E
mma Danvers prided herself on her cool head. She frequently held fast to propriety, even when the world around her turned to complete chaos. This time, however, she was being tested to her limits.

Opening the parlor doors, she expected, as anyone would, a parlor. Instead, she found a disaster. Paint-speckled tarps lined the floor. The furniture was piled in the corner. A wine table was perched precariously atop a pair of walnut chairs, stacked with backs angled together on the upholstered sofa. The chaise longue stood, upended and resting against the monstrous heap. Then, as if someone had thought the mound untidy, grayish sheets were strewn over the mess. Now, it resembled a granite monolith in the corner of the room.

Yet, in the center, the real horror stood. Every beam of sunlight streaming in through the windows centered on the unmolded block of clay sitting atop a fat wooden pedestal.

Celestine Danvers, with her untidy calico hair and bright copper eyes, grinned madly at Emma. “What do you think? It’s simply divine! The light is so much better in here, with the bank of windows along the south wall.”

Emma responded the only way she could. Her expression, she was sure, spoke the words she wouldn’t dare say aloud for fear of them coming out with far too great a volume.
Mother, what have you done to the parlor?

However, as usual, she kept her mouth closed. Then, for sanity’s sake, she took a step backward, out of the room, closing the door as if it had never been opened in the first place.
If only
.

“Oh, Emma,”
her mother said with a sigh from the other side. Doubtless, her birth certificate now read “O. Emma Danvers,” given the frequency of the
“Oh, Emma’s”
expelled and exhausted throughout the house.

Closing her eyes for a moment to gather her composure, Emma pressed her forehead against the door and began to count.
“Unus . . . duo . . . tres . . .”

She wasn’t worried about what Parker would think, should he return to his post, guarding the door—although, whether he was keeping them safe inside or sparing the rest of the world from the madness of the Danvers clan remained an Oracle’s mystery. He’d seen her counting thusly on too many occasions to be surprised. At least twice daily for the past three years, ever since her mother had followed her father’s example and taken up
the arts
.

Those last two words were always said with dramatic flips of the wrist and an effervescent joy that, if Emma were honest with herself, made her a tad jealous. She’d often wished to have her three-syllable name said with the same excitement.
“Oh, Emma! You’ve made us so proud.”

Instead, she was a perpetual disappointment to them both. Which was completely unfair, since she was the only sensible person living in the entire house. Well, her brother, Rafael, had his moments of sound mind, but lately they were few and far between.

“Are you praying?” The all-too-familiar voice came out of nowhere. Oliver Goswick, Viscount Rathburn, had a way of appearing out of thin air, like a carnival magician behind a puff of smoke. This, of course, brought her directly back to her brother’s sanity—or lack thereof—due to his choice of friends.

“I’m counting,” she said without turning from the door. She still felt too unsteady to face the rest of the world without screaming:
“The parlor! Why did it have to be the parlor?”

Where exactly did her mother expect Emma to entertain friends? Or even a gentleman caller, unlikely though he may be?

“In Latin?”

Giving up, she lifted her head and glanced to the stairs to see if her maid was on the way. “Counting in Latin is like praying, but without the risk of eternal damnation for my actual thoughts.”

Rathburn let out a sound that wasn’t quite a chuckle, but signaled his amusement all the same. He didn’t chuckle like other men, a fact that had always annoyed her. Instead, he gave a low hum, deep in his throat, as if his amusement were a delicacy he didn’t want to share with anyone else.

Most of all, it annoyed her that the sound made her want some for herself.

Tucking that disturbing thought away, into the pile of similar thoughts that resembled the monolith in the parlor, she faced Rathburn. He was, indeed, grinning at her. Not like other men, of course. This, too, was kept under close guard—a grin that was not a grin or even a smirk, for that matter, but something dark and delicious that he kept to himself. The intensity of it resonated in his gaze. His irises were the color of moss-covered stones, with a few fireflies lounging on that lush, mossy bed near the center.

More disturbing thoughts. Soon, she’d fill a room with them.

“Rafe told me you were on your way to Number 3 for your needlework circle,” he said, amusement lingering in his gaze as if he were privy to her thoughts. “Since I need to speak with Ethan Weatherstone, I thought I might accompany you.”

