Free Lessons After Dark by Isabel Cooper Page B

weeks indoors.
    Speaking of that… With a sigh, she turned toward the windows.
    The week since her visit to the dressmaker hadn’t often provided her with weather suitable for walking much of anywhere, much less the forest. Olivia had also remembered Mrs. Grenville had told her not to go in without her or Mr. Grenville, and she wasn’t inclined to flout that advice. She’d been a country girl once, but that had been ten years ago, and even then she’d been much more used to farms than forests. So she’d waited.
    Neither of the Grenvilles had been available long enough. They generally weren’t. Even now, Mr. Grenville was talking with his steward, and Mrs. Grenville was teaching the older students hand-to-hand combat in the ballroom. One could hear the shouts and thumps from fully three rooms away. The younger students, who would have their turn in an hour, were upstairs studying their normal lessons.
    Absently, Olivia put aside the book from which she’d been taking notes and turned back to the shelves to retrieve another. Spirits and Omens of Our Grandfathers’ Time . She’d seen the title a few times before and had mostly looked over it on her way to something more substantial.
    The book was no more than thirty years old and came complete with colored illustrations. It did not, Olivia quickly discovered, have an index, though the authors had been considerate enough to lump related incidents together. She idly flipped the pages past descriptions of black dogs and phantom music and paused at a section on ravens.
    According to the authors, in a Greek myth, Apollo had turned the then-white raven’s feathers black because it had informed him of his inamorata’s faithlessness. Not much useful information there, except perhaps not to bring bad news to the ancient gods. She wondered what Apollo had thought the poor beast should have done, and flipped back a page.
    Oh. Peck out the young man’s eyes.
    Lovely.
    She looked up as the door opened. Dr. St. John stepped inside, then frowned as he saw her. Probably surprise, judging by his expression, though one never could tell with the man.
    Oh well. She’d made good progress today, it was vile outside, and she wasn’t going to let St. John put her in a bad mood.
    â€œYour patron god,” she said, thinking of the myth, “does not strike me as much of a gentleman.”
    ***
    It wasn’t fair, Gareth thought. He’d spent a useful morning filling out records and arranging new equipment in his office, he’d come into the library to reward himself with a novel, and he’d found Mrs. Brightmore with the lamplight gold on her fair skin, looking like some Pre-Raphaelite’s idea of the Spirit of Knowledge, and talking like a madwoman.
    A man of his age should have been able to expect some order in his life.
    â€œPardon?” he asked. “Patron god?”
    â€œApollo,” Mrs. Brightmore said and then paused. Gareth noticed she pursed her lips just a little when she thought. It drew a man’s attention, made him consider the shape of her mouth and the slight fullness of her underlip. She was probably doing it on purpose. “I believe he’s in the Hippocratic Oath,” she continued.
    â€œOh. Probably. Greek gods aren’t really the memorable part. Nor are they generally gentlemen, if memory serves.” Gareth took a few steps closer to the desk. Now that he was here, it wouldn’t do to retreat.
    â€œNo. That’s why—” Mrs. Brightmore abruptly stopped herself. Gareth watched a blush spread itself up her neck and over her face. She cleared her throat. “I do hope I’m not in your way.”
    â€œNot at all. I came to borrow some reading material. Something a little more lighthearted than yours,” he said, casting a quick glance over the books at Mrs. Brightmore’s elbow. A small, leather-bound journal lay on top of a much larger, much-older-looking