Chapter Text
While I’ve long understood the power of words—their irresistible draw, the pull they have over me—I’m rather astonished to discover that the place where they are printed has much the same attraction. What other reason can there be for the fact that I keep returning to the printing shop, the one where Theo Sharpe works? It must simply be that printing shops—the origin of books, of pamphlets, or education—have some sort of allure that keeps drawing me back.
Of course I know myself well enough to acknowledge that the interest Theo has in the Lady Whistledown mystery all factors into my visits. It’s rare to find someone who shares this passion with me, and my skin tingles with excitement whenever we pour over evidence, our heads bent close together over a tract, searching for clues.
It’s electrifying to feel Theo’s excitement about the Whistledown case, to hasten to him whenever I have a new theory or idea to share with him. That’s the only reason I hasten to him, our shared interest. I’m sure of it.
And that is certainly the reason I’m rushing to him now.
Theo’s eyes widen with surprise when I throw open the door in what, I must admit, might be considered an unladylike manner.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, in a manner that is more urgent than polite. It’s one of the things I value about him, the liberty from the mincing manners of higher society.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, “that Lady Whistledown prints from this very shop?”
His eyes glance around the empty shop, and he strides towards me, taking my arms and guiding me away from the half open window.
“Keep your voice down,” he instructs anxiously.
“I’m so close,” I whisper, “I’m so close to finding Lady Whistledown. I can feel it!”
I’m suddenly aware that discovering the identity of Lady Whistledown is not the only thing I am close to, nor the only thing I can feel. Theo has pulled me from the window but not stepped back, and his hand still rests on the crook of his elbow. I’m suddenly aware of the heat pulsing from his skin, from his body—or is my own body that has suddenly grown too warm?
Needing air, I pull at my neckline, tugging at it a bit to liberate myself from the suffocating confines of women’s clothing. I glance up at Theo to observe if he, too, is suffering from the close air of the shop, and I see that his eyes have darted down, down to where my fingers work at my neckline. A red flush suffuses his cheeks. Odd that I’ve never realized how warm it is here, blazing really. Perhaps printing ink gives off heat?
Surely that must be the case. But then I hear it, a little gasp, that I realize, to my utter dismay has come from me. Me? My eyelids flutter in confusion. Oh, God, my eyelids are fluttering. It could not be possible that I’m a mincing idiot?
I wish that I could think through this puzzle. Surely there must be a book somewhere that I could read that would make clear what is happening to me. But as Theo takes the slightest step towards me, a question in his dark eyes, I can’t help but doubt whether a book could help me now.
I lift my chin to meet his gaze. Never let it be said that Eloise Bridgerton is a coward. Theo’s eyebrows lift, rather endearingly, I must say, asking, making sure, and I nod. He lowers his head towards me, lowers his lips to mine, and I realize a terrible truth: it’s at least theoretically possible, perhaps, at least a little bit, that I might be capable of falling in love.