My Heart Stood Still by Lynn Kurland (best book club books of all time .TXT) 📕

Unless he hadn't died.

Well, that was just too ridiculous to even contemplate. Ghosts were one thing. A man who had never died was another. It couldn't happen. Men died, and that was that. He leaned back in his chair and turned his attentions to Ambrose, willing to be distracted.

He tried to listen, but he found that he couldn't keep his gaze from straying to the woman who sat next to him. After a while, he just gave up trying and stared at her unabashedly. He could hardly believe she'd agreed to come with him, that he had an entire evening to do nothing more than sit and stare at her in peace.

Even stranger still, that he couldn't imagine anything he would have rather been doing.

She glanced his way, then frowned. "What?" she demanded.

He only smiled. "Nothing."

"Cease."

"I can't."

"You won't."

He shrugged. "Same thing."

"It isn't."

He shook his head with another smile. "Iolanthe, you are a very beautiful woman, and I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing right now than staring at you."

"You ... you ..." She spluttered out a few more sounds, then shut her mouth with a snap.

"You don't have to watch me do it."

She looked at Ambrose. "Make him stop. Use your sword."

"The boy is an excellent judge of beauty," Ambrose said placidly. "Am I to run him through for that?"

She started to get up, but Thomas held out his hand. "Please don't go. I'll stop if you want."

She resumed her seat with a frown. "Do something more useful with your time."

Look up portrait painters in the Yellow Pages was his first thought. He wondered if she would sit long enough for a painter to do his work, or if she'd even consent to show herself for the same. But if she would, and if he could find the proper setting, he just couldn't imagine anything better to do with his money. He'd do something about it first thing in the morning. It would have probably been simpler to have had her photographed, but he suspected film wouldn't capture her likeness.

That led him to wonder why it was that he seemed to be able to see her, even when she didn't want him to. Maybe his mother would know. He would have to ask her.

Sometime when his father wasn't at home, obviously.

He could just hear his father's roar of aggravation when he learned that his son was ... Well, what was he doing with Iolanthe? Dating seemed completely inappropriate—and rather impossible. Wooing was just as ridiculous.

He drew his hand over his eyes and wondered if the lateness of the hour was getting to him. It was crazy to think that anything—

"Thomas," Ambrose said sharply, "I'm for the pub. Step outside with me for a moment, won't you?"

Thomas rose in surprise, excused himself, and followed the older man out the door. Ambrose turned the moment the door was shut behind them.

"Mind your thoughts, my lad," he said quietly. "You're thinking them so hard, they're coming over as shouts, and I'm not the only one in the chamber who can hear them."

Thomas felt his mouth slide open. There he was, doing it again. Gaping was starting to become a very bad habit. "You're kidding."

"I am not. Now," Ambrose said, holding up his hand, "I'm not saying that our young lass in there eavesdrops. For all I know, she didn't hear a thing you were thinking. But I know I did, and my hearing isn't as keen as it once was."

"Wonderful," Thomas said, wincing. "I never thought—"

"Up late, are we?"

Could things get any dicier? Mrs. Pruitt came trotting down the passageway and into the foyer. She joined the two of them and looked at Ambrose with undisguised admiration.

"You're looking well, my lord," she said, batting her eyelashes.

That was possibly one of the most unnerving things Thomas had ever seen. He looked quickly at Ambrose to find him darting furtive glances around as if he looked for an escape route—any escape route.

"A pleasure, good woman," he said, plucking a cap out of thin air and plopping it on his head. "I've things to see to, you know."

And with that, he turned and fairly bolted through the door. Mrs. Pruitt watched him go with a scowl.

"Damn man," she groused. "He's always running off 'afores I can have speech with him."

"Um," Thomas said, without a clue what to say, "maybe he has some haunting to do. Somewhere else."

"Hrmph," Mrs. Pruitt said. She turned on her heel, stuck her nose up in the air, and marched off back to her room.

Well, that was that. Actually, Thomas felt no compulsion to worry about either Ambrose or Mrs. Pruitt or any kind of relationship they might have together. Ambrose was the matchmaker. He could make his own matches. Thomas was in enough trouble as it was. He faced the sitting-room door and wondered if he dared go inside. Had Iolanthe heard any of his thoughts screeching her way? He wasn't sure if he was mortified or terrified. He wasn't used to either feeling, so maybe it didn't matter. He was damned uncomfortable, for whatever reason. Good grief, what was he supposed to do now? Stop thinking?

He blew out his breath, opened the door, and went inside. He went and sat back down in his chair. Well, no time like the present to get things out in the open.

"Can you read my thoughts?" he asked.

She blinked in surprise. "Aye, I suppose I could."

"Haven't you been?" he asked in surprise.

"I haven't done it in"—she paused and scrunched up her face—"well, in years at least. Not since after the '45."

"1745."

"Aye, that." She shook her head. "Too many women crying for their slain men. 'Twas too difficult to listen to them and watch their dreams. I trained myself not to listen."

He felt an intense sense of relief he sincerely hoped did not show on his face.

"Should I start listening to your thoughts?" she asked, looking at him with something he could almost call a glint in her eye.

"You