“I’m just waiting for Maudette.” Her voice came out as a rasp, making her realize she hadn’t taken a breath or swallowed since she’d turned to face him. She swallowed now and, needing a distraction, reached to the marble console for her gloves.

That low, decadent hum vibrated in his throat again. “Surely, you can walk down six doors without the risk of impropriety.”

He was laughing at her, and therefore didn’t deserve an answer. She pulled on the first glove and began to push the pearl buttons through the eyelets in the soft leather.

“Would you like me to retrieve your needlework from the parlor?”

The parlor.
Ugh
. “Trust me, Rathburn, you don’t want to go into the parlor.” She glanced at the door and held back a shudder. “No. I have a spare needle and brown thread in my reticule. I’ll simply begin something new. I could embroider these gloves, for instance. It’s a good thing that nearly everything I own is in shades of brown.”

“I’ve often wondered why that is.”

She sincerely doubted he spent any time wondering such things, but this time she humored him. “I like brown. It matches my hair and my eyes, and when I wear it I feel . . .”
Normal
. The only sane person living in an asylum.

“Monochromatic?”

“Yes, of course.” She fought the urge to laugh. “Color coordination is my highest priority.”

“Then you must do better at choosing your thread in the future. Your hair isn’t brown, but more of a mahogany, with the same luster of a newly polished handrail,” he said, surprising her enough that she lifted her gaze to his. He shook his head. “And brown isn’t the correct color for your eyes either. They’re more like . . .” He tucked his finger beneath her chin and tilted it upward. “Like cups of chocolate on a rainy morning.”

Emma did not blush. The heat in her cheeks came from a sudden rise of annoyance, she was sure. It certainly did not come from any wayward romantic notions she may have once had about him. “A rainy morning implies a lack of light. Not enough to discern a brown liquid amongst the shadows. Essentially, you’re saying my eyes are rather dim.”

There it was, that
almost
grin. “Quite the contrary, they’re warm and lovely. The perfect complement to a rainy morning. Have Maudette bring you a pot of chocolate before she opens your curtains tomorrow morning. You’ll see that I’m right.”

This time she did blush.

“I am an unmarried woman. It would be unsuitable for me to demand chocolate in bed. I’ll have mine, as I always do, in the well-lit breakfast room.”

“Ah, Emmaline.” He clucked his tongue at her in mock disapproval while his lips curved, flashing his teeth in a grin that was irredeemably rakish. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

For an instant, the fireflies in his eyes looked alive, taking flight. They seemed to find their way directly beneath her breast, where they buzzed around for a few turns, creating havoc with the beat of her heart. She ignored his words, or at least tried to, and focused on buttoning her other glove. “Kindly stop calling me Emmaline. It is not my name, as you well know.”

Seeing her fingers fumble with the eyelets, he moved a step closer and took her hand. A shock of warmth radiated from the center of her palm to the tips of each finger, tingling and pulsing. She fought the urge to jerk out of his grasp, or worse . . . to curl around it.

Instead, she kept perfectly still.

“Yes, but ‘Emmaline’ sounds so buttoned up, as you obviously are.”

She watched his dexterous fingers fasten each tiny button at her wrist, marveling at his efficiency. It was as if he did this all the time . . . for
other
women. The thought disturbed her, even though she knew he was not shy when it came to other women or his involvement with them. That was how she knew his flirtations were never serious. She’d be a fool to lose her head over him.

When he finished, she tried to pull her hand away, but he kept it.

She glared at him, ignoring the swarm of fireflies, ignoring the fall of ash blond hair over his forehead, and especially ignoring the deep cleft at the base of his aquiline nose that drew her focus to his perfect and unrepentant mouth. “If you persist, I will call you Oliver. I know how much you hate it.”

“I do detest that old-sounding name, as if I’d been born a septuagenarian. Yet, somehow, from your lips it rather makes
me
think of rainy mornings and a pot of steaming chocolate on
my
bedside table.” He lifted her gloved fingers to his lips. A fresh surge of heat penetrated the soft leather. Her fingers tingled, curling automatically into his palm. “Some of the best things happen on such mornings, when the rain is pattering on the balcony and the barest light fills the space.”

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