‘I would like that very much. Thank you for thinking of me. Do you think you might save me the opening quadrille too?’ Then he added hastily, ‘Unless it’s already spoken for?’
Catherine gave a little laugh. ‘No, as far as I know, it’s still the custom to mark one’s dance card the night of the ball.’ An awkward silence sprang up. ‘Are you going into the village tomorrow? My mother tells me there’s a shopping expedition.’
‘I haven’t decided yet. There are preparations for the ball that might demand my attention.’ Ask me to go. I would come if you wanted it. He simply didn’t want to go and watch Channing’s pursuit of her.
‘You should come.’ It wasn’t quite worded exactly as he wished but it was a start.
‘Why?’
Catherine smiled. ‘Because the shops are full of Christmas treats and because I want you to, Finn.’ She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘My mother thinks I shouldn’t call you that.’
‘Call me by my name?’
‘Yes. She thinks I should call you Lord Swale because we’re not children any more.’
‘But we are still friends, aren’t we, Catherine?’ He couldn’t imagine calling her Miss Emerson at this late date and he knew he could not tolerate Catherine of all people calling him Lord Swale. He didn’t want to be a viscount to her.
She reached between their chairs and squeezed his hand. ‘We’ll always be friends, Finn.’ To tell the truth, that wasn’t precisely what he wanted to hear. He couldn’t imagine being only her friend at this late date either. They’d crossed an invisible line today and there was no going back, not for him.
The conversation lagged awkwardly and she reached for the book he had left on the table between their chairs. ‘Is this what you were reading? Botanicals of the Rainforest?’ Her eyes perused the cover, coming to rest on the small gold letters at the bottom. ‘You wrote this?’ There was awe in her voice as she opened the cover.
‘It’s from my expedition with Viscount Wainsbridge, he and his family have permanently taken up residence in British Guyana to oversee British interests there.’
‘You needn’t be so modest, Finn.’ Catherine smiled at him over the pages. ‘My father writes books and I know good work when I see it. Are these your drawings as well? You’re a talented artist. I’m impressed.’
It felt uncommonly good to be praised. ‘Channing doesn’t appreciate the book.’
Catherine smiled and turned another page. ‘Channing thinks all flowers smell like roses.’
They both laughed then. It wasn’t meanly said and it occurred to Finn it had been ages since he’d had an inside joke with someone. That the person he should have one with was Catherine spoke deeply to him in a frightening but fundamental way.
‘Tell me about this.’ She held the book out to him, pointing to a peculiar flower.
‘That’s curare. It’s a deadly plant, actually. One wouldn’t guess it. It looks more like a weed than anything else. All the tribes have their variation of curare poison. We found out the hard way.’
Catherine tucked her feet up under skirts. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell me about it?’
Finn waved away the suggestion with a hand. ‘You don’t want to hear about it.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Catherine passed him the book. ‘Tell me.’
‘All right,’ Finn acceded, but secretly it was no hardship to tell her. It felt good to have an audience. His family listened to be polite. ‘Jack and I had been out for three weeks and we were deep in the rainforest, and five miles out from our current base camp.’
‘Jack?’
‘Viscount Wainsbridge,’ he explained. ‘We were set upon by natives who believed we were trespassing. Set upon isn’t quite the right word, we were ambushed. We never heard them coming. The natives move with enormous stealth and silence. One moment Jack was standing beside me and the next he was down. A tiny dart had hit him in the arm and the curare, the poison, worked that fast. The natives use it on their darts.’
‘What happened?’ Catherine was enrapt.
‘I took out my pistol and fired into the bushes. The noise scattered them. They weren’t prepared for gunfire. It gave me time to get Wainsbridge up. We took refuge in the bushes. There was no way I could outrun an unseen enemy with a wounded man on my shoulders. I hid us as best I could, primed my pistol and waited until dark. Then I made a run for it, dragging Wainsbridge with me every step of the way. He reacted badly to it—apparently he’d been hit with it once before. We had an antidote at camp, however, and he recovered, but it was a near thing. I didn’t know it at the time, but if we’d waited much longer he would have been beyond the antidote.’