give her comfort. Etta Wilding-Marsh should never look so lost, so…defeated.
“I attended because I wish to start a new series.” The words seemed as if someone else had spoken, though it was his voice.
Surprise lit her face, but surprise didn’t come close to describing how he felt. He hadn’t even admitted to himself he was going to attempt it. It was still diaphanous, forming in the ether and labelled with, perhaps one day.
“A new series?” Mouth twisting ruefully, she unlooped her arms from about herself. “A Gothic romance on criminal law. That has not been attempted before.”
“No, not a Gothic.” His palms were damp. Clearing his throat, he wiped his hands against his trousers. “I’m going to write something different. A detective novel. A series. Maybe a serial. I am not certain as yet, though I know it will feature a male detective and a gentlewoman with a penchant for solving crimes. But it will be a detective novel. A detective series. It will feature detectives.” Bloody hell, he was babbling. He wiped his hands on his trousers again.
“A lady detective?” she finally asked.
“Yes. Well, no. I mean—” Jesus wept, Hiddleston, get it together. “That won’t be her profession, but her inclination. He will be a private inquiry agent. Evans is a private inquiry agent and—” He stopped abruptly. “Do you recall him? Nathaniel Evans? He’s one of the lads who attended The Havisham Arms with me.”
She was quiet a moment. “Was he the surly one?”
He nodded forcefully. “That’s him. Surly, and impatient besides. But Evans—Nathaniel—he has said he will help with the research and ensuring the tone is correct and factual, not like the flim-flam I usually write—those were his words, by the way—and I thought today’s lecture would help, but it ended up being extremely tedious, and then I saw you.” He stopped, almost gasping for air. Goddamn, but he sounded like a madman.
“It was a tedious lecture, wasn’t it?” Her fingers tapped at her side. “What is your novel to be about?”
A strange kind of excitement filled him. “I thought in the first novel, she could be a client of the inquiry agent and proves herself invaluable in solving the case. Of course, he thinks her frivolous to begin with, but, over the course of the novel, he realises she is more than what she seems and comes to rely upon her insight and counsel.”
She regarded him for the longest time, so long his stomach felt like lead. “It sounds interesting,” she finally said.
Relief tore through him, and he gave a cocky grin. “Of course it’s interesting. I shall write it.”
She rolled her eyes. “I should have known better than to think you would be serious for half a minute.”
Sobering, he said, “Would you read it? If you saw it in a shop, would you pick it up?”
“Perhaps.”
He released the breath he hadn’t known he had taken. Her opinion mattered. It always had. In fact… “I should like it if you would consult on it.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“I should like it if you would consult. Be my editor, as it were.” He warmed to the idea. “You were practically my editor on the first story anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your comments.” She still looked utterly confused. “On the passages I included with the articles.”
“You mean those Gothic scribbles you sent with the articles? You actually applied my criticisms?”
Now she seemed shocked as well as confused. “Of course. You were correct, every time.” Here was a sight he’d never thought he’d see. Etta Wilding-Marsh, stymied. “Will you be my consultant?”
She seemed to snap herself out of it. “I shall have to think on it.”
Something inside him dulled, but he swallowed it with a grin. “Don’t think too long. Others would clamour for the opportunity.”
“Then perhaps you should ask them.”
He merely continued to grin.
“I have to go,” she stammered. “Gwen—the duchess—is expecting me.”
“Of course,” he murmured.
She made to move past him only to hesitate. “You truly wish my opinion?”
“Of course.”
A smile lit her face, blinding in its brilliance.
He sucked in his breath. Heart pounding, he nodded dumbly as she said another good-bye and left, glancing over her shoulder with another smile before disappearing around the corner.
Regaining his breath, he silently recounted the last few moments. He, apparently, was to write a series, and not just any series, but a detective series. Something he’d barely allowed himself to think of, he’d blurted out to Etta without a thought. And then, he’d asked her to help him with it. And she had smiled at him.
Slowly, he made his way from the lecture hall. He was supposed to call upon a Lady Gillmure and her reading group in an hour, part of the duchess’s plan to drum up support for the school. He had to put thoughts of Etta Wilding-Marsh smiling behind him.
It was only... She had smiled at him.