Page 45 of The Unassuming Curator

Emily blinked. “But I—”

“Truly.” The elation in his smile banished the strain that had shown on his face. “You are more magnificent than any and every butterfly. And rather than stay here to further convince you of that fact, I’m going to be inexcusably impolite and abandon you so that I might locate Townsend and beg for his help with these papers.”

Happiness—warm and light—filled Emily. “Go,” she said. “Hannah and I will let ourselves out and will close the door behind us.”

He leaned forward and brushed his lips across her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered.

And then, before her stuttering heart could regain its beat, he was gone.

Chapter 17

Henry descended the museum’s staircase, his heart racing in time with his rapid footsteps. Heaven help him. What had he done? Hours spent struggling under the weight of his assignment must have muddled his senses. He’d been so taken with Emily’s fresh perspective that brushing her cheek with his lips had felt completely natural. And right. He stifled a groan. It was time to own up to the truth. It wasn’t simply Emily’s fresh perspective that had captured him. It was the young lady herself. And if he were being fully honest, the presence of her maid in the room was likely the only reason he’d limited himself to kissing her cheek.

In the entrance hall below, a cluster of visitors was gathering to listen to Fernsby’s introductory greeting. Grateful that it was Fernsby rather than Townsend leading this tour, Henry forced himself to slow his stride and take the last few stairs at a more sedate pace. As difficult as it was to ignore his burgeoning feelings for Emily or what had just occurred between them, he had to give all his attention to Townsend. Approaching the older curator would take every ounce of diplomacy Henry could muster.

He crossed the hall and entered the manuscript saloon. For now, it was blessedly empty, but if Fernsby chose to bring his group here first, the peace would not last long. Townsend was standing with his back to Henry, sorting through a row of books on a shelf.

Squaring his shoulders, Henry approached him. “Townsend, might I have a word?”

The older gentleman glanced his way before resuming his organizing of the books. “Why?”

“Because I believe I owe you an apology.”

Townsend slid a book into place between two others and turned to fully face him. Folding his arms, he glared at Henry. “Indisputably.”

At least they had found some common ground.

“Consider it wholeheartedly given,” Henry said.

Townsend’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”

“For not coming to speak to you immediately after Claridge left the museum a fortnight ago. For being presumptuous enough to assume that I knew what you were thinking without actually asking you.”

“Ah, but not for considering yourself an overnight authority on English literature.” There was no denying the bitterness in Townsend’s voice.

“For what it’s worth, I have never considered myself an authority on English literature, and I never will.”

“Claridge seems to think you are.”

“I beg to differ. Claridge sees me as the means to acquiring Lord Grenville’s collection. Why sharing three cups of tea with Lady Grenville should have had such a profound effect on the lady, I do not know, but I can tell you that not once did I assume to know the names of any of the authors her husband championed.” He furrowed his brows. “Why would I need to do that when I know full well that you have a firm grasp on such things?”

Townsend’s jaw tightened. “Claridge dismissed any expertise I might claim.”

“You do not need Claridge’s endorsement to know that you are the most qualified person to organize Lord Grenville’s books and manuscripts. Lady Grenville may have insisted that I be responsible for receiving her donation, but we both know that the classification of papers will not be done properly unless it is done by you. And so, for the sake of all patrons of the museum, I ask that you please consider taking on the task.”

“You do not deserve my help.”

Townsend’s grumpiness was as reliable as the arrival of a new day, and Henry would not allow it to deter him. “Perhaps not,” he said. “But all those still-to-be-discovered authors, poets, and musicians whose work lies in the accessions room upstairs surely do.”

Townsend looked away. Henry waited, instinct telling him that this was not the time to press.

Townsend sniffed. “I will not have you hovering over me.”

It was not a yes, but he had refrained from giving an unqualified no, which Henry took as a good sign.

“I shall not hover over you at all. I have a rather large butterfly collection to see to. That will consume my attention for several days.”

“If the compilation is as large as you claim, it will take more than a handful of days to organize,” Townsend warned. “I would require you to keep your distance, no matter how long the job takes to complete.”