Love By The Book by Dara England Page B

hadn’t felt much recently.
    Shaking my head, I tried to put aside the feeling. I hadn’t come here for this. “Thanks, but my talent it really just middling. Now come on, there’s plenty more to see.”
    I pulled him on toward my secret destination. But something had changed. The initial stiffness that had clung to us all morning had dropped away during our brief exchange. The carefree feeling from our outing yesterday had returned. As we walked, I let my hand slide down from Duke’s arm to his hand. He accepted it casually without a word or a glance, curling his fingers around mine.
    There was something wonderful in just being with someone special whose company you enjoyed. Never mind whether that man was a real person or a fictional character come to life. I felt a pleasant glow inside. I hadn’t been this content in, well, ever. As we approached our destination, however, my happiness was replaced by a faint feeling of apprehension. A test still lay ahead.
    I tried to keep my tone light as I said, “Well, here we are.” We had stepped into a large room, set aside from the others.
    Duke seemed surprised. “This is your favorite exhibit?”
    I crossed my fingers. “Uh, yeah. I love it.”
    Duke looked around. “But this is just a collection of old farming equipment.”
    “Not quite. It’s ‘a trip back in time,’” I read aloud from the caption over the doorway. “Step back into the lives of real men and women from the nineteenth century.”
    “And the nineteenth century interests you?” he asked, a hint of amusement around his mouth. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but he had that knowing look in his eyes that never failed to put me on guard.
    “Sure. I’m a big history buff. Real big. I mean, like, gargantuan.” I gave a forced laugh even but knew I was overdoing it. “Anyway, it’s not just farming implements,” I rushed on. “Look here.”
    I led him over to a display in the center of the room. I read the plaque aloud. “If you were a wealthy woman living in the 1800s, you might wear something like this.” The display boasted a faceless mannequin wearing an old-fashioned, neck-to-toe length dress with a ruffled collar. A wig swept into a loose up-do sat atop the dummy’s head, and over that rested an elegant hat with yards of trailing lace and a sweeping feather.
    “Hey, check out the sexy underwear.” I pointed to where the hem of the mannequin’s dress was pinned up to expose the layers of ruffled petticoats and bloomers beneath. “I bet women roasted alive in these things.”
    Duke looked faintly uncomfortable and I perceived that I was somehow embarrassing him. “What? You think the dummy’s shy?” I teased. “She doesn’t seem to be complaining.” I playfully tugged up the hem of the mannequin’s dress. “I don’t hear anything.” I tugged it higher, until the waist of the dummy’s lacey petticoat was exposed. “Still nothing.”
    A loud throat-clearing sounded from across the room. I froze.
    “Ma’am, we have to ask that you do not touch the displays.” The statement came from a severe-faced woman wearing the tag of a museum employee.
    I blushed. “Yes, of course. I was just, ah, checking for moth damage.”
    The employee’s expression didn’t alter. “These antiques are priceless and very delicate,” she said as if she hadn’t heard me at all. “We ask that you don’t touch them.”
    “Right. I caught that part before.” I smiled to soften the words. “I will keep my hands to myself in the future.”
    As the employee drifted away I tried not to look at Duke, fearing a double disapproval. But to my surprise I heard what sounded suspiciously like a snicker coming from his direction, and that gave me the courage to meet his eyes.
    “What? You’ve never felt the urge to examine a petticoat before?” I complained.
    “I might have thought about it,” he admitted. “But I never followed through.”
    I laughed. “We ask that you don’t touch